He loved the way you looked in heels.
There were not many things he could honestly say he loved, but the sight of you in heels was one of them. Pumps, stilettos, McQueen's - the style did not matter, as long as they were heels and as long as they were big.
You never questioned him about his highly enforced-and-encouraged fetish. Nevertheless, you liked to assume it was because he liked the way your heels dug into his ass every time he would wrap your legs around his waist and fervently thrust himself between your thighs. You knew he held a certain liking for sadomasochism (the light bruising around your neck that would result from his love of choking you as he would climax was more than enough to back up your claim) but you had never dared ask. The fear of his hands tightening around your neck in a less-than-intimate manner drove all thought of questioning his habits far, far from your mind.
So when he had arrived one day with a large box under his arm and wearing his trademark smirk, you knew better than to protest when he had dragged you into the bedroom and - quite literally - tore your clothes off. He had sat back for a quick respite and waited for you to don your new shows (Dolce & Gabbana, four-inch heels, black suede) before claiming your lips, hurriedly and heatedly. The taste and smell of sulfur would always linger on his skin, and his lips would burn like brimstone on your breasts, and it would both terrify and excite you, for it would be then during those precise moments where you would remember who it was that was hovering over you, pressing against you, moving inside you. And, god, did it feel good.
It would only be afterwards - after the many orgasms and after-sex bliss - that you would remember you were sleeping with the goddamned Devil, and you would have to stop yourself from laughing aloud at the thought that your reward for fucking the fallen angel was a new pair of shoes every week.
