This is a fiction that tells the story of the encounter between a woman with a dominant character and her new servant... this may be the beginning of a long relationship between a dominant feline and her new prey. (My mother tongue is not English, so please excuse me in advance if this translation does not include the exact definitions)... Enjoy.
In a dimly lit English pub, an atmosphere of mystery hung in the air. The last customers sipped their drinks, while soft music created an intimate ambiance. The jaded waiter mechanically dried glasses behind the counter while waiting to ring the bell. Outside, it was dark now. The rain had stopped, but the temperature had dropped further.
He had noticed her before she entered. Tap. Tap. Tap. He first heard heels. A slender figure through the steamy windows was advancing towards the front door. Clear clicks on the cobblestone sidewalk. Measured steps. Precise. A martial cadence.
Then she entered.
She seemed to float in the pub's dim light, as if she were bringing another reality into it. An Asian woman, in her thirties, 5'7" without heels, not anymore tonight. A sculpted, slender figure, the long, taut lines of an athlete. Shoulders held, her chin held high. Every movement was controlled, feline, powerful. Legs shaped and athletic. Every step was an impact, a declaration of war.
Her long, silky, almost military-style black coat swept the floor behind her. When she slowly removed it, she revealed a body dressed to shock. No vulgarity, no. Surgical precision. A very short pleated black skirt, reminiscent of a Japanese student's uniform, perfectly taut black fishnet tights with red patterns, and a white blouse with a stiff collar, open just enough to betray the firmness of her posture and the mastery of every detail. She wore a thin tie, almost like an accessory of power. Black leather gloves. But it was her shoes that had him nailed.
Louboutin lace-up ankle boots with gold steel-tipped tips. Black patent leather. The soles were blood red. Stiletto heels about 12 centimeters high. The kind of heels that don't forgive, that pierce the floorboards, that impose silence with every step. And when she walked toward the table, it wasn't a walk, it was a statement. Each step was an impact, a trail of authority slapped against the floor tiles.
Her long ebony black hair was pulled back in a high, strict ponytail that fell in a perfect line to the middle of her back. Her face? A work of art. High cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, black, piercing. A gaze that searched, dissected, and assessed. A discreet plum-colored lip gloss, just provocative enough.
She sat alone at a corner table, facing the room. A strategic position. Dominant. A blood-red cocktail between her fingers. She sipped it slowly, with a cold half-smile on her lips. Her mischievous gaze scanned the room like a panther scanning its next prey.
When the young couple at the last occupied table and the two customers at the corner of the bar who hadn't spoken for a long time stood up, the bartender, still cleaning his glasses, thought about ringing the bell.
There was now only one customer left at the bar and this intriguing woman.
The woman then stood up and walked over to the bartender. She leaned over the bar and whispered a few words to him. Then she placed a hundred-pound note on the counter and returned to her seat as the bartender disappeared into the back room.
The man watched the scene, intrigued.
He was leaning against the counter. Forty years old, blond, square-set, broad shoulders under a charcoal hoodie. Relaxed. Confident. Jeans and white sneakers on his feet, legs crossed. A vaguely mocking look, that of a man who still believes he can use his charisma to lead the dance.
Their eyes finally met. Confident, he then got up from his stool. He approached, slowly, smiling crookedly, with a falsely casual air.
He addressed her ironically.
"Nice pair of... shoes... What size?"
She didn't look up right away. She just moved her right boot, slowly, sliding it until its iron-shod tip brushed against her foot. Then she raised it slightly, then lowered it, deliberately, and placed her stiletto heel on the tip of her sneaker.
A pressure, not brutal, but firm. Very firm.
"I don't talk to strangers," she said in a low, icy voice, without taking her eyes off him. He'd tried to smile. But the pressure was increasing. The stiletto heel pressed against the tip of her foot, where the bones are tender. She didn't move. It was a test. A warning.
He hadn't backed down... confident, presumptuous.
"My name is Marc," he'd said.
"And me... my shoe size is 6 US or 37.5 EU if you prefer," she replied mischievously.
She had withdrawn her foot. Slowly. Like withdrawing a sharp blade.
"You can sit down, Marc. But you're going to be quiet. And above all, listen carefully."
Surprised by her tone, he hadn't responded. He had sat down, staring at her with his ever-smirking smile.
She had crossed her legs. The sharp elegance of her stretched thigh, the stretched tights, and the perfect line of the ankle boot pointed at him like a sharp weapon.
"I noticed your smile," she told him. "Are you always so confident when you approach a woman?"
"She continued, do you really think I'm the kind of woman you can approach like that without consequences?"
Marc looked at her hesitantly, then lowered his eyes.
"She continued, I noticed your insistent glances at my ankle boots. Are you a fetishist?" she suddenly asked him in an authoritarian tone.
"Good... Then come closer. Look at them closely."
She uncrossed her legs, planted both feet in front of him, barely a meter away. The ankle boots gleamed. Sharp. Motionless. The red leather of the sole was taut and its iron toe was just waiting to slap.
He looked at them, for a long time, without a word... mesmerized.
"She continued, staring straight into his eyes... on her knees to observe them!"
Marc rose from his chair, offended, but he didn't have time to reply.
"You think you can get what you want unconditionally?" she had murmured.
The woman's gaze became more authoritative.
"Condition...is suffering under them!".
The silence that followed her sentence was broken only by the sound of ice in the glass she held in her hand.
"And I like to punish arrogant men. The strong ones who have never learned to bend. Do you want to start here? Or would you prefer to wait until the pub closes?"
Marc had swallowed. A shiver of excitement--or terror--ran down her spine.
She smiled. For the first time.
Marc didn't move, standing like a marble statue. Then she uncrossed her legs and slowly, gracefully, stood facing him. In her heels, she was half a head taller than him.
