This is a cautionary tale folks. It’s an age-old narrative; it’s about a man truly lost in his own obsession, drunk on lust, and a woman who sees this and exploits it for her own gain. In the endless battle between man and woman the odds become stacked unfavourably against you when, if like me, you have a secret love for feet and shoes. Only a fool would continue to play. The result was fixed from the start.
I didn’t fall in love with Jessica instantaneously; it was slow and long-brewing. If anything, it took me by surprise – over a period of 12 months she went from being a friend to being the object of my complete affections, consuming my every waking (and dreaming) thought. To complicate matters we both had partners. It could never and would never be a two way affair, and I knew it all along, but that strange sensation of waking up and realising that your life is not really your own is a feeling I never saw coming.
It began harmlessly enough. That is, if you call sneaking around after dark sniffing your roommates shoes while they sleep harmless.
Jessica was 20 years old, slim with long dark hair and a cute fringe. She was stunningly pretty, but in general I suppose she looked like a lot of University girls…like a Topshop dummy. Her legs were long and thin, but not too skinny, and to top it all off she had beautifully proportioned size 5 feet with achingly high arches. I know all this because she’s one of those maddening creatures that just can’t keep her shoes on – she’s equal parts angel and demon, perfection and tormentor, providing shoe play poetry of the unbelievably highest order. So I could tell you – from day one – that she was a size 5, and that she kept her feet in good shape, because when I was first introduced to her sat down in the Campus Student Bar she was performing a shoeplay double-act. Bare legs crossed, one deliciously petite ballet flat dangling from slender toes while the other foot was roaming free; she had gripped the back of her empty shoe with her toes and was lightly pushing it forwards and dragging it backwards. As I approached and took a seat next to her, I could see a faint number 5 inside, among the tantalising dark toe imprints. She was doing this totally oblivious of course, a playful and meaningless gesture that had me transfixed, and as she noticed me sitting down next to her she shot me the sweetest of smiles and instantly wiggled her toes back into her shoe. It’s not at all ladylike to expose ones feet in public after all.
We were introduced as friends of friends, small talked a little as we got drunk and the evening passed without real event. We played musical chairs throughout the night as friends came and went so I wasn’t to ably to continuously see her feet or what she might be doing with her shoes, except when I caught a couple of hectic glimpses through the crowd when she was stood at the bar. First dipping her left foot, toes planted firmly inside the empty shoe rocking side to side, then shoe quickly back on to do a double tip-toe heel-pop as she struggled to see over the bar and into the coolers behind, then back down again, only this time it was her right foot’s turn, twisting and thrashing wildly at her poor, battered ballet flat. Her poor, ballet flat that I would have done anything to be right then.
So that was the introduction. She seemed like a nice fun girl, I was definitely attracted to her, but nothing deeper than that. But that most inconspicuous of meetings was the beginning of my obsession.
The meeting above took place towards the end of my first year in University, and if we fast forward 6 months I find myself living not on Campus anymore, but in a shared house with a bunch of second year students. 4 boys and 4 girls, one of which is Jessica, along with her boyfriend Gary, who was one of my closest friends. I ended up dating Becky, one of the other girls in the house, but she really doesn’t figure much in this story.
I suppose the next significant incident was when I first truly overstepped the boundary. Salivating over your housemates feet and shoes is one thing. Systematically and calculatingly positioning yourself in perfect view of her below the ankle activities at all times is another. Creeping off to your room to masturbate over the fact that she just complained that her feet were aching after a long restaurant shift is pushing the boundaries of normality. But physically taking someone else’s possession, while they’ve left the room, and well, kissing it, sniffing it, whatever – that’s kind of something else. And it opens a door that’s virtually impossible to close.
By this point I’ve lost count at how many times I’ve masturbated over Jessica. She just does things completely by accident that drive me crazy. For a start it seemed like she lived in Ballet Flats – my favourite shoes – or should I say, she lived in and out of them. These shoes lend themselves to being played with – they slip on an off easy, especially with tights, and they get really hot and sweaty, encouraging airing out, and they’re light and they’re quiet. They can be pushed around and bent out of shape with little or no resistance. (Psychologists might find my unbreakable fascination with them interesting at this point). She was constantly and unknowingly giving me a hard on, and it seemed the more comfortable she got around me, the more she would play with her shoes. She was unashamed and unrestrained, and while no one else seemed to notice I didn’t know where to look.
I remember the first time it happened, she’d just got home from a gruelling shift at the restaurant and came and plopped herself down on the sofa in between me and Gary. She seemed tired and a little croaky I and instantly noticed that she’d slightly slipped her heels out of the back of both her shoes. She was wearing a killer outfit for me – the all black of a restaurant waitress, with short black pencil skirt, black tights and little black Ballet Pumps. We were watching a movie but Jess was trying to start a conversation, I think she wanted some attention, but Gary was only interested in the TV. Then she pulls off the sexiest manoeuvre I think I’ve ever witnessed. She says the very simple line:
“God, my feet are killing me, Alice called in sick again so I had to serve three tables on my own! I’m so tired.”
At the same time she outstretches both black legs in front of her, as high as the couch, and begins to rapidly flex both sets of toes so her shoes pop on and off at the heel. She carries on for 10 second so, lowering and raising her legs in the process, then she brings the whole lot down in a heap, her feet planted firmly on the wooden floor and her shoes strewn left and right, one upside down. It was noisy, dramatic and utterly, utterly incredible. Gary didn’t even blink, totally unbothered by the event, while I’m nursing possibly the most solid erection in the memory of man. Then two things happen; I notice little condensation marks on the wooden floor by her feet as they gasp for air, and then she starts to get really sleepy.
She nuzzles into Gary and pulls her knees up under her, her toes pressed against my leg. I’m literally in Heaven. It’s probably been a minute since she kicked off the shoes and her feet are still steaming hot – I can’t be sure but it actually starts to feel slightly wet on my leg from the dampness of her tights! In all this, I’m thinking why does a girl like Jess end up with a guy like Gary? She’s perfect for a guy like me! She did the classic call for a foot massage and it went unheard, which for a beauty like her is an absolute tragedy. Such a waste. I’d provide a gratis nightly service. But I just sit there with my cock drooling as her sweaty feet cool on my legs, and then it hits me…the smell. 12 hours running around a hot restaurant in cheap flats? You bet they smell! Beautifully!Actually, I’m not fully sure if its putrid. It’s somewhere in between. It’s sharp and musty at the same time, it’s powerful, and it’s making my cock ache. I just want to dive in. I’m not sure what I’ll do when I get there, but I want in.
I want her shoes. And there they lie on the floor, cooling with each passing second, her dark sweaty imprints stamping her unique mark of authority. I’m pleading with God for them to go to bed so I can bring them to my face. But it doesn’t happen. The film goes on for another hour, by which time her feet are just lightly warm and not really touching me anymore, the shoes surely empty of the pungent charge from earlier. But eventually they do creep off to bed. And this is it, the start of my weird behaviour. I pretend I’m asleep. I’m pleading again that she doesn’t take the shoes. Please don’t take them, please don’t take them! They both get up of the sofa, shuffle around a bit and close the door. I can tell from the sounds of her footsteps that she was walking shoeless, but maybe she picked them up?! My heart sinks. I slowly open my eyes and my heart swells with joy and – weirdly, butterflies – when I see her work flats discarded where she left them. At this point I’m literally shaking uncontrollably.
It’s part nervousness that someone might come in and catch me, and part anxiety for what I’m about to do. I reassure myself that it’s 12.30 on a Monday night, everyone is in bed, no one is going to catch me. So now it’s just the shoes. Old black work pumps, scattered on the floor. I pick one of them up and bring it a little closer, my hands shaking. It looks quite old – the writing inside has been rubbed away and there is almost a hole in the sole. It is scuffed all over, the heels where she’s pummelled them on and off, the fronts where she’s pushed them in circles around the floor. They are dirty and well worn, and in truth, ready for the bin. But to me they appear as something else. I could say with all honesty that they were the most incredibly beautiful artefacts I’d ever laid eyes on. I don’t know why I feel this way, I don’t know what magic spell was cast, but to me they are beautiful. The intoxicating aroma of countless waitress shifts starts to make it’s way to my nose and I’m utterly powerless to resist. I bring the shoe tight to my face and inhale deeply…this time, there’s no debate, this is pure Heaven, the mixture of leather, nylon, Jess’s beautiful, energetic feet and thousands upon thousands of footsteps…
I put my hand in my pants and start to masterbate furiously. I claw her other shoe closer to me with my foot, so I can see her sweaty footprints inside…this is like visual pornography for me and I notice clumps of black sweat/toejam, deep trodden in, foot sweat upon foot sweat, and I want to taste it. With only seconds left I push out my tongue and give a wide lick of the insole, the shoe now heated up with my vigorous breathing, raising the temperature and awakening the nights work. And then it hits, the sweet/salty sensation of Jess’s hard working foot sweat, in my mouth, washed all around my tongue – no distance now between those beautiful feet and me, and I explode in a thunder of semen.
When my heart stops pounding and my dick starts to shrink, I’m left holding the shoe, my tongue mark clearly visible inside, and despite the euphoria of the drug pumping through my veins I’m left feeling something bordering on humiliation. I felt like an intruder, a thief, a pervert. I place her shoe down carefully, next to the other one, then get up to leave. Looking back, I replay the scene earlier when she kicked her shoes off. I kneel down, and carefully turn one of her shoes upside down, arranging the tableau as it was meant to be.
Things were never the same again.
Part 2 – Miss Jess, the Entrepreneur
I barely slept that night. I just lay on my back in the dark considering my actions that night, desperately trying to judge whether i’d done anything wrong. I mean, no one had been hurt. No one actually knew. The shoes certainly didn’t complain. It was just me, and the guilt in my stomach. It was all my doing. So I figured I could frame this in a different way and feel a whole lot better about it. As long as nobody found out – and nobody needed to – then I could just treat this is a game. It would be my vice. Instead of gambling or drinking I would get my kicks making some kind of love to a beautiful girls’ shoes. In hindsight, gambling might have cost me a hell of a lot less money.
All night I fought the urge to go back into the living room and do it all again. Her intoxicating smell was all over my face…where my nose had been pressed into her shoe some of her delicious foot waste had transferred onto me. It felt like it would be sticky if I touched it…but I didn’t want to risk wiping it off. Washing my face never even crossed my mind. I had a kind of bitter taste in my mouth, the kind of taste you’d normally rinse out immediately, clean your teeth or chew gum…but if anything I felt the exact opposite…I wanted more of it. Why was that? Deep down I knew full well why but I hadn’t meditated on it long enough at this stage…I was just confused. Confused and aroused.
For better or for worse I managed to stay in bed, which I deemed a small victory over my penis, in what was possibly the last sensible decision I made that year. The next morning I bumped into Jess, and a few others, at Breakfast (at least, the 12pm kind of Breakfast) and we both acted as if nothing strange had happened, which for one of us was true at least. We both headed in to Uni for some afternoon lectures but not together – Jess sometimes liked to cycle in and she left me to catch the Bus. It gave me some time to think about something that struck me as strange last night, something that further set Jess apart from anyone i’d met.
To be frank, it wasn’t the first time I’d taken a cheeky sniff of a girls shoe. I hadn’t done it a crazy amount, but I’d done it nonetheless. (The first time I ever did it was round an Aunts house babysitting when I was around 10. I’ll never forget crawling around in the dark so as not to have to put their bedroom light on, reaching clumsily under my Aunts’ dressing table for her high heels.)
Take my girlfriend for instance. You’d assume that I’d have this shit on tap right? Wrong. For starters she doesn’t shoeplay (It will intrigue and frustrate me forever why some girls do and some girls don’t!), and she has really ticklish feet, so any kind of broaching this ‘thing’ of mine is off limits. I’m pretty sure she’d be horrified by the idea of it anyway. But the main thing is that she washes her flats – and pretty regularly. She’ll throw them in the washing machine every month or so, bearing in mind that these cheap things probably only have a 6 month lifespan. And in between, she’ll spray perfume in them. She’s always complaining that they make her feet smell, and she’s right, they do…she’s just dead wrong about the solution. I’ve masterbated a few times over them, mainly over how they look, the toe indentations and scuff marks, but they smell odd, and they taste like chemicals. It’s a non starter, and from little bits of information I’ve picked up over the years (and ok, some more hands-on evidence), most girls feel the same way. And why shouldn’t they? Feet stink, right? Nobody wants to smell that, right?
Which bring me to Jess. A beautiful girl, slim, well kept, spends a fortune on products and hair and clothes, seems to shower twice daily (at least some days), and is always impeccably presented. And yet, when she slips off her cute little ballet pumps – which as you know is a deep addiction of her own – it was blatantly obvious to anyone paying attention that one aspect of her clean cut image just jars dramatically. Her shoes were almost always filthy inside. They’d range in dirtiness, depending on age, but as a general rule, she ruins them something rotten. I’d often wonder if she knew, if she cared, if she knew anyone else noticed, but I guess from her shameless displays that she didn’t. Any what should she? Why would a beautiful girl like that have a care in the world when it came to the opposite sex?
It’s not unusual for flats to get dirty inside, it’s actually quite normal. One or two outings can discolour them out of proportion to the activity they’ve had, and I’m not insinuating that she had super sweaty feet or anything. It was simply clear that she didn’t bother washing them – visually it was obvious, and from the taste the other night, she didn’t bother spraying them with perfume either. Which is odd, right? Why would a girl let her shoes get in such a terrible state? What was going through her head? Was she aromatically-impaired?!
For me the greatest turn on is thinking that she had no reason, It was just the way she was. She played with her shoes furiously because she was bored, or her feet got too hot, or she was excited, or because she liked the feel of it…she was expending excess energy, nothing more. Not for my benefit, in fact, especially not for my benefit – she was oblivious, gloriously oblivious, and it made it all the more exciting that a girl’s random actions had me spellbound. And I extrapolated this theory of shoeplay to the state of the shoes, she certainly wasn’t getting them all beat-up and stinky for my secret pleasure. What a ridiculous notion.
All this meditation got me hard. I jumped off the bus, a few stops form Uni, and, seeing a Bus back to the house approaching, ran across the road and flagged it down. I needed to get a closer look at her shoe collection.
The house was deserted. Well, it sounded deserted enough. Most of the inhabitants were in lectures or in bed I guessed. I pretty much ran the whole way from the Bus Stop to her bedroom door, making sure I shouted a loud hello when I got in the front door to make my presence known. No reply. Deserted.
I noticed, as I always notice, that she’d worn some nude flats to Uni that morning, another favourite of mine. So I just figured I’d have a nose around and see exactly what state her lovely black work pumps were in, in the cold day of light.
This was the first time I’d been in her room. It smelled of nice perfume, in fact, a number of nice girly smells hit me on the way in. There were clothes strewn around the place, fallout from getting ready in a hurry, but no shoes lying around. My heart was beating pretty fast at this point…what was I doing?! I decided that If I got caught that I’d say I’d come looking for a cup…there was a pile of dishes by the bed that would provide an easy alibi. But no shoes on the floor meant that I had to open doors. Metaphorical and physical ones.
Her room was sparsely furnished so there wasn’t a lot of places to look – she had a computer desk and chair next to the bed and facing this was a wardrobe and a set of drawers with a mirror on it. Band posters adorned the walls. A typical student bedroom. I headed for the wardrobe, and my inner penis-compass didn’t let me down. Right there on the bottom, right at the front, lay the gorgeous black flats from last night. There was an army of shoes in there, enough to keep me busy for a long, long time, but I focussed on the task at hand and picked the flats up. Quickly, I decided my bedroom would would be a suitable examination room – it was pretty much opposite her room anyway.
Was this stealing? I figured not. This was merely borrowing, since I fully intended to put them back. Borrowing the shoes felt much better and I lied down on my bed, cradling them almost affectionally. I was overcome again by the strange, powerful feelings towards them. Inanimate, everyday objects, that for the minute consumed my whole mind. Whatever else had been in my head, it was gone now. No matter how I try to exaggerate this feeling, the layers of superlatives, nothing will even come close to the attraction and, dare I say it, love that I felt towards them. What on earth was in her foot sweat? I’d paid a lot of money for drugs that didn’t get me this high! I told myself to shut up, that it was my cock thinking, and instead, I studied the shoes, looking for clues. They were extremely pungent – I think she wore these solely for work – and by the looks of the insides they’d seen a lot of barefoot action. Her toes were clearly defined inside, and you could see now they were close up that they’d bent and morphed to her shape, to her will. I brought them close to my face and the smell intensified – and bustling mixture with deep musty overtones that seemed to get you at the back of your throat, and a sharper, acidic smell that was immediate and overpowering. It was almost unpleasant, but that’s not the right word…you could definitely tell that these were waste elements, smells and liquids that the body had decided it had no need for, but it was more complicated than that. In the suffocating environment of the shoe the leather insoles had brewed and shaped the smells, leaving an strangely attractive aroma. It was at once repulsive and enticing. She had stained the insides in a number of ways; large patches of discolouration (through the constant heat and dampness), along with deep, trodden-in sweat by the toes and heels (thousands of pounding footsteps), the odd clump of toe jam ingrained in, as well as leaving the branding almost unidentifiable. I think the logo was trying to say that Her Feet Look Gorgeous, before she’d stamped and trodden it into submission. She’d totally destroyed them!
They looked really, really scruffy, and they were as dirty outside as inside. I was almost embarrassed for her. I guess you couldn’t really tell in a busy, dimly lit restaurant, but if anyone saw them close up…
I decided I’d give them a little clean for her, so she could go to work more presentable tomorrow. She deserved clean shoes. She deserved someone to clean them for her. I laid them flat on the bed and wasted no more time, enthusiastically running my tongue along the length of the sides, holding them in place with my hand. I slid my fingers inside like a foot, and started lapping at the outsides, and was surprised at how sweet the taste was (later, I put this down to spilled soft drinks?). The scuff marks I could do nothing about but the drinks stains and spillages we’re sucked up with gusto, and I was careful to swill the flavours all around my mouth and savour them. I rotated the shoe 360 degrees and let my tongue work all over, then as I got more adventurous I let it slide along the seam were the sole met the shoe, and started to pick up tiny bits of grit in the process. To my astonishment, this just made me harder! I felt like I was performing my ultimate duty, privileged to be cleaning the beautiful shoes of a beautiful princess. I kept thinking of her pretty face and these terrible dirty shoes, and I was now sucking and licking with some fury. I turned the shoes over and against my better judgement decided that the soles shouldn’t feel left out. This was not the most pleasant part – the taste wasn’t sweet anymore, and I could see the swirls of dirt mix with my spit, but with increased dedication to the cause I put thoughts of things she may have stepped in out of my mind and made sure that whatever was living on the bottom of her shoes left, via my tongue.
I was out of breath, and thirsty. The shoes…much cleaner. They actually looked new! It was hard to pinpoint the exact emotions but I felt a sense of pride in looking at the two shoes side by side, the dirty and the clean. Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and felt a little ashamed…sticking my tongue out I saw it was black with dirt. I wasn’t sure if I’d go as far as the soles in future. I took my hand out of the shoe and brought my fingers to my nose, which smelled deliciously of her toes, and salty to the taste…and decided my reward would be to clean the insides were the real gold was. I honed in on a thick piece of black gunk were the ball of her foot lived, and swirled my tongue around it, desperate to dislodge it. It was glued down hard, but I could feel it softening with each rotation of my tongue, and as it softened it gave up some of it’s taste, the grotty foul taste of toe jam. Again I was repulsed and as my repulsion grew, so did my determination to have it, to taste it, to swallow it. Eventually the gunk came loose and I took it in my mouth, nibbling at it to break it up, to release more of the filthy taste…grinding my pelvis on the bed was enough to bring me to climax and I collapsed, bringing the shoe down to rest on my chest. Reluctantly I washed the beautiful filth around my mouth one last time and swallowed.
As I lay there I suddenly thought that the best thing about feet and shoes is that they come in two’s, that my nights’ work wasn’t quite done. That, and how I wanted to do this again tomorrow…and the next day, and every other day I cared to imagine.
And so I did. For the next couple of months I took every chance I got to borrow her shoes. Some nights it was impossible – once I couldn’t get at them for nearly a week, but every now and then the house would be empty and I would get my fill. Jess had the cleanest work shoes she’d ever known. I left the insides…mostly – It really was a thankless task. I spent hours lapping at toes stains that just wouldn’t budge, and deep down I didn’t want them to to; I saw her dirty footprints as a mark of her dominance over her shoes, over me. I was content to lick up her nightly salt residue, as a treat for the harder, more painful work of the outsides. In any case, 5 minutes desperately trying to lick up 8 hours of pounding foot juice, inside and out, just doesn’t add up…I was always fighting a losing battle, there was always dirt left when my time ran out. It would be a full time position keeping these babies in order!
Unfortunately it’s the nature of obsession to shift the boundaries of satisfaction, and more and more my thoughts began to surround her actual feet, reddened, soft and warm, in contrast to the cold and lonely shoes I was working on. It was still a buzz, sneaking in and out of her room, and a rush when I nearly got caught, but I found myself fantasising about getting in close contact with them. What they must smell like, straight after a shift, sticky and damp…surely this was the holy grail? I wanted the little devils that did the damage.
I’d been in and out of her room so many times undetected now that the prospect of sneaking in while she was still in the house felt, well, doable. And this was the crux, if I was to get hold of her shoes while they were still steaming, I was going to have to do it while she was around. I would have to learn her schedule.
So one day she comes home from work, it’s a tuesday, late afternoon, and she’s just done a lunch shift at the restaurant. She arrives home exactly when I expected her to, greets the the house with a hello that goes unreturned, and makes her way to her room. I’m sitting desperately quiet in my room. I hear her singing sweetly to herself, as she makes her way upstairs. Her wardrobe door cracks open, and I know she’s just kicked her shoes off. Tick tock! And as predicted, she makes her way to the shower.
I creep out of my room fast but very quietly, tip-toe running, and make a bee line for her room. It’s open. My heart is thumping, feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest, and to be honest, this whole passage is a little blurry. Her wardrobe door is open, and right there where her shoes should be…is a shoebox. Her flats are nowhere to be seen! Damn it! Maybe she took them to the shower? I rush to the wardrobe and move a few things around, definitely no black flats, so I take the lid off the shoebox.
Inside are a pair of recently evacuated black flats, warm to the touch and damp inside. I push my fingers into one shoe, feel around carefully for her toe indents, and the hot dampness gives me such an erection that now my cock feels like it’s going to burst out of my pants. It moves me to another level. I’m so nervous and shaky that I drop the shoe, I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack, and I bring the other steaming flat out of the box and clamp it tight to my face, inhaling deep, deep stinking aromas…it smells like…rice?!…yeah, but worse, a foul cabbage like smell, vicious and repulsive. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever smelled, and the greatest single erotic moment of my life. I rub the shoe all over my face, pressing my lips tight to the insole in a mock kiss, then sucking hard to take in some of the gloriously foul liquid that’s fermenting inside. This is fucking heaven. Putrid fucking heaven. I can’t believe that anyone wouldn’t like this. I stick my free hand into my pants and barely have to touch myself to come, the shoes and the smell worked me up to bursting all by themselves.
One handed now, to avoid getting sticky anywhere else, I scoop up the fallen shoe and put it into the box, and it’s then that this whole mystery starts to resolve. There is a clear plastic bag, a zip seal bag, in the bottom, and what appears to be…a note?
“Dear Simon. Thank you for purchasing my extremely well worn work shoes. You will not be disappointed 😉 As you have been very generous in your offer, as a reward, I have followed your requests; they have been worn barefoot all week, and last night I didn’t shower so my feet were already very stinky before I wore them again today. I can smell them even now! I am sure you will love them as much as I have. Sadly though it is time that they had a new owner. They are need of some serious TLC – hope you’re up to the task! 🙂
Miss Jess xxx”
Well that explained the stink.
I stood and stared, at the note, at the shoes, and at the eBay invoice for £185. Plus £25 postage. Miss Jess the entrepreneur.
I know what you’re thinking, that I turned around and Jess was stood there, staring disbelievingly at me with a look of horror on her face, about to call Gary…but no, I didn’t get caught. Not for another 24 hours.
Part 3 – Amazing Revelations
The next day was our last day in Uni before the easter break. After the final lectures it was tradition to hit the Union Bar before going clubbing till the early hours, crawling off back to our respective hometowns nursing evil hangovers the day after.
The day went like this.
I spent the morning on eBay – specifically, on Jess’s profile – which was very easy to find (Completed listing search for well worn shoes closest to my postcode!). I was utterly blown away by what I found. She’d been selling for a number of years and the account was active while she was in School but she only started selling shoes when she hit college. Her feedback profile gave a full history of sales, values, customer thoughts – and the most recent still had pictures! There was definitely a sense of her growing in stature – while her first few pairs went for 99p, the value seemed to creep up over time, pushing double figures, settling around the £30-£40 mark for a while. In the past year though she’d somehow managed to increase her sale value up to the £70/£80 mark, then, almost unbelievably, into triple figures. The feedback was unrestrained praise bordering on worship. Lucky bastards. She had nothing up at the minute, but the sale of the incredible work flats I had my tongue in last night was up there. I hope Simon didn’t mind me having a taste.
I did manage to attend my final lecture of the term, and I did manage to have one final taste of Jess’s feet before Easter…back at the house, I heard her talking on the phone to a friend in her room. I heard something about needing the toilet, then she ran out of her room, at which point I dashed across the hallway, into the room and into the wardrobe. No shoebox – I guess that was now winging it’s way to Simon – but there was a new-ish pair of black flats, similar to her last but with a cute bow on the front, that I could tell had had a few outings. I had a cheeky sniff, nothing happening there yet, then put them pack, closed the door and ran back to my room. It was pretty disappointing but I figured I’d maybe get a chance later that evening, after she’d been dancing all night, and in any case, post eBay sale, this was a transitional time.
Fast forward 12 hours and the whole house – no, the whole University – are crammed into a sweaty dive of a club. It was a pretty good night actually, everyone in the best of moods, any worries that were lingering from Uni well and truly poisoned into oblivion. An hour or so from closing time it was winding down a bit, a few people had left, and I was very slyly taking a position upstairs so I could check out Jess while she sat talking to some friends – nude flats bouncing up and down off her gorgeous toes, when I detected something…amiss. I hadn’t actually spoke to her much that night, in fact she seemed a bit off with me, but right now I was watching her talk to a friend while clearly looking at the guy sat behind. Making eyes. She gets up to go to the toilet, and as she passes the guy (never seen him before), she looks back and smiles at him. He then gets up and follows her to the toilets. At this point I leave my high vantage point and virtually leg it to the toilets, and just as I get there, through a crack in the girls door, I’m pretty sure, no, certain, that I see the same guy being pulled into a cubicle.
I wait. I wait what seems like a long time but in fact is probably only 5 minutes…but, still, too long for a toilet trip. My eyes are firmly fixed on the girls toilets, when Jess comes out. I pull back into the crowd a little, and she passes. Then a couple of minutes later, the guy comes out of the girls toilets, almost running, being shoe’d out by some not-too impressed girls.
Did Jessica just fuck a guy in the toilets? Behind Gary’s back?
I didn’t find her again that night, and despite already thinking I’d drunk myself into oblivion managed to find new depths in which to pour large quantities of cheap Vodka.
The night was spent mainly vomitting.
The next day I was woken by what sounded like an army of soldiers marching past my bedroom door. There was a bucket full of puke by the bed, I was fully clothed, and music was blaring out of my stereo. The house was being vacated. Chatter, laughter, shouting, banging and slamming, goodbye’s and embraces, for what seemed like days, gave way to calm. At last. I had a quick shower and heading downstairs to watch some TV…only to discover Jessica had beat me to it.
“Oh. Hello. I thought everyone had left.” I said.
“Hi! Um, yeah they have I guess. I’m staying over Easter though. Full time at Prossarios. Ugh. Starting tonight. How are you feeling?”
“Rough. I was supposed to go back with Beck this morning but I was in no fit state. You?”
“Yeah. Horrible. I spent so much money! Ugh. You want to watch Seinfeld?”
And that was that. We sat on the couch for hours in near silence, I think we were both struggling with any kind of social interaction. By lunchtime though, Jess at least was starting to come round. Sat barefoot when I first entered, she eventually worked her legs off the sofa and was starting to play around a little with her empty flats on the floor, spinning them in little circles. Then she’d stop, and shuffle one shoe back on, only to flick it off immediately, and start the twirling again. She was being really noisy, and quite brash with it, not subtle like she usually is.
Then I remembered the toilet scene from last night.
I figured she was nervous, sat next to Gary’s best friend having fucked someone behind his back. I started to get really angry inside at her. I hated that she thought she could just do what she wanted, regardless, and I figured I should say something. Gary had texted me that morning to see how I was, saying he didn’t remember getting home.
“Jess what happened last night?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Last night in the club. That guy.”
“I saw you pull him into the cubicle.”
One thing was for sure. Jess couldn’t lie. She literally turned pink on the spot.
“Seriously Jess. What the fuck?”
“It’s just a mate from my course. We were messing about. God I was so pissed. I think he got chucked out!”
“Bollocks. I saw you leave before him.”
At this point she crosses her legs and starts to dangle one flat really low – it’s barely even on her Big Toe – the heel of the shoe scraping the floor as she bounces her leg up and down. She says nothing. Looks at the TV.
“Are you going to tell Gary?”
“For fucks sake Jess. What am I supposed to do?”
She lets the flat slip off her toe with a thud, and starts to spin it round in circles on the floor. I’m a fucking mess inside. I’ve got a raging hard on, can’t stop looking at her feet, dreaming of her toes in my mouth, and yet I’m feeling like I should slap her in the face.
She pulls off the second shoe and, both feet at once, glides her toes down to the heels, pulling down and tilting the shoes upward. They stand up tentatively, under her orders, then fall back onto her bare feet, were she spends the best part of a minute gently pushing and pressing until the shoes are back the right way up and on her feet. Then she’s crossing her leg again, and starts an even more precarious dangle.
“I don’t think you should tell him. It was just a bit of fun. We’re both young…I was was soooo drunk!”
“I have to tell him. What kind of a friend am I If I don’t?”
(I quickly replay the endless hours of footage of me cleaning Jess’s work shoes through my mind, and decide that this is an acceptable transgression.)
She then stretched her leg out and pointed at me with her dangling flat, touching my leg with the heel as it slapped up and down.
“Ok then. What were you doing in my wardrobe last night?”
“What are you on about?”
My heart dropped. I thought about it quickly. There’s no way she could have seen me. I heard her come back upstairs long after I’d ran back into my room. There was no one else on our floor. How the fuck did she know?! She couldn’t.
“What were you looking for?” She said.
“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. Stop trying to deflect from the fact that you fucked a guy off your course last night.”
“Stop trying to deflect from the fact that you sniffed my shoes last night. Perv!”
I’ve never been shot, but I imagine it might feel a bit like being discovered as a pervert by your best friends girlfriend.
“I have to tell Gary. What kind of girlfriend am I if I don’t?
“Seriously Jess, shut the fuck up. What are you talking about?”
My mind is working overtime. Replaying the whole incident. No one saw!
Then suddenly, like an epiphany, a vision comes to me: I’m running out of her room. I shut the wardrobe door, and in the mirror on the front I catch a glimpse of the computer screen opposite, it is on, as it usually is, but there’s a strange picture on the desktop. it looks like..someone’s bedroom. Grainy. I’m looking into someone else’s bedroom.
“Funny, because I was Skyping Dalia yesterday…I went to the toilet and she swears she saw a guy come into my room, open the wardrobe, and then the strangest thing! He starts sniffing my shoes. And it’s funny because she described exactly what he was wearing. Your clothes.”
I almost vomited there and then. I felt like my whole sordid world had ended. I was stunned into silence. I literally didn’t know what to say.
“Fucking a guy behind your boyfriend’s back is worse.”
“No, I think Facebook finding out about you will be worse.”
She didn’t say this with any malice, in fact, the exact opposite. She was smiling.
“Let’s just forget the whole thing. Nobody died.” She said.
“I don’t think these two things cancel each other out Jess. You’re getting off way to lightly here. I mean, are you going to see this guy again? He’s on your fucking course!”
She flicks both of her shoes off towards me and pulls her feet up under her on the couch. I swear an awful, beautiful smell hits my nose, ever so subtly. Then gone.
‘What do you want?” She says.
I can see her flexing her toes under bum. She’s looking at me playfully, then she stretches out her legs again and starts to bounce her legs up and down, flexing her toes. I swear she’s never kept the fucking things still since we’ve been in this room!
“What would even things out for you? I’m all ears!”
She plants both feet on the ground, then stretches one leg to scoop her shoes towards her, but she can’t quite reach.
“Can you pass me my shoes?”
“Fuck off Jess.”
“What?! I can’t reach them.”
I look down at the dirty nude flats, her gorgeous toe prints, her foot desperately trying to get back in them, and it’s all too much. I want to get down on my knees and put them on for her. I’m fucking pathetic.
“Pass me my shoes!”
I push them over to her her with my foot, and she wiggles them back on instantly.
“Thanks. Are we ok? Are you ok? We need to be ok with all this. If I need to do something, let me know, otherwise…”
“I want to give you a foot massage tonight after work.”
I blurted it out, after all the months prowling around, the desire, peaking and falling, the dreams of her feet, all too much for me. I didn’t know what the fuck I was saying.
“You asked me what I wanted. That’s what I want.”
I was expecting her to get angry, or get up and leave in an huff, or laugh, but she did neither of those things.
“Wow. You’re a brave man. See you at 11 then.”
And with a smile, she upped and left.
The intervening hours passed in a daze. I think I cleaned the whole house, which was no mean feat considering 8 students had lived there for 7 months without so much as pushing out a vacuum cleaner. I spoke to my parents, and girlfriend, assuring them that I was alive, and falsely claiming that I’d decided to stay a few days to grab some extra shifts at the pub I worked in. (In fact later that night I booked myself in for a couple just to feel better!)
My heart was going crazy all day, but it gathered pace as the hours went by and Jess’s return became a reality. I kept imagining how it would go, how’s she’d react, what they’d smell like…this would be my first time with a real pair of feet!
I was watching some Sci-fi movie when I heard the front door go just after 11pm. Instantly I felt scared, and I could feel myself trembling. Jess shouted her customary hello to an almost empty house…
She stomped into the living room, big smile on her face, flushed cheeks, every so slightly out of breath.
“Hi! You ok? God i’m glad to be home. Sooo tired. Think last night was a bad idea.”
She made her way to the sofa and took a seat next to me. She made no shopelay.
“So, how are you feeling? Better? You look better than this morning!” She said.
“Yeah, I guess. I cleaned the house. We are filthy.”
“I know, I saw! Ah well in!”
“How was work?”
“Er, pretty quiet really but there was only me and another girl in so been pretty rushed off my feet. I nearly came home after an hour!”
There was an intense awkwardness in the room, I could feel she was acting restrained, normally those shoes would be being flipped all over the room by now. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. I mean, how do you start something like this?! I was just about to open my mouth when…
“You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to this foot massage! My feet are absolutely killing me. Do you want me to go and wash them first? They’re gonna smell pretty bad, I’m sorry…”
“Er, no it’s fine.”
“Ok, if you’re sure. I’m a bit embarrassed though! If they’re too bad let me know.”
I’m pretty sure she knows that that there is no such thing as ‘too bad’. And she knows that I know she knows. She flicks one flat off (it lands face down on the floor. Lucky floor), and hooks one leg up into my lap and spins round to face me.
The smell was unbelievable.
Her foot was pink from the heat, her toes gently wiggling back and forth on my lap. They looked soft and I could see little speckles of black here and there, condensed sweat I presumed. They were ferociously pungent.
I took hold of her foot as it it were a delicate flower, gently caressing and kneading into the balls with my thumbs, and pressing softly onto the tops with my fingers. Her feet were sticky and and warm, very damp, and she gave out moans of pleasure with every rotation of my hands.
“Oh my god. That feels so good.”
She let her head fall back and closed her eyes, seemingly in the same kind of heaven I found myself in.
There was a gentle crack here and there as her bones moved into more comfortable positions, and the smell….the smell! I tried to hide the fact that I was willing it closer, in fact I’m sure I inched a little nearer to her, my head bowed slightly as I tried to get every last sniff, without, of course, being too obvious.
She was watching TV now, oblivious, and after about 10 glorious minutes, she looked cheekily over…
“The other one?!”
I smiled and nodded like a ridiculous teenager.
She wriggled the second shoe off. The first foot had cooled down now, dry from my touch but sticky nonetheless, so It was true delight to have a second sweaty foot in my lap, as hot as the first, sticky and damp all over. Again she let out moans of pleasure.
“You’re good at this! Becks is a lucky girl!”
“No…she’s got ticklish feet! Won’t let me near them!”
“What?! No waaaay?! She’s missing out!”
And so it continued, longer this time, my hands now covered in her foot sweat and me rock hard under her leg. It truly was the most beautifully erotic moment of my young life, never really surpassed. Just giving a beautiful girl a foot massage while she watched TV, almost oblivious.
All things must pass, sang George Harrison.
She eventually pulled her foot away, smiling a ‘thank you’ at me, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“Right…um, well, I better get some sleep. That was…that was really nice! Same time tomorrow?!”
And she got up with that cheeky little smile, wiggled her feet back into her flats with stunning grace and went off to bed, flicking me a wave as she left.
I was shellshocked. I couldn’t really comprehend what had happened over the past 24 hours. Culminating in this?! I brought my fingers to my nose…they smelled as strongly as her feet had done, they were sticky and clammy like her feet had been. It was as if, even gone, she was still here teasing me. I had no choice but to suck my own fingers. The right hand first, each and every finger, then when that was clean, I had no choice to jack off while sniffing the other hand. It was a gorgeous, musty smell, and I sucked and sniffed and came all over myself.
Same time tomorrow??!!
I grabbed by phone with my cleaner left hand, and it took me forever to write:
Part 4 – Mind Games
She didn’t text back.
When I woke in the morning Jess had already left; for work I presumed. I checked my phone again. She still hadn’t replied. I was worried that I’d embarrassed her, that she’d only been make a joke about tonight, about doing it all again, and I’d been too eager. Weirded her out maybe. Why hadn’t she even laughed it off? She’d outright blanked me.
I actually had some real work to do that day – a shift in the pub. It was easy money, dead now that Uni had broken up, a couple of daytime/evening drinkers and a lot of standing around. Cash in hand that would come in nicely after the blowout the other night. I finished up around 8 and headed home, to an empty house, and still no text. I guess I’d just have to sit it out til she got back at 11.
I’d been very reluctant to wash my hands after what took place the night before. It seemed…wasteful, and potentially a once in a lifetime occurrence. It was certainly seeing like a one time thing right now. I was regretting taking a morning shower.
I whiled away the evening with some boxsets, not really paying attention, and 11pm came and went without a text. She wasn’t coming home.
I crawled off to bed, pretty glum, trying to make sense of what was happening. Maybe she’d told Gary? Or confided in a friend? Maybe it was all over Facebook already? Fuck!
A text to Gary and a quick Facebook log in later put my mind at rest. The world wasn’t bent over sideways laughing at my disgusting habits. But why the embargo from Jess? I lay awake for a while, mulling things over, when I heard the door go just after midnight. My body stiffened. I heard a single set of footsteps move through the hall (did they stop to check in the living room?), then slowly upstairs…and into what sounded like Jess’s room. Some doors opening and closing and then…
Scared shitless by my phone vibrating.
“Sorry! I forgot my phone! Are you still up? x”
“Ha, no worries, er yeah, still awake x”
Minutes pass. No reply.
“A couple of friends are heading into town, do you wanna come?”
Did I fancy it? Not really. I didn’t want to go into town. Did I want to be near Jess?
“Yeah why not!”
I lose the kiss to save face. Sizeable time passes…
“Cool…just in my room x”
The kiss is back. Is that an invitation?
I throw on the clothes that are strewn on the floor from earlier, rub some product through my hair and genuinely look like I just got out of bed, as the tub promised. My heart was going crazy as I made my way across the hall. I knock and enter.
“Hey. You ok?” I say casually.
“Hey! Yeah I’m good. Tired…I downed a can of Red Bull as I left work!”
“Ha. Did you stay late?”
“Yep…mega busy tonight. They paid us an extra 2 hours for 1 hours work…sweet!”
She was sat at her computer, messing about in a message thread on Facebook, dressed in her customary all-black waitress uniform. She was barefoot and I could see both pink heels ever so slightly raised out of the back of her shoes. No shoeplay. Was she keeping them on for me? Keeping the atmosphere in?! What a ridiculous notion. Of course she wasn’t.
She looked perplexed at the screen for a second.
“Oh what! Noooo! Katie’s bailed and now Andrea has backed out. Oww. Never gonna sleep now! Unless you still want to go in?”
“I’m not really fussed.”
Had she even seen my text? She wasn’t acting as if she hadn’t, but she must have. She’d texted me twice since. Maybe it didn’t get through?
“I think I’m gonna grab a quick shower…I overslept this morning so I didn’t have time…I must be stinking!” She said casually.
My lord those feet! They were visibly reddened, even though they were clamped tight into her shoes, the extra blood flow that was cooking those babies was very evident. Washing those would be a crime against humanity! I had to pounce.
“Jess…you know last night, when you said same again tomorrow? Were you just messing around?”
She spun round on her chair and looked my dead in the eyes, a hint of a smile on her face. She appeared to be thinking about something.
“Ok, last night was all yours. I asked you what you wanted, you told me and I gave it to you. We’re even for the other stuff.” She said.
“I have been thinking about it, and I’m just not sure that…well, that’s it’s right! Look, I know you’ve got a foot thing and I’m cool with that, my first boyfriend had one too. I get it. But last night was a one off. I dunno, If it ever happened again, I dunno…it’s weird right?! It’s sexual for you. It’s your thing. What do I get out of it?”
I looked at her blankly.
“Um..amazing relief?!” I offered.
“Ha! Yeah…It was nice. It was lovely actually. But let’s not pretend…you had an erection. It’s all about you.”
“Well what do you want? What can I do in return?”
She smiled and looked off into the distance playfully.
“Ok, I sold some stuff on eBay last week, I dunno, some guy, he was pretty sweet, but he offered me a lot of money to give me a foot massage. And I mean a lot. I turned him down of course. God knows who he is right?! But he was really sweet. And I was tempted. He offered to let a friend sit in the room, in case I was scared. But I mean, it’s a foot massage for God’s sake!”
“Marcellus Wallace threw a man out of a window for giving his wife a foot massage.“
“Exactly! It’s not just a foot massage is it? Tarantino has a foot thing. You’re in good company.”
“If money is all that’s stopping us…then we can start right now. I’d be more than glad to…remunerate you.”
“How much are you willing to pay?”
She popped both heels out of her flats at that very moment, as if my mind wasn’t fully on the job already. Truth be known? I’d never even contemplated paying to give a foot massage before – wasn’t it usually the other way around?! But the idea, the very notion, made me even harder. Pay to massage a beautiful waitresses’ tired feet? How could it possibly be any other way?
“Um..I really don’t know! God. I’ve really never had to put a price on something like this.”
Two days unwashed feet in flats running around a busy restaurant? I’d have emptied my bank account. Followed by my balls.
“The guy offered me £250. Not at first, that was his final offer. I’m not expecting you to pay that. I think he was a Solicitor or something! Look, you name the price you’re comfortable with and I’ll go along with it.”
I’d like to say I thought about it long and hard but in truth there wasn’t time. I had no idea. Part of me wanted to offer her more, actually, I wanted her to ask for more. There was something about this situation, about putting her on a pedestal and lowering me, that I found completely irresistible. I’d have literally paid whatever she demanded to get my hands on her feet, to inhale them. I didn’t know it at the time but I think she was just manipulating me into feeling good about paying anything less than £250! I was pretty sure £250 must have been bollocks. Who the fuck would pay that?!
“Erm..f…fifty? I’ve got fifty quid on me right now from work earlier.”
I pulled the notes out of my pocket and offered them to her.
Whatever she thought of the price remained unclear but I guess it was agreeable on some level. She took the notes. I’d just paid a girl £50 to let me rub her feet. What the actual fuck.
She moved onto the bed, sat up and laid her legs out, expectingly. I followed her, took up a position toward the bottom of the bed and took one shoe off. Whatever smells I’d experienced up until now, all the grime and filth, nothing could prepare me for this moment. I didn’t gag but it was something close. She sat texting on her phone, seemingly oblivious, as I went to work on the first foot. It was almost dripping with sweat, much warmer than last night, and clammier, sticker, and the smell was disgustingly good. And she just sat there, giving an occasional ‘mmm’ when I apparently hit a good spot. The dirt and sweat was forming into tiny black clumps, specks really, and my hands were pushing and moving them around her feet, too sticky to fall off. I wanted to eat them. It was the foulest and most erotically charged scent to date, invoking the most potent repulsion/attraction force I’d ever had to handle. What was I doing?
“Mmm, yeah, that bit! Do that again!”
I’d hit a sweet spot. She looked down at me, smiling, then down to her feet and the smile turned to shock as she noticed the black sweat congealing in balls from the massage.
“Ooo gross! Ewww! They seriously need a clean. Sorry if that’s gross.”
There she goes again. She’s fucking with me. She knows full well that this is not gross to me. Why would she mention them needing a clean? I was beginning to feel completely played, as if she knew at every step exactly what I wanted despite acting innocent. Maybe this guy, her first boyfriend, had had a similar vice? Maybe us foot guys are all the same? She was letting the massage go on for a long time, much longer than last night and with no apparent hurry to get to the other foot. The room was filled with her foot stink. I was looking at the sweat, my increasingly sticky hands, and the other pink foot ready and waiting. She was right. They did seriously need a clean.
“How are you liking them then?” She asked looking up from her phone.
We were both smiling, pretty relaxed by now…it was harmless afterall. I was almost laughing as I replied:
“Honestly Jess, I’m loving them. Completely hooked!”
“Haha. This could make me rich! You’re such a weirdo!” She laughed.
“I know. I can’t explain it.”
“It’s a unusual wiring of the brain that’s all. It’s just chemical reactions. You’re a sweety though. So gentle. I can tell you’re a feminist. You’re a perfect gentleman.”
My thoughts drifted to Becks. Although this wasn’t in the usual realm of cheating, this definitely was cheating. I was cheating on Gary too. Perfect gentleman. I was despicable. I started to feel deep pangs of guilt. My erection softened and I thought maybe I’d made a terrible, underhand mistake. What was I doing? She sensed me backing off a little and decided to pull me back in.
“eBay guy is going to be so jealous knowing that you got this for a fraction of his price!
“I can’t believe he offered £250?! I mean, I guess it’s worth it…it’s just a lot. Too much maybe? Is it?!”
“I know. I was seriously tempted. You just never know though…he was so sweet though, like you in a way, and I think it would have been ok. I could deffo have used the money. Another guy wanted to move in and become my personal foot slave! Said he’d pay all my bills and take care of the house while I was at work! I think he thought I was older. Then he sent me a picture of his penis. They always have to ruin it!”
“So..you sold your shoes on there?”
“Er…yeah, you wouldn’t believe the demand! So many women do it. It’s crazy. Easy money. I mean you just throw them away otherwise. It’s harmless really. There are some not so nice men on there though, saying nasty stuff. Bust mostly it’s fine. Have you…evey bought off there?! Sorry, if that’s personal…”
“No, it’s ok…I think we’re beyond personal now Jess. I’ve never bought off there. Not shoes anyway. I mean, not like that. I can see the appeal though.”
Still she makes me work on the same foot. Have we been here 25, 30 minutes now?
“So where do you draw the line? Would you like to move in as my personal foot slave and pay all my bills?!”
As she said the word my she pressed into my crotch with her foot, ever so subtly, smiling. My erection felt like it doubled in size. How do you respond to a question like that?!
“Ha, absolutely, if only we didn’t live in an 8 person shared house! In all honesty though I don’t think there is a line.”
She laughed, we both laughed.
Looking back, I feel admitting all this so soon to her, being so submissive and willing…it made it all too easy for her. No resistance. This wasn’t some random guy off eBay. This was her room mate. Safe and trustworthy. Practically begging her.
She pulled her foot out of my hands, and pulled her knees up to her chest, clamping her arms around the front of her legs, one shoe on, one shoe off.
“Ok. One time offer here. You have to trust me though. Trust me?”
“No, you have to trust me.”
“Ok! I trust you.”
“If you go with me on this you won’t regret it. I promise. You you have to trust me though!”
“I do! I trust you!”
“Ok. One time offer.”
She grabbed her phone and tapped away for a couple of seconds. She looked up, extremely mischievously. She handed me the phone.
“Right. Log into your Paypal account.”
What was she doing?!
I decided not to protest.
“In? Good. Transfer me £250 as a gift. Use firstname.lastname@example.org”
My heart was pounding. My Paypal was linked to my Credit Card. No sweat. What was all this about?! I set up the transfer. Paypal is quick. I handed her the phone back, shaking a little.
“Ok. This is a game. You’ll like it. A lot. Two rules: Do what I ask; and say thank you at the end.”
“Ha…Ok.” i said nervously.
“Ok. Game begins.”
She flicked her hair back, as if getting into character. She starting twirling the ends of her hair and slowly brought her gaze to meet mine. There was a different look in her eye…er usual smile was gone.
“My poor feet are still sore from all the walking I’ve done tonight. 9 hours running around a hot restaurant. These little pumps are cute, adorable even, but they offer no support and I can only stand them for a few hours. So I need you to rub my feet some more. This one is fine for now. But first…I’m sure you’ve noticed that they really aren’t the most suitable shoes for working in. My feet get very hot and sweaty in there. After 8 hours my feet are very sticky and I really don’t like the feeling. On top of that they absolutely stink. So first, starting with this one, you’re going to take off my shoe – carefully – and clean my foot. Do it now, without moving off the bed, using whatever you think is suitable, and I’ll tell you when you can move on to the other one. When both feet no longer feel sticky to me, you can move back onto the foot massage, focussing on this foot. When they don’t feel sore to me any more, and I’ll tell you when that is, you can leave. As you go take both shoes to bed with you. I want them like new in the morning. Shiny. Inside and out. Leave them by my door when you’re done.”
My head spun, my penis pulsing with pre-cum.
“Now: Get to work.” She barked.
This story is taken from:
Special thanks to: Cellador79