By Ella Ford

If you’re reading this, you probably like feet. No, don’t panic, I’m not judging. You’re in good company here. I’m one of you! And if you have a thing for pantyhose and stockings and sexy, strappy shoes, then I’m especially one of you! Now you probably feel a little alone with your fetish, am I right about that?

Sure, your wife sometimes gives you a footjob, and she’ll probably wear those cute open-toe pumps that get you going so badly. She may even put on some sexy black stockings and slink around the bedroom like a seasoned provocateur if you asked her nicely. But you always get the feeling that she’s playing along to humor you. Your six monthly footjob is a reward for good behavior, a treat for getting that barbecue setup going in the yard like you said you would; and the pantyhose you bought her for date night are worn with a weary sigh that suggests that she doesn’t really understand what it means to you, how deep your feelings run.

I get it, I sympathize. Now, imagine what it’s like to have that same sense of isolation from the mainstream, but that you’re also a girl-who-likes-girls-who-also-likes-feet. Imagine cuffing your audience by ninety percent and then looking for that one-in-a-million chick who digs sucking on toes, or the feel of silky hosiery on her face. Oh boy, you think you got it bad? Try being a lesbian foot fetishist! Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all bad. I love pussy as much as the next girl, and I’m totally capable of having my mind rocked by an eager tongue and some fancy fingerwork, even if I don’t have a big toe rammed in my asshole or a stiletto heel in my mouth. But sometimes it nice to have those things, right? That’s totally normal.

I guess I’ve always felt like this, for as long as I can remember. As a young girl, I’d lock myself in the imderstairs closet with my Mom’s Macy’s catalog and pore over the shoe section. I’d spend hours fixating on the fancy ladies in pantyhose and towering heels, their toned calves pulled taut under the thin nylon gauze, and I’d wonder what it would be like to run my fingertips over those soft limbs, what it would be like to… kiss them. My Mom, bless her heart, thought I was obsessed by fashion and would go on to become the next Vivienne Westwood or something.


“She loves shoes!” my Mom would drawl in that thick New York accent that she never bothered to correct when we moved out to Wisconsin.

“She think’s she’s Carrie Bradshaw off the Sex in the City!” she’d add, and her friends would coo and purr and pat my head as though I was the cutest six year old in the world, instead of some proto-pervert who was secretly plotting to steal a pair of their pantyhose the next time we went over for a playdate. As I got older, I became more daring, but not massively so. Like, I’d always make sure I was first onto the floor when Miss Anderson was reading a story in elementary school.

Not because I found her tales to be particularly enthralling, but because she was the only teacher in school to wear tan stockings with cork wedges that she’d dangle absent-mindedly from her foot as she was reading. To this day, I couldn’t tell you what stories she told us or even who else was in my class. But I could spend a long and pleasant afternoon describing to you the captivating arc that the bouncing shoe followed as she tapped her foot up and down to some unheard internal rhythm, or the time that she flicked a little too hard and the shoe fell to the floor, leaving her perfect stockinged-feet exposed for all to see for the remainder of that homeroom session…

Oh boy, I’ve got to take a break. Back soon. Where was I? Ah yes, the growing pains of a young lesbian foot fetishist. When I got to high school, I began to realize that not everyone was like me. For a start, most of the girls seemed to like boys – eww! Strange, lumbering neanderthals who liked football and fighting and swearing and didn’t even have pretty feet. Never saw the appeal myself. It’s true that there were some girls like me at my school – it was 2009, not 1809 after all! But mostly they were into kd lang music and flannel shirts. None of them, to the best of my knowledge, liked feet. So I played along with the normals and pretended to be pretty and shy, and avoided pretty much all conversations about sex.

I joined the cheerleading team and made sure that I was always on the bottom of any pyramids (for the barefoot practise sessions), I was voted class president three years running and I even went to my own prom (I took a well meaning nerd called Irvine Fletcher who seemed far too interested in Firefly and Yu Gi Oh to ever pose much of a threat). But mostly I spent my teenage years resigning myself to the fact that people like me were like unicorns: rare and precious and doomed to be perpetually horny.

I gradually came to accept that it was highly unlikely that I would ever meet someone who shared my particular peccadillo. And then I went to college.., and my whole world changed! Spoiler – there’s a lot of us out there! We just don’t like to talk about it. Think about it. How much do women spend on shoes? On pedicures? On pantyhose? Look at every fashion ad and what do you see? Pretty feet in pretty shoes. Take a look at any TV show – pretty feet as far as the eye can see. Somebody must like them! Look at porn – wall to wall stockings and heels; lesbian porn, straight porn and every type in between.

There are feet everywhere, even the non-fetish stuff. Feet, feet, feet. Everyone likes feet. It took me a long time to realize this simple fact, but it was a very pleasant journey to take. And these are the stories of that journey. I hope you’ll indulge me a little, I do like to witter on. My name is Becky and I’m a lesbian foot fetishist… Professor’s Pantyhose April, 2013 In my freshman year, I took a macroeconomics course. It seemed like easy credit towards my major and the scheduling was conducive with the hard drinking, long sleeping college life I’d decided to devote myself to.

In truth, I’d never even heard of Maynard Keynes and wasn’t even totally sure what macroeconomics were. Frankly, it bored the shit out of me for the first semester. Macroeconomics was taught by the ancient and lumbering Professor Jacobie, an octogenarian who had defied every betting pool for three decades by somehow continuing to teach despite a body that started a slow decline in 1985 and didn’t look like halting its descent anytime soon. Prof J. walked slow, he talked slow, he thought slow and he had the perpetual stink of mothballs about him, in that strange way that old people tended to have.

If there was ever an upbeat huckster who could enliven the fascinating topic of macroeconomics with a little bit of life and energy, Prof J. wasn’t it. So the announcement of Professor Ernest Jacobie’s not-unexpected passing over the holiday season of 2012 was eeted with the world’s shortest mourning period and the swift announcement of his replacement: Professor Jennifer Cole. Professor Cole was an entirely different beast to Professor Jacobie. Modern and right-on, Jenny Cole was thirty (an age that seemed impossibly mature back then) and thoroughly down with us kids.

To illustrate: the first thing that she wrote on the whiteboard in her first lecture was not her name – it was her Twitter handle, and she invited us all to friend her on Facebook. She was that kind of teacher. You’ve all had one. So I added her, against my better judgement. Not, you understand, because I was particularly confident in my Facebook feed’s ability to project the life of a professional and diligent student. That ship had sailed the day that my roommate Carla had posted a series of pictures of me slumped over the Dean’s Oldsmobile with my panties around my ankles and a bottle of Jim Beam slowly emptying down the poor Dean’s windshield. In fact, I’d added Professor Cole because I wanted to indulge in that most modem of trespasses – the Facebook photo rape. I simply had to see photos of her, because, well, I had developed a little crush on her. It’s not my fault, Your Honor, it was my hormones! You see, Professor Cole was a very smart and serious woman. As well as having a misplaced sense of her own youthful identity, Professor Cole stood out from the college faculty by dressing well. Crisp, pressed skirt suits, with immaculate blazers and blouses. And she always, always, wore pantyhose and heels.


Like, always! I remember seeing her at a Friday night football game (Go Wildcats!) wearing that same perfect lilac combination and the same matching open-toe pumps with the conservative-but-daring three inch heel. Can you see where this is going yet?  Naturally, my interest in macroeconomics grew considerably in the second half of the college year. I found myself quoting Keynes and Adam Smith in bars and gradually moving closer to the front of the room during her lessons.

There was no boring Wednesday afternoon that couldn’t be improved by spending an hour watching Professor Cole perched on the edge of a desk, lazily swinging her perfect legs back and forth, back and forth, hoping against hope that she’d slip one of her shoes off and dangle it from her stockinged foot. So I added her on Facebook. And spent several very happy nights leafing through her photos like a digital burglar.  One night in late April, I found myself alone in the dorm at eleven on a Saturday. Carla was off touring with band and all the other girls and guys were studying for finals. So I had myself a good old fashioned one girl party, just me, Jim Beam, the internet and the plastic-pal that I kept underneath my mattress. As I was loading up Facebook, I happened to notice that it was someone’s birthday.

Ah Facebook, you remove every inconvenience of friendship – like actually having to care enough to remember the most basic details about your nearest and dearest! So I clicked the link and a gaudy birthday-balloon popup informed me that today was, in fact, Jennifer Cole’s thirty first birthday!

Furthermore, it invited me to wish her a happy one. Well, I’d been drinking and I was feeling daring, so I did just that. Without thinking, I typed: Happy Birthday Professor Cole! I paused for a second before sending and thought it might be nice to add something a little personal about enjoying her class. So I clicked in the box again and typed: I really enjoy your fret! Then I hit send and shut the lid on my MacBook. About thirty seconds passed and I settled back on the bed. At the exact second that my head touched the pillow, a wave of realization washed over my sluggish, whiskey-slurred mind and I sat bolt upright.

“I meant class! I meant class! Oh God, I meant I enjoy your class!” I shouted out loud, not caring who heard me. I leaped across the bed to my desk and fumbled open my MacBook with a speed that surprised the detached part of my mind that was finding this whole thing highly amusing.

“Oh God, did I write feet?” I muttered to myself as my computer slowly restarted, the hard disk grumbling at the indignity of being woken so soon after being put to sleep.

“Come on come on come on,” I breathed. With glacial slowness, the computer flickered into life. I quickly located the browser, loaded Facebook in record time and navigated to Professor Cole’s profile seth a skilled precision reserved for digital natives. There it was:

“I really enjoy your feet!” Oh God, the humiliation! Surely nobody had seen it, I reasoned. It was late on a Saturday night, everyone was either out or in bed. As I clicked the delete button and waved goodbye to the offending sentiment, I hoped against hope that I was the only person to see my stupidity. I sat back in my chair and tried to calm my breathing. After several minutes, I started to relax, allowing myself to believe that I’d deleted the message in time. Message received from Jennifer Cole. Click to view.

The popup appeared on my screen and the bottom dropped out of my world. A few seconds later, my phone pinged its arrival. Then my iPad. My digital world was mocking me! With trembling hands, I guided the mouse over to the message and clicked it. Oh God. It opened up and I blinked three times to clear my tear-blurred vision. Drop by my office on Monday. Let’s talk this through. Jen.

“Please, come in and take a seat Rebecca,» said Professor Cole with a warm, nervous smile. She used my full name, putting me instantly off-guard, as if I could be any more off-guard than how I felt at that moment.

Sunday had been lost to a hangover and a faint feeling of dread and regret, a constant replaying of scenarios in which every outcome had involved me being identified as a foot-loving lesbian pervert who had a first-grade crush on teacher. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of my sexuality, you understand? More that I felt more than a little uneasy about every student in college knowing the fine details of what I liked. No-one, other than my roommate Carla and my best friend Lisa back home, knew that I liked girls. And no-one, I mean no-one, knew that I had a thing for feet! I wanted my coming out to be something on my terms – preferably after I’d actually plucked up the courage to sleep with anactual woman!

I walked slowly across Professor Cole’s office, every tortured step an agony of embarrassment. Eventually, I reached the comfortable looked chair in front of the desk at which Professor Cole sat and lowered myself down. Professor Cole looked up from her papenvork and studied me. At once, I had the strong sense that she was as nervous as I was. Probably not part of the college lecturer handbook, having to deal with a student’s sordid fetish!

“Do you know why I asked you here today Rebecca?” she asked, peering at me over the rims of her large, hipster glasses that seemed curiously fashionable for someone so conservatively dressed.

“I-I guess…” I said, lowering my gaze to the floor and wishing that a sinkhole would appear and swallow me up. Oh, to live in Florida, I thought for the first and only time in my life. Professor Cole clicked the top of her pen and placed it neatly by her notebook, then pushed back in her seat and stood up. She was wearing a cream pencil skirt and black blouse, unusually sombre attire compared to her normal look.

I watched her walk around the desk, approaching where I sat, then lowered my eyes again as she hopped up onto the desk and pushed back. I felt a warm flush creep up my neck and burn my face. Don’t look at her legs, don’t look at her legs, don’t look at her legs, I repeated inwardly, over and over. I looked at her legs. Oh god, I couldn’t help myself. I’m an animal, a pervert! I only intended a quick glance, flicking my eyes up from the floor by a degree or less; looking for a quick snapshot that I could take away from this humiliating ordeal and examine later in the dead of night.

But my eyes reached her feet and became locked in place, captivated by every sensual detail. Professor Cole, as expected, was wearing pantyhose. Her usual sheer, tan brand that were slightly darker in tone than her skin and had a subtle shine that shimmered down the length of her calf. On her feet, she wore black, high-heeled pumps with a delicate stiletto heel and open toe. Through that maddeningly enticing portal I caught a clear glimpse of her toes, painted red to match her lipstick and fingernails; muted jewels through the reinforced toe of her hose. In that instant, she sat back and crossed her legs, a movement that I remember happening in slow motion \ith a ditzy pop ballad in the background. Her nylon-clad thighs rubbed together with a subtle swish and I let out an involuntary sigh.

“It’s about your Facebook message,” she started, ending the music video in my mind and bringing me crashing back to this hateful reality.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I’m afraid that ‘sorry’ won’t cut it Rebecca,” she said sternly, shifting on the desk.

“You made an inappropriate comment about my person, one that could get me in a lot of trouble with the faculty,” she added.

“I-I’m really sorry Professor Cole,» I repeated.

«I didn’t think.” I felt meek and small, embarrassed beyond my wildest imaginings. The room fell into silence and I stared hard at the floor. Still no sinkhole.

“Tell me, Rebecca,” said Professor Cole quietly, “why did you ‘write what you \Tote? About my feet I mean.» Oh god, we were really getting into it.

“I don’t know…” I whispered, wondering if the intense heat from my burning cheeks would set off the fire alarm and grant me some respite from this scrutiny.

“Do you like feet Rebecca?” purred Professor Cole. I heard a soft sliding sound and looked up. The young lecturer had slipped the shoe off her raised foot, exposing her heel and arch.

Oh shit! “I I suppose so,” I said in the quietest voice I could manage, unable to look away from the hanging shoe.

“Do you like it when I do this,” breathed Professor Cole, lifting her foot until it was two feet from me, flicking her toes up and down so that the shoe bounced rhythmically before me. I nodded mutely, hypnotized by the erotic motion.

“I’ve seen you looking at me before Rebecca. I’ve seen how you always take the front seat in my lectures. How you only seem to take an interest in my lessons when I sit on the desk at the front of the room.”

Oh god, was I so transparent? I blushed furiously, looking away from her foot.

“I ought to go to the Principal. Such attention could be sen, to an unsympathetic eye, as sexual harassment you know. It’s so difficult to tell these days.” I sensed that she was playing with me. I mean, this clumsy porno- seduction was hardly subtle.

“Please don’t, Professor Cole,» I begged, feeling half excited and half terrified. The older woman made a final exaggerated flick with her foot and the shoe bounced up and off her toes, falling to the floor and coming to rest between us. “Oh dear, how clumsy,” she breathed.

“Perhaps you could help me out, Rebecca?” she asked, and again I detected the note of self-doubt in her voice. This cliche of a scene was not something she was used to doing, clearly. I felt myself relax a little.


“Yes, Professor Cole,” I managed to say, then slipped forward off the chair onto my knees before her. I looked up and studied her exposed foot. It was inches from my face, I could sense its warmth and the subtle smell of her – an intoxicating mix of perfume, sweat and shoe leather. As I looked on, she flexed her toes, stretching at the thin material of her pantyhose. My heart was racing now, my mind galloping away at a million thoughts a second. What if someone came in? Was this wrong? What would she taste like? Is that an ankle bracelet? She sighed above me, studying me intently, then held up her foot, pointing her toes at my face.

“My feet get so tired,” she purred. «Standing at the front of a room full of people in those heels makes my arches ache so badly.”

Her words came out in the style of a vampish-seductress, albeit clumsily and unpracticed. Though, at the time I was too captivated by the sight of her foot to offer any serious critique of her performance. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. A distant part of me realized that it was my turn to speak.

“I, uh, I could, like, massage them for you… If you wanted?” I breathed. She grinned at me impishly and lifted her finger to her mouth, touching her glistening bottom lip.

“Would you?” she asked enthusiastically.

“That would help me out so much, and maÿbe we could forget this whole thing,” she added. I nodded, scarcely able to believe what was happening to me. This was the stuff of late night, guilty fantasy.

Insatiable older woman, forbidden tryst. And soft, warm, pantyhose feet. I looked down at her foot once more and shuffled forwards, then I lifted my hand and flexed my fingers, savoring this moment endlessly. With a sudden sigh, I took her foot in my hands and wrapped my fingers around it, my mind barely able to process the influx of sensations that were flooding through it. I felt a familiar warmth in my midsection, a growing flame that sent waves of pleasure through my body. I began to move my hands, breaking the hypnotic trance of first contact. I passed her foot through each hand in turn, stroking my fingers along its length, tracing the pronounced arch and tweaking her writhing toes.

It felt impossibly soft beneath my fingertips, warm and smooth. I lifted her leg slightly and examined her sole, lost in the myriad wrinkles and contours of the skin there. Then I began to knead her flesh with my thumbs, pressing down with moderate force.

«Oh god, that feels so good Rebecca,” said Professor Cole above me, throwing her head back and staring at the ceiling. She shifted, uncrossing her legs and pulling her foot away from me. I yelped in protest, then gasped in relief as she offered her other foot to me. I took it greedily and gripped the heel with my trembling hands. Slowly, stretching out the moment for as long as I possibly could, I eased the shoe off her foot. Lingering over the slow reveal of her arch and delighted by the way her toes danced with newfound freedom. I set the shoe to one side and began to repeat my tender caresses. Professor Cole lowered herself back onto her elbows and peered at me down the length of her leg, her eyes narrowed with desire, mouth slightly open as she panted her approval. She lifted her other leg and pointed her toes, then slowly teased her foot down my bare arm. I shuddered at her touch and felt my pussy sing out its approval. Was Professor Cole a lesbian as well? I thought distantly to myself.

“I have an idea,” she said from the desk. Her voice had lost any trace of nervousness from before, she seemed entirely in command now. I paused and looked at her expectantly, acutely aware that this was her show and I was subordinate to her, subject to her every whim. The thought thrilled me!

“Why don’t you,” she paused for a second, «use your mouth?” she added with mock hesitancy.

“yes Professor Cole,» I droned obediently, feeling not a hint of reluctance. I leaned forward and held her foot half an inch from my face. Then I pressed my nose into the space behind her toes and breathed in deeply. I became filled with her aroma and the sense of her presence.

My head span and small pinpricks of light exploded in my vision. This was it! This was my first taste of another woman. My heart was hammering and my hands were trembling, but I held that warm, soft foot against my face and breathed her in for as long as I dared. Then I pulled away, breathing heavily, a raging storm gathering in my pussy. I looked up at Professor Cole and caught her eye. She was gazing at me expectantly with a hungry expression that was animalistic and predatory.

«Suck my toes,” she commanded matter-of-factly, and I nodded without hesitation. I leaned in again and wrapped my lips around her writhing digits. As her foot filled my mouth, I let out a muffled moan as the taste of her overwhelmed my senses. It was vital and alive, the essence of womanhood. It drove me forwards and kickstarted my instincts, sweeping away any nervous fear that had gripped me before. I began to suck greedily on her toes, taking in each one in turn, soaking her pantyhose with my saliva.

Professor Cole’s eyes rolled back in her head and she moaned out loud. I felt her other foot paw at my body, finding its way up my thigh under my loose skirt. I shifted my head, visiting the underside of her foot, planting hot kisses along the length of her sole. I reached her heel and lapped at it, wrapping my lips around it, then nibbled my way back along her arch. My entire universe collapsed to this single sordid scene; her foot, my mouth – a perfect couplet of interlocking parts. Her foot was drenched now, soaked by my attention. I dropped it down to my lap and grabbed the other, repeating the same sensual ritual of worship and adoration.

Às I was suking hard on her big toe, I glanced up at Professor Cole. Our eyes locked and an unspoken, womanly communication passed between us. I knew in an instant what she wanted me to do, where she wanted me to go. Suddenly, all those years of thought experiments and hypothetical scenarios performed in the mental laboratory of a theoretical lesbian paid off. I lifted her leg and traced my lips over her ankle, nipping at the taut flesh of her calf. She yelped and moaned, sighing loudly. Then she lifted her hips and wiggled her tight skirt up her thighs until it gathered around her waist. I gazed along the length of her slender leg, following the nylon path to my final destination. I gasped as I found my prey – Professor Cole wasn’t wearing any panties! Had she planned this all along? I wondered to myself as I kissed the back of her leg, resting her leg on my shoulder and liffing up onto my knees, ready for my final approach.

She seemed to sense my question and nodded with a wicked grin. Then she reached her hand between her legs and playfully stroked her pussy through the thin material of her pantyhose. The hosiery was rich and expensive, with no visible gusset. It pressed the complex folds of her pretty labia down, freezing the flesh in place in a stunning tableau of desire. Suddenly, without warning, Professor Cole gripped the delicate material in her fingers and ripped, tearing open a large hole centered on her pussy. I sighed in delight and shock. Her lips were wet, I could see that now.


They glistened in the warm light of the late afternoon sun. I needed no further encouragement and quickened my pace, tracing a line of hot kisses down the inside of her thigh, approaching the end of my journey with every tender touch. I paused, suddenly gripped with self-doubt. Was I really about to do this? What if I did it wrong? What if I hurt her? But any hesitation I felt was swept away in an instant as Professor Cole reached down and parted her lips, revealing the complex topography of her pussy to me and beckoning me in. I shifted forwards, sweeping my honey blonde curls back off my face. Then I held out my tongue, dosed my eyes and nervously licked at her. It was the lightest of touches, the briefest of tastes, but it sent electric jolts up my entire body.

The musky flavor of her sex, the forbidden hint of the taboo, it all combined within my body to send my mind reeling. I dipped forwards for another pass, driven by foreign instincts and an awareness that I could not identify. I plunged my tongue deep into her, dragging it from her hole, through her wet lips and up to her clitoris. I shifted my focus there, intrigued by the hard bud that I found. I began to move in tight circles, pushing down on her, pressing her dit against her pelvic bone. Professor Cole yelped in pleasure, and distantly I worried that someone might hear. The faculty office was just across the hail. How often did her colleagues look in on her? Before I could linger on the worry, she reached down and gripped my hair, pulling me roughly fonvards until my face was buried in her sex. I felt enveloped by her moistness, feeling her lips smear against my face.

I struggled to keep pace, to continue my motions despite the ovenvhelming feelings that I was experiencing. She relaxed her grip slightly and I pulled back. My face was dripping wet with her, every sense filled with her, but I never once wanted to pull free. My first taste of pussy was stronger than any drug, more addictive than heroine. Never once did the thought of stopping cross my mind, never once did I want to reverse course and flee. I doubled down with my actions, moving my tongue quickly and without repetition. I knew instinctively what pleased her, since it was what pleased me too. Though this geography was new to me, I had studied maps and was aware of its landmarks, knew which paths to take to get me to my destination.

I felt out of control and wild, lost in my overwhelming need to devour this woman. I pulled back and Professor Cole moaned as I reached down and grabbed her ankle, pulling both of her feet together, each wet with my saliva. Then I buried my face in both soles, inhaling deeply, kissing her soft skin. She sighed her appreciation and I reached down with my free hand, plunging my fingers into her bulging labia, smearing her wetness down into the cleft of her ass, finding her tight hole and pressing into it. She screamed now, louder than before, then gasped as she realized what she’d done and bit down on her wrist. I continued my twin assault, worshipping her feet with my mouth and working my fingers in her ass and pussy.

Suddenly, I was in command, I was running the show. She danced like a puppet on my strings, writhing on the desk, her legs in the air, perfect sex exposed and open. I forced my thumb up to her dit and rocked it back and forth, pressing down, making tight spirals, squashing it and teasing it. I sensed a change in her. Her breathing quickened, became less audible. Short, sharp pants, quick exhales of breath. Her hands fell to her side and gripped the front of the desk, knuckles turning white, reflecting the tension in her body. She began to moan and I quickened my attention, biting at her stockinged feet, pressing two fingers into her tight pussy and working my hand back and forth.

“Oh fuck, oh luck, I’m going to come!” she moaned, a note of panic and surprise rising in her voice.

Did she not think it would come to this? Suddenly, her spine arched upwards and her head pushed back. I felt her toes curl up into a ball on my face. Her thighs clenched together, locking my hand in her dripping pussy. I sensed every muscle in her go tense and rigid, activated by an intensity that I could only imagine. Her head fell to the side and her mouth fell open in a silent scream, the thin cords on her neck stood out in stark relief. Then, at once, the orgasm left her and she fell still. Her body went limp, arms collapsing to her side.

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I lowered her legs, resting her feet in my lap. Her knees fell apart, and her devastated pussy was revealed to me, glowing red like cooling lava. She lay back, prone and exposed on the desk, no longer caring who saw her like this. I continued to study her, stroking her soft pantyhosed legs distractedly, the fading warmth in my own body leaving my pussy unsatisfied and aching. In time, she gathered herself together and sat up on the desk, shuffling her skirt down her legs to hide her wetness. She looked flustered and dishevelled, face flushed red like a hot ember. She blinked and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, then looked at me and smiled.


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