The Broken Obsession
Part 2
The doorway looms ahead of me, glass reflecting. Before I even cross the threshold, I become aware of the rhythm I carry with me and what I look like at the moment in public.
Click. The sharp, confident strike of my stiletto heel on the polished floor.
Thump. The low, deliberate landing of my crutches, steady and commanding.
Click… thump… click… thump.
It’s like music, my music. My left leg, strong and free, gives the sharp click of control. My right, locked in place in my pink cast, swings forward in time, perfectly balanced by the thump of forearm crutches pressing down.
The sounds fill the air before me, announcing me even before anyone sees me. With one stiletto, a sexy injured woman stride and my favourite perfume Clive Christian No. 1. This combination is mine alone, maybe half sexy and half sensual but… I’m completely impossible to ignore.
By the time I reach the door, I already know: the moment I enter, every head will turn, well maybe not every head but you know what I mean.
The restaurant doors part, and I enter on my sleek aluminum crutches, balancing with very little practice, it's only my second day. My right leg is stiff, pink fiberglass gleaming under the soft golden light. My leather skirt cling to my hips, hugging every curve as it sways with each careful step. My blouse slid against my shoulders, catching hints of candlelight as if it belonged to the atmosphere.
The maître d’ greets me at the door, his tuxedo crisp, his smile practiced.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” he says smoothly, but his eyes betray him. They drift down my body, lingering openly on my long pink cast and exposed toes. His gaze lingers just a second too long, before it moves to my other leg, strong and toned, sheer pantyhose catching the light, balancing high on a black stiletto.
I shift slightly on my crutches, the leather skirt hugging my hips, the silk blouse tightening slightly against my breast. I can feel the heat of his gaze, the air between us thick with sensual curiosity.
I give him my best smile. “Bonsoir… monsieur,” I answer, my accent playful. His eyebrows lift, surprised and clearly charmed.
“Ah, très bien,” he murmurs. “You speak a little French?”
“Un petit peu,” I tease, tilting my head. “But only enough to get me in trouble… or to order wine.”
He chuckles, but his voice is a touch lower now. “Mademoiselle, you do not need French to impress, trust me.” His eyes dip once more, unable to resist the fiberglass molded tight to my leg, and then, almost guiltily, back to the curve of my healthy calf flexing against the strain of my stiletto.
I lean in on my crutches, just enough for the skirt to pull a little higher. “Alors… I have a dinner date with Mr Daniel, do you know where he is waiting?”
“Just there, near the window,” he says, gesturing. But his gaze clings to me even as I start forward, I know he is staring at mes fesses, my ass, my heel clicking sharply on the polished floor while my cast swing forward in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
The hush of conversation follows me. Daniel, across the room, is already on his feet, eyes wide, as though he’s seeing a vision. Oops I forgot to tell him about my broken leg.
“You look amazing”
“Allow me,” he says softly, stepping closer. One hand hovers near my elbow, the other instinctively reaching to steady the swing of my pink cast as I balance on my crutches.
I let him help me, leaning just enough into his touch, feeling the gentle firmness of his hand against my arm, the heat of his body close to mine. His cologne is faint, a quiet trail of spice and cedar. When he leans in, his lips brush my cheek, just a fleeting kiss of greeting, yet enough to send a ripple through me. “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he murmurs, his voice low.
With his help, I lower myself gracefully into the chair. My crutches slip against his hand as he steadies them, then I slide them neatly aside. The silk of my blouse whispers as it falls against the tablecloth, the leather of my skirt pulling tight across my thighs. My stiletto heel stretches my other leg, strong and shapely, while he lift my long cast on a spare chair.
The air between us is thick with something more than politeness, clearly it’s very sexual. His eyes linger a moment longer. And just like that, I’m left with the faint warmth of his kiss still clinging to my cheek, the world around me hushed. For a brief, trembling moment, it feels like the start of a romance and maybe more. Maybe my broken leg won't be so bad afterall.
Then, my phone buzzes. A cold interruption that changes my life.
The screen of my Iphone glows with the following text:
Follow my instructions, or you’ll regret it. By the way, who wears a 4 inch stiletto heel when they already have a broken leg? You really want to break your other leg?
Part 3 is not soon enough, I think I need help.
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