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Three inch high heels were not invented by a woman.

During the day, they are an acceptable fashion choice, designed to enhance height, stature, posture and the shapeliness of the female leg. At five foot four, I need them in my workplace - only because they give me some sense of power within a dingy office overshadowed by a man who is fiercely aggressive without the need of shouting or whispered threats.

Five months ago, I'd been a shadow of who I am now. I was unemployed, hated my life, hated that I had no money to my name. I'd made decisions that ultimately changed me, entered a dangerous game of sexual fantasy from which there may have been no escape.

Although, at this point, I'm not sure I want to escape. Who I'd been in the past would beg you not to judge her for her choices, but the person I am now doesn't care what you think.

I was a girl once frightened by life itself, now a woman who managed to find strength within shadow.

Every day, I come to work. I walk with a sway to my hip, fully understanding that the dancing hem of my skirt catches his eye, drawing that gaze up the backs of my thighs and over my round bottom that is a gift of genetics more than a feature developed through working out or plastic surgery.

Just once, I wish he would lose control as his eyes study the way my body moves. Just once I wish he would shove me inside some unoccupied space and flip my skirt up to my waist as his eyes follow the line of my legs.

Most women would scream at such a moment, but I would let him touch me. Only because he is real. Only because there is no telling how long the man behind the ceaseless messages would have remained hidden behind his mask.

I am stuck between fantasy and reality - between a man I know hates me, and another who swore to make me his.

Ruby red, my Italian leather heels aren't enough to attract the heavy hand I crave in the office where I work. They linger on the floor where I've kicked them off at my desk, waiting for me to slip them back on when the sun sets below the horizon and the moon shoots into the sky to take its seat.

Walking out of my building, I feel the moonlight bathe my skin, feel it explore my body with wicked fixation, feel the cool breeze of its breath caress the places beneath my skirt that are hidden beneath the sway.

Moisture clings to my body, my legs like ice as they move over those same red heels down busy sidewalks now abandoned by the businessman and women for their warm houses and home cooked meals.

Always the last person out, I have nobody at home waiting, and only a few friends.

All I have is a computer and a name that, when spoken, is a rush of heightened breath and illicit dreams.

He was my constant companion. A faceless presence that was hidden and demanding, a body I imagined was hard and warm. He was a stranger and a warning, a game I never imagined would follow me so long.

The idea had been fun at first, the messages, the emails, the strangers watching and reading along. And for months I'd grown as a woman while I waited for the day the warning was no longer just a threat written in words.

All I could do was wait. The choice of when he'd find me was his alone.

So while I balance on three inch heels, and while the only sound I can hear is the click of them against dirty concrete, I turn a corner down a particularly dark street in route to my car.

A blue, once reliable sedan sits waiting, the paint peeling and the tires bald. It's parked by the side of the road in the only space I could find in the busy morning traffic. I'd stayed up late and slept in. My boss hadn't been pleased I was tardy.

I should have known it would happen on the night I wore these red heels. Should have intuited that I wouldn't be able to run. Because that's the other reason a woman couldn’t have invented such shoes: they make her far too vulnerable to dangerous men.

His grip is strong around my wrist, his palm warm over my parted lips. What little sound I can force from my body is muffled by the heat of his skin, the rough texture of a callused hand. As panic grips my heart with its crushing fingers, I know the man who holds me is far too smart to let me scream.

The brick of the building is painful against my cheek, my body pinned between his heat and the cold, unforgiving surface.

Leaning over, he ignores my struggle, doesn't care that one of the heels has been left on the sidewalk just feet from my car. Tipped over on its side, that heel is now useless to lift me up to a height anywhere near as tall as his body.

His mouth presses against my ear. "Scream and I'll make this slow."

Is it wrong that a shiver coursed through me? Not in panic…but excitement.

My skirt flips up, his boots kick my feet apart, and his hand presses against my skull until I'm helpless but to remain still. Large hands explore me, steady breath is a beat at my back and before long, the panties I wear are discarded fabric around my ankles, locking me in place even more.

No faces. No names. No introduction other than a violent hand. I'm lifted to my toes to accommodate him. And his voice, the words he whispers to me as he has his way, it's deeper and more haunting than I imagined.

Most women would shut down at a moment when they'd been stolen away, but I rest my head against the brick, breathe out with each movement of his body against mine. It's too soon, his attack taking me by surprise.

Instead of screaming, I stand silent.

Instead of fighting, I endure the sensual cruelty of his touch.

He could be any man, a stranger in both real life and beyond.

But, I’d chosen this particular game, and this moment was my fault. I don’t regret it.

Who have I become in the months I'd spent playing? What would he say to me when we spoke again?

Is my stalker the man against me now, or is he watching from another shadowed corner, enjoying how easily I've given in?