Misericorde

This was my entry for Round 3 of Alison Tayler‘s Smut Marathon. This time I came in third place, but I was more than happy, given the competition. The theme was ‘Stilettos’, which don’t really push any of my own fetish buttons, but I still like the way this one came out. –  –M

They say the stiletto was a knight’s weapon, used to deliver the coup de grace to the fallen opponent. It was strong, pointed, designed to find its way through the smallest gaps in armor, to pierce the vitals, the heart, and end the battle once and for all.

I’m no knight. I don’t fight chivalrously or fair, but the stiletto is still one of my favorite weapons. I can see it on his face as he comes to my door, proud, haughty, polished armor in place, eyeing me top to bottom as just one more pretty conquest to notch his swordbelt. His gaze lingers down, just a moment, as I take his hand and my first step, the sharp tick of my heel on the stone of my stairs his first warning.

We spar; we eat, watch the show, talk. He’s smart, suave, smooth, even devilish – a seducer. I’m all those things in equal measure, and the contest is joined. We dance. My steps thread with his, my points tap the beat of the music, staccato behind the drums, and he almost flinches with it.

Then, later, nearly all our clothes scattered on the way to his bed, he leans back, smiling as I crawl to him, kneel before him. I bring one foot up, plant the tip of my spike over his heart, toes just under his chin. In that instant, his smile changes; the battle he’d thought won, lost. It is his mouth that utters the plea:

“Mercy…”