FUN WITH HER FEET

By C.P. Waterman

My firm was in financial difficulties and was forced to close down the local office; worse, the directors were unable to employ any of us in the other branches.

For several years, I’d been the assistant finance manager there; I had accumulated some savings, so I wasn’t desperate for cash. But I needed something to fill in my time while I looked round for a new position. Spending the first few days at home — I lived alone — I tried to envision what I wanted to do with the rest of my working life.

Did I want to be stuck in finance until my retirement? My mind drifted back with fondness to those days at the company when I used to stare through my office window and my eyes alighted on Sally, one of the secretaries who worked on the open-plan floor. I’d miss her, more than anyone else there. I loved to watch her sit down at her desk and kick off her shoes -invariably they had high heels — and sigh with relief, rubbing her feet against each other to soothe the pain. She wore dark nylons which set off the outline of the gorgeous curves of her feet.

I longed to massage her feet and suck her toes; the thought drove me to the men’s room, where I could lock myself away in a cubicle and enjoy my own private passion, bringing the fantasy to a glorious climax. Months before, I’d bought myself a pair of dark stockings – the same shade that Sally wore — and, at the weekends, I’d go to my bedroom and insert my hard cock inside one of them, wrap it round tight, and pretend that she was giving my cock a massage; at the same time I could imagine that I was caressing her toe. The friction of the nylon against the sensitive skin at the tip of my cock was electric, and sent me into realms of unspeakable joy. But now everyone had gone their separate ways. I had to find a new job, and get out and meet new people. There were scores of other ex-employees of the company who were in my situation; most of them had to find money to pay bills and to buy food.


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Luckily I had enough cash in the bank to tide me over for a few years. Before the offices finally closed, I overheard three women talking, trying to put a brave face on their predicament; one of them was talking as if she were contemplating becoming a sex worker. Whether she was joking, I shall never know. Sex was the only thing in the world that was left for her to enjoy, she had said. Ever since my wife walked out ten years before, I’d avoided having any relationships. I’d allowed my craving for women to die, having immersed myself in work to take my mind off the opposite sex.

After the failure of my marriage, I didn’t give me the appetite to start another liaison, and I was content with my masturbatory fantasies; a world of pretence satisfied me. Over a period of time, I reached the situation where I thought I might recoil at the prospect of having sex with a woman. I responded to an advertisement in the local press for photographic models. No, it’s not pornography, I was assured by the lady who answered my telephone call.

“Why don’t you come round for a session?» she suggested.

“If you don’t like it, you can always walk out.”

“Would I be expected to undress?” I asked.

“Our models are usually prepared to take off some of their clothes. But there’s no nudity. You might be asked to model underwear for a fashion catalog. Would that be a problem for you?”

«No,” I said. “I guess someone has to do it.”

We agreed on a date and time, and I put the appointment to the back of my mind after I sent off a registration form and a recent head-and-shoulders photograph of myself. I began looking round for social club to join to keep me away from the solitude of my home, but couldn’t find any that interested me. When I arrived at the photographer’s studio later that week, I was greeted by the receptionist and invited to sit down. I buried my head in a magazine and waited to be called. I heard a door open but didn’t pay much attention.

“Good morning. I’m Mrs. Edwards. I have an appointment.”

The voice was familiar. I looked up and recognized Sally, my former co-worker at the firm.

«Hello, Ray,” she said, embarrassed. «So you work here too, do you?”

“Well, this is my first time. And you?”

“Yes. I’d hoped this would be… confidential. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Of course not.” A young man entered.

“Good. Sally Edwards and Ray Barnett? I’m Tom, the photographer. Thanks for coming. When I saw your photographs, I thought you might be a good match, and I could shoot you together as a couple I hope you don’t mind?”

“Sally and I have already met. We used to work at the same company.”

We followed him into his studio; although the floor was jet black marble, the walls and ceiling were a sea of white. I counted five cameras of various sizes, and other furniture props scattered round the large room.

“Oh. I hadn’t thought that you might already be acquainted. Is that a problem for either of you?”

“No.” Our reply was almost in unison.

“We have a contract with a fashion catalog and website that specializes in underwear. I’d like you to pose as husband and wife in the bedroom. You can change behind the two sets of screens over there. You’ll find the clothes you need to put on there too.”

THE END

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