Pagan Moss' Peep Show Stories

Sunday, April 11, 2004

Killer Heels

Killer Heels

It was a slow day at the dungeon; I was feeling a little sluggish--definitely not prepared for what was about to unfold.

A customer came in inquiring about a show. I kindly handed him the folder which lists all the shows and prices. He surveyed the menu for quite some time, looking like he was having a hard time making up his mind. After a couple of minutes passed, I kindly asked, “What kind of show did you have in mind?”

“Well . . . I know this is going to sound strange, but . . .”


“Well, here. I’ll just show you. It will be easier that way.”

The customer then proceeded to open up a duffle bag he had slung over his shoulder. He pulled out a clear plastic bag, the kind that people bring gold fish home in. He held it up for me to see.

“What’s in there?” I asked, leaning forward to get a better look.

“Crickets,” he said, smiling.

“Crickets?” I said, brow raised. “And what were you planning on doing with them?"

“Well . . . I’m sure you’ve seen a lot here so hopefully you won’t think I’m too weird,” he said, snorting. “It’s not so much what I do with them, but what I’d like for you to do with them.”

“Hmmm . . . I’d love to help you out, but I don’t do bugs. Although, I am curious what you had in mind.”

“I was hoping that you had some spiked heels back there,” he said, sizing up the meager four inch ones I had on now.

“ . . . And then I was hoping that you would stomp on these,” he said, smiling

The crickets hopped from one side of the bag to the other, their bug-like eyes checking me out.

[Note: Although I have never purposely stepped on a living creature while wearing my spiked heels, I once accidently stepped on my cat, Mr. Gray, when he was a kitten. I had just started working at The Lusty Lady and was practicing my moves. I stepped back and heard a horrible yeow and saw Mr. Gray run under the bed. By some miracle, he made it out unscathed even though it felt as if my heel had pierced his kidney.]

“Yeah, I’m sorry, but we don’t stomp on living creatures here. It’s against my religion, too.”

“Oh, you Christian?” he said, laughing.

“No, Buddhist. I don’t eat meat, either.”

“Ah . . . Buddhist, eh?” he said, looking me up and down, leering. “I dated a Buddhist once. She was the best . . .”

“Well, sorry I can’t help you. Thanks for coming in.”

“Well, wait a minute. What if I had something that was small that looked like a bug. Nothing alive--just pretend. Could you step on that?”

“Will it make a mess? I mean, we just got new carpet in here.”

“No, no, nothing like that. I don’t have much else with me except for this notebook,” he said, pulling out an old spiral pad. “But I was thinking that if I took out some pages, I could rip them up into small pieces and then wad them up like this,” he said, demonstrating on a piece of paper he ripped out of his pad. “We could just pretend these are bugs.”

He set the wads of paper on the floor. “I can put them on the floor like this . . . maybe hide some. Then you’d come in just wearing maybe a bikini and some spiked heels. You’d see them there on the floor. You’d be surprised, scared. Then you’d stomp on ‘em. Maybe even scream a little. Could you do that?” he said, looking hopeful.

[Note: There are countless times, while working in the sex industry, when one must make the decision: to do, or to not do a show. For me, I usually will do most shows at least once . . . that is, for the right price. The shows that I will never do: shows involving severe pain and humiliation, animals, feces, blood, vomit and flatulence. Yes, I’ve been asked to f**t for money. I also do not engage in fantasy role playing involving children, rape, or death. I’m sure I’ve left off some other disgusting things I would never do for money, but I think you get the picture.]

“I think I could do that,” I said, nodding. “The show would be considered a fantasy show, though, which means it’s going to cost you $100 for 30 minutes. Is that OK?”

“Sure,” he said, taking out his wallet.

He handed me the money and I filled out the paperwork.

“Follow me,” I said and I took him to the room. I opened the door and gave him the low down.

“There’s a hook on the back of the door for your clothes and there’s oil on the table. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

“Thank you,” he said.

With that, I left him to go about his insect making, while I went to the dressing room to change into my black string bikini and black seven-inch spiked heels, which were the tallest I had there.

A couple minutes later, I went back to the room and knocked.

“Come in,” he said.

I paused, preparing myself for what might lie on the other side of the door.

I opened the door slowly and saw that the customer was sitting atop a towel on the couch with nothing but his glasses on, behind which his beady eyes stared up at me. He said nothing.

Right away, I saw a couple of wadded up pieces of paper on the floor. I could sense his excitement in anticipating my reaction.

I walked towards the nearest wad of paper, pretending not to see it. When I got close, I screamed, “A bug. I hate bugs. You filthy creature,” stomping on the piece of paper.

The customer bounced happily in his seat, waiting for my next move. “I think there’s another one over there,” he said, pointing to another piece of paper on the floor. "Get it.”

I ran over to the other piece of paper and grinded my heel into it.

“Oh yeah, baby! Get it!” he cheered. “I think there’s one hiding over there,” he said, pointing to the other side of the couch.

I walked over to the other side of the couch and the customer leaned over the arm to get a better look. “There it is,” he said. “Get it! Get it before it gets away!” he yelled.

“He’s not going anywhere,” I said, grinding my heel into the paper.

“Ooh, you do that so good, baby,” he said, touching himself.

I saw that his cock was rock hard now and I thought how interesting and somewhat disturbing it was that he was finding this all to be quite arousing.

There were ten faux bugs in all and by the time I got to the last one, the customer was dripping with sweat, his face twisted up in painful delight. I could tell that he was going to explode upon the last stomp.

“I think that must have been the last one,” I said, teasing.

“No, no. There’s one more. He’s the worst one. He’s big and black. He looks like a giant beetle. I saw him run over there. He’s hiding from you,” he said, pointing to a silk fica in the corner.

“Hiding, huh. It’s no use, bug. I know where you are. Come out, or be smashed. It’s your choice,” I said walking over to the fica. I looked around the fica for the piece of paper. He had slipped it half way underneath the basket. “Are you sure he’s here? I don’t see him.”

I looked back over my shoulder at him. He was working himself into a frenzy, his eyes barely open, sweat dripping off his forehead. He was on the verge. “He’s there. I think he’s hiding under the basket,” he gasped.

I lifted the basket and kicked the piece of paper out from underneath.

“There you are, trying to hide from me. You’re not so clever now,” I said stomping on the last piece of paper.

With that, the customer let out a huge moan. I looked over to see that his thighs were glistening wet.

The show was over.

As I walked the customer out to the lobby, he asked if he could tip me.

“What are you planning to do with those crickets?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said, smiling.

“I’ll tell you what, don’t worry about the tip. Just give me the crickets," I said.

“Deal,” he said, giving me the wink, point and shoot gesture.

He opened his bag and handed me the crickets.

We exchanged pleasantries and then he left.

And the fate of the crickets, you ask? On my way home that evening, I let them go in a park near my apartment.

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