Heels: Murder on The Dancefloor

2015-03-051 sexy-red-shoes-nick-freemon



Suggested Audio Candy


[1] Sophie Ellis Bexter “Murder on The Dance Floor”

[2] Cliff Richard “Devil Woman”




Vallie was very much aware that she looked the absolute shit as she strode towards the entrance to Inferno night club with renewed verve. Queuing was customary and often it would take twenty minutes just to gain entry. Not tonight, anyone looking good enough was invited to skip the lengthy line and afforded a fast pass, and Vallie fit the credentials perfectly. She had known Mitch Kirkman from as far back as pre-school and he had always had a soft spot for Vallie.

“Hey there hot stuff”

“Hey yourself”

“Killer heels”

“These? Yeah they’re from Turin. The only pair of their kind”

“Well you look like dynamite”

“Thanks. Are the others here yet?”

“Melissa’s already inside. Oh and Sally-Jane’s with her”


“Sally-Jane. You two are friends right?”

They most certainly weren’t. That bitch had committed the cardinal sin the moment she flapped her lips about Vallie behind her back. They may well have been tight beforehand but any love between the pair was now soundly lost.

“Besties. Yes!”




Mitch ushered Vallie inside, utterly unaware that she was seething. Ordinarily she would have objected to his observation that they were bosom buddies but something inside of her informed her that it was preferable not to make a fuss. Revenge is a dish best served cold and she had every intention of evening the score tonight and taking the power back from her fair-weather friend. The game was well and truly on and Sally-Jane was about to receive a harsh lesson in why you shouldn’t circulate rumors. Her opposite number was only too aware that she was out of favor and, as she spotted Vallie at the cloakroom, cowered away and desperately attempted not to make eye contact. Vallie, on the other hand, had no desire to engage in niceties and glared across the floor at her nemesis, letting her know in no uncertain terms that she was squarely on her hate radar.


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Sally-Jane just looked away uncomfortably, desperate not to appear ruffled, but failing miserably. This presented Vallie with the psychological upper-hand and there was no way she was about to let her so-called friend’s indiscretions go unpunished. However, she was also aware that Inferno was already filled almost to capacity, thus choosing her moment to strike was tantamount. She despised false people but also knew exactly how to play her at her own game. Melissa was blissfully unaware that bad blood was percolating between the pair after several shots of tequila; she knew they had fallen out but figured in her inebriated state that they would simply talk their differences through. Vallie was prepared for nothing of the sort; she would smile and make polite conversation of course but only to keep up appearances. Then, as Sally-Jane became sufficiently impaired by alcohol, she would have her retribution.





“Hey. You’re late bitch”

“Sorry. Had to select my outfit”

“Well it worked out for you. Three o’clock, the guy with the black vest. Hasn’t stopped gawking at you since you walked in”

“You mean the loser with the excessive chest hair?”

“Hairy men are sexy Vallie”

“Not when they look like they’ve smuggled Leo Sayer in under their top. What say you Sally-Jane?”

Her open invitation to make small talk was declined as Sally-Jane shrugged and stared at the bottom of her glass awkwardly.

“What’s wrong bitch? You don’t think I’m still mad at you do you? That was weeks ago. I’m so over it now”

“Sorry. What I said was taken out of context”

Like fuck it was. Vallie had heard it with her own ears. “Skinny whore looks like a tampon with feet” were not the kind of words she could misconstrue. Neither was “I hope her pelvis shatters” or “I fucking loathe her. Only friendly because it’s more frugal to keep your enemies closer.” There was no love lost between them but, in the interest of good effective hoodwinking, Vallie was ready to bury the hatchet.

“I know you wouldn’t say those things about me. Listen, don’t worry about it. I’ve forgotten all about it. Let’s get pissed shall we? Cheers bitch”

She held out her beer bottle as a goodwill gesture and waited for Sally-Jane to reciprocate. When she did, she did so cautiously. This was going to take a patient approach. That or a skinful of alcohol and Sally-Jane was already numerous steps ahead on that count. Sensing the pair needed a little time to mend their bridges, Melissa offered to get the next round and waddled off to the bar in her ill-fitting heels to retrieve further poison. This left Vallie and Sally-Jane to work on their bygones although she had no intention of letting her bitchy faux pas friend get away with her skulduggery.




“Drink up then”

“I thought you hated my guts”

“I did for a few days. That really hurt you know. I thought we were tight”

“We were. We are. Can we just put the past to bed and move on please?”

“Already have. Stop looking so solemn. It’s in the past. I’m so over it”

“And you don’t hate my guts?”

You hurt my feelings pretty bad. But that’s in the past now. So in answer to your question, no I don’t hate your guts, You’re still my bitch… bitch”




In truth, Sally-Jane’s worries were far more grave than the simple hating of her guts. It was the fact that Vallie planned to wear them around her neck like a fluffy bagel that should have concerned her. Regardless, she fell for every last solitary word. The heels on Vallie’s feet had felt comfortable up until now but were beginning to dig into her ankles. She offered her excuses and made off for the restroom to readjust. Just as she did, Melissa returned with another round of delectable poison and Vallie was under no illusion that the moment her back was turned the knives would be drawn once more. She didn’t trust that skanky mutt as far as she could piss her, moreover, her footwear had felt far less snug-fitting since the pair had been reunited. It was as though they were attempting to convey some sort of message so the solitude of the cubicle in the ladies room offered the ideal placement for further discussion.






Vallie painstakingly separated several sheets of toilet paper and began placing them meticulously around her porcelain throne before as much as entertaining the notion of placing her derrière on the cold and downright questionable surface. Public restrooms made her uneasy and it was a flagrant mistruth that ladies acted with more decorum behind closed doors. There was nothing ladylike about the off-beige battleship currently clinging to the left wall of the pan for dear life and the aroma of half-digested kebab meat doused in premium cider was making her wretch. In addition, her heels had reconvened cutting and Vallie let out a vague shudder of discomfort before questioning them further about their evident irritation.


“Excuse me”

Her vocalization had attracted the undesired attention of a fellow clubber who was using the hand dryer on the other side of the partition. Vallie ignored her and remained purse-lipped until which time as she was satisfied that her eavesdropping acquaintance had left the room.

“It’s alright, she’s gone. What is it? Something clearly has you ruffled”

Just then, she began to pee, aiming west in the hope that her acrid piss jet would loosen her stubborn guest, while remaining mindful that potential splash back could spell unmitigated disaster.

“I loathe her too. There’s nothing in life worse than a backstabber”

Vallie was forced to bend down and listen intently as her heels made their following suggestion.

“Really? Stone cold? I’m not sure I’m comfortable with what you’re asking here”




The heels tightened around her metatarsals once again, this time sufficiently to break the skin. Vallie desperately fumbled a clutch of paper towel and dabbed the area dry before the blood could run into her suede stilettos.

“Okay, okay. I’ll do it”

No sooner had she signed their tryst than another reveler came bounding in, invading their privacy. She pulled up her panties hurriedly with one hand, holding the paper in place with the other, reached for the flush mechanism and gave it a yank. Nothing. Inferno was a fitting name for this club as it should have been burned to the ground years ago. With the capital they’d accumulated through extortionate entry costs and effervescent cocktails, you’d think they would have adequate funds to hire a plumber.

“Hurry up in there will you. I think I’m gonna puke”

Now Vallie would be required to take the walk of shame, passing this impatient floozy, and taking wrongful credit for some other slag’s art. She unlatched the door and stepped out, refusing to hang her head in shame as this wasn’t even her mess.

“I know it’s incriminating. And I apologize unreservedly for what you are about to witness. But my hands are clean”

“I don’t know what the fuck your sermon is in aid of but…holy shit. Jesus, Mary and Abraham girl. Did you have a korma?”




Vallie left her new associate to become better acquainted with the burly brownish behemoth in cubicle two and rejoined the festivities. The moment she stepped out of the restroom, she recognized the douchebag from earlier, Mr Chest Wig, the three o’clock date rapist. He was propped up against the bar with a disgustingly smug grin spread across his already smarmy face. Vallie considered acting as though she hadn’t noticed him stood there but it was too late and he was already gesturing her over. She couldn’t make out what her heels were telling her over all the commotion but they had begun to pinch once more and she took this as a prompt to go and join him.


“Name’s Randy. Can I get you a drink?”

“I’ll buy my own thanks”

“No you won’t”

“Excuse me”

“No need. Randy Carlisle. I own this place”

“That’s nice for you”

“So what will it be then? I’m guessing vodka and cranberry. Am I right or am I right?”


“That was my second choice. Fireball coming up…”


“Wait right there”




Randy vaulted over the bar and poured her tipple. She wasn’t attracted to him in the slightest; the excess fur protruding from his vest made sure of that. Furthering his likelihood of striking out, his brogues were in dire need of re-heeling and he’d committed the cardinal sin of leaving his house matching brown slip-ons with black corduroy. Despite the fact that she would rather have a colonoscopy procedure than run her hands down his hairy back whilst engaging in three and a half minutes of unsatisfying coitus, she stuck around for his return. It was the heels; they had their own designs on Randy and were making it painfully clear that Vallie should hold tight. She glanced across the crowded dance floor and Melissa and Sally-Jane were otherwise pre-disposed with a couple of hopeful stragglers. She’d had instruction on what her next move should be but her footwear seemed to have made a U-turn. Randy it was; she’d be needing that fireball x2.

“So Kathy”





“Sorry. Sally. So how come I’ve never seen your bad self here before then?”

“I was here last week actually. I’m here every week come to think of it”

“I’ve never noticed you”

“Can’t have been looking very hard”

“They’re savage by the way. Your heels”

“Thanks. Just breaking them in”

“Let’s have a closer look then”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean show me”

Randy was back in position now, perched on a bar stool to her right. He grasped her left ankle bracelet crudely and hoisted her foot onto his lap, perilously close to his crotch with no formal invitation. She was shocked by his candid approach and Randy was about to wear her drink when the pain returned, this time with enough intensity to cause Vallie to wince.

“You’ve cut yourself. Look, you’re bleeding. Tell you what, come with me and I’ll get you patched up. Got some antiseptic plasters out back and they should stop your shoes rubbing”

“Out back?”

“Yeah. In my office”

“Just you and me?”


He grasped the bottle of fireball from behind the bar as an extra sweetener and thrust it into her hands.

“This one’s coming with us Jenny”




“It’s Vallie”

“Come on”

He leapt from his seat excitedly; clearly expecting that his half-baked chat-up line had snagged him a fuck buddy, and took her hand in his. Every fiber in her body was screaming out “ditch this bag of dick bells” but her shoes had other ideas. She decided not to defy their wishes as this was their first night out of the box and, besides, they were proving more than a little persuasive. Randy took his time strutting past the patrons with trophy in tow and coerced her through the back door to his private quarters.

When they arrived and he flicked the light switch, the full extent of his lack of organization became abundantly clear. Consignment papers were strewn across his desk which appeared to be mahogany, not that she could tell from beneath the disheveled mess of documents. There was a plate of half-eaten fried chicken which had potentially been discarded months prior and, lo and behold, a skin magazine rested proudly on top of the junk heap that was his desk. To make matters worse, it was open on the center-spread and the lady under the spotlight looked like she had just vacated a food fight.

“Nice pictorial”

“Oh that’s Lara. Lara’s a bit of a foodie”

“Evidently. What’s that she’s ladling on her boobs?”

“Ambrosia custard”


“Is it making you uncomfortable?”

“Me? Nah. I bathe in baked beans and frequently cram my panties full of bolognese sauce”

Randy wasn’t smart enough to spot the sarcasm but, to his credit, did close the publication and throw it aside.

“Now then. Shall we take another look at that foot?”

Vallie’s resolve was slackening. Moreover, she was curious as to how much of a sleaze Randy actually was. She did as he requested and placed her foot on the desk. He had already located his first aid kit, which was so antiquated it’s contents would likely be far less than sterile.

“You gonna slip it off for me then?”

“Slip what off?”

“Your shoe. Don’t worry Missy, I’ll be gentle”




Missy now? Who did this pair of clown shoes think he was? It may have worked for Sam Elliott on occasion but she wasn’t buying Missy from this reprobate. Regardless, once again, Vallie respected his wishes and slid off her left heel revealing five perfectly pedicured toes and the tattoo of a barbed rose on the bridge of her foot. The relief was instantaneous as was his next statement of intent.

“Right then. We’ll need to make sure the blood is flowing freely”

Without further ado, Randy began a thorough massage. Vallie could barely stand his clammy hands all over her precious piggies but the heels remained adamant that she not act decisively yet. Instead, she allowed him to continue and closed her eyes for a moment as he was admittedly pretty handy with his foot rubs. All was well until she felt a new texture slide between her toes and shook free of her catharsis once more. Nobody had mentioned Mr Tongue and she sure as shit hadn’t facilitated such. Filthy little bleeder had a foot fetish. Clarity washed over Vallie as she glanced at his nether regions and noticed the other hand stuffed inside his pants, caressing frantically. If this was already bad enough then the bead of perspiration from his brow that landed on her big toe had her clutching the last fucking straw.

“You like that don’t you Sherry”




“It’s Vallie you fucking dick smear”

She grabbed the first thing to hand which just so happened to be her six-inch heel and drove five of its inches straight into Randy’s balding crown. He recoiled in agony, clutching the top of his scalp and dislodging the obstruction before tossing the heel aside and leering at Vallie with hateful eyes. Just as it appeared that she may need that mace in her clutch bag, a fountain of blood began to jettison from the open wound and, causing him to come over queer. This was all the encouragement she needed and she swiftly slipped off her other heel and rammed it dead center of his brow with enough force to fracture his skull.




Randy was beginning to enter a state of deep shock and Vallie knew that her next action would be required to be more decisive. She pulled the sharp end free but not before twisting it further and causing his eyes to roll back into his skull. Then, as he begun to slump in his leather recliner, she called time on their brief encounter. In one brisk assured motion, she sliced his appetite wide open, revealing the milky residue beyond the epidermis and waiting for whatever vital fluids were still present to vacate. It took a full ten seconds as his thick blood ran slowly on account of his sixty a day penchant for Marlboro but eventually any vague hopes Randy had of snagging that foot job diminished along with the last glimmer of hope from his now lackluster retinas.




Astonishingly, Vallie felt unusually calm considering. She had offed a man in cold blood, yet all she could focus on was Sally-Jane. Randy was scum of the highest order; she gave no shits about ending his sorry life in such an emphatic manner. He’d earned his denouement but most critical was the fact that she still hadn’t followed instruction. After wiping off her heels on his treasured copy of Rude With Food, removing any globs of sinew from its business end, and inspecting her toes to ensure no chippage to her pedicure, she slid both heels back onto their respective feet and made her way nonchalantly to the door. As she reached the handle, she spared a thought for Randy. Just one. Then she smiled an uncharacteristically maniacal smile and exited his quarters, leaving him to the joys of rigor mortis, one hand still wedged down the front of his pants.

“Don’t fret heels, I haven’t forgotten our agreement. Right then Sally-Jane, I’m coming for you bitch and, for the record, right now I don’t mean that as a term of endearment.”


Click here to read Slips, Trips and Falls




Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,


Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2015



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