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I Don't Like Red Bottom Shoes
墨書 Inktalez
Cheng Jingyi is my husband, but I am very afraid of him.
How afraid am I?
Knowing he would be back today, I dreamt all night about jumping off a building. I jumped while anxiously wondering why I hadn’t died yet. The feeling of weightlessness in the dream made my heart race. The sheets were soaked, cold sweat clinging to my back like a thin layer of ice.
Cheng Jingyi is coming back today.
I propped myself up in bed, my stomach empty yet I felt no hunger.
There was a soft knock at the door, and Zhi Zhi cautiously pushed it open, carrying a tray of breakfast. She glanced at me and spoke in a hushed tone, “Madam, should I bring in the breakfast?”
I shook my head. “No need.”
She hesitated for a moment before asking, “Should I take out that black leather skirt from the wardrobe?”
I paused.
She didn’t say it outright, but I understood her meaning. That was what Cheng Jingyi always insisted I wear whenever he returned. The first night would always be that outfit—leather skirt, leather boots, red lips; his prescribed opening act.
“...No, it’s not necessary.” I swallowed hard, trying to sound calm. “Just because he likes it doesn’t mean I do.”
Zhi Zhi fell silent for a moment before lowering her head and stepping out of the room.
The room grew quiet as I leaned back against the bed, staring at my bare feet. My toes felt slightly cold, and the tops of my feet were bruised in shades of blue and purple—remnants from our last "game."
Suddenly, I remembered those red-soled high heels still sitting by the bed.
With pointed toes and slender heels, standing ten centimeters high, I once wore them as I stood on Cheng Jingyi's chest. He looked up at me as if I were a perfect statue.
"Beautiful," he said with a smile. "As long as you stand on me, I feel at ease."
At ease? Now, when I think back on it, I only feel nauseous.
Tonight, I am to perform the scene he has arranged for me once again. What frightens me is not the thought of striking him with a whip, but rather that he will watch me while being punished, like an audience observing a meticulously choreographed erotic play.
Cheng Jingyi said that I am his most perfect "Emotional Outlet." But I haven't felt any emotions for a long time.
Before Cheng Jingyi even entered the room, I was already struggling to breathe.
I eventually walked into the dressing room. The black leather skirt hung prominently in view, accompanied by delicate gloves and lace ribbons. There was also that bottle of perfume that smelled like moldy wood, making me gag involuntarily.
This outfit was "personally designed" by Cheng Jingyi. The length of the skirt and the angle of the slit had been tried on countless times until he was satisfied.
Sitting in front of the mirror, I applied my makeup, but my fingers couldn't help but tense up. The lip line was drawn steadily, meticulously. I knew that if there was even a slight deviation, he would casually remark, "You're not very focused today."
It was both a reminder and a warning. If I didn't perform well, I'd have to start over.
I tied my hair up, exposing my neck and collarbone—everything just as he liked it.
Everything was ready, yet I dared not look in the mirror. The person in the reflection was not me; it was the "Queen" he had created.
At six-thirty in the evening, he pushed the door open right on time. The sound of his leather shoes on the floor matched the rhythm of my heartbeat—growing closer, growing heavier.
He entered the room without speaking immediately, simply standing at the entrance, gazing at me as if admiring a painting. I sat on the sofa, legs crossed, holding the whip in my hand, and raised my eyes to meet his.
As our gazes collided, I forced myself to lift the corners of my mouth into a slight smile. "You're back? Why aren't you kneeling?"
I spoke these words softly, yet they carried the tone of superiority that he favored—proud, aloof, and even a bit insulting.
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