From Me to You

[Steel Etto]

Douglas Jnr was 18, and feeling no pain. It was his own party, except that it was five in the morning, and almost everyone had either gone home, or gone to bed. The world looked different – not because of his age (because he couldn’t make that extra day make the difference). It was because of the gin soaked haze he was looking through, that made the food covered carpet seem fine, and that made the quiet music seem like the tune of the Pied Pier, and that made Pippa seem just so…. So…

Philippa Welch… Philippa Welch… Even her name had that kind of strange, alcohol induced magic to it right now, and the fact that she still hadn’t gone to bed, and was still kind of chatting to him…She’d put her shoes back on at least an hour ago, saying she was about to call a cab – but she’d never made it off the sofa. Well, apart from to go to the loo, and then she’d come back, and somehow the shoes had become part of the conversation, too, like the dream was right out of control. Her, lying back, eyes still bright from cocktails, long brown curls still more or less the way she would have wanted… well, probably… as if any man could ever be sure that a woman could be happy with how she looked, when from outside her own head she couldn’t seem lovelier. And that blue velvet dress, hugging her curves, the black stockings and shoes. Just courts, but like, expensive looking, thin, high heel - and those heels weren’t black, but silver, like metal… and her feet inside the leather uppers, those gorgeous feet.

She was older than Douglas, by some way. So she was making all the running, right now, if he was honest with himself. She just seemed to be keeping the conversation in that one place, always something to do with those shoes, or her feet, or walking – for half an hour now, as those metal spikes caressed the arms of Douglas’s mum’s settee. Except they didn’t always exactly caress. Sometimes they snagged the material, he could almost hear it kind of ripping, as she’d slide her foot back, or sink both spikes right into the upholstery… hell, he knew he should ask her not to. But what she should be doing, and what she WAS doing... they were just poles apart, in his head. It was like she knew the one thing that would possess him completely, the one thing he’d never told anyone, never talked about, but raged inside like…

And as he watched her, and listened to her talk about her toes, and sex, and different stockings, and how different textures felt when she stepped on them, and he listened, with all this drink in his brain, and he just wanted to say it, and he felt like he could, and he didn’t think she’d run away…

She’d stopped talking for a while, and was looking at him, again like she knew. Like she was well aware he had something on his mind, and was waiting to hear it come out, waiting for him to submit it to her, give her the ultimate power… the power of knowing, never mind the power of taking. She was still laid along that settee, with one hand propping her head, her elbow taking the weight of her right cheek, her upturned hand cupping the smooth skin below her mouth, fingers gently twined in her hair, smile on her lips…

Douglas was on the carpet. It smelt of trodden-in beer, it was littered with plates, there were other women’s shoes spread around him… all those shoes, all those women… just an hour or so ago, there’d still been four women, even after the last of the men had gone. Dancing on the coffee table, stepping in the remains of one of the pizzas… laughing, dancing, and then going off into the night, all except Pippa. And still she waited. Like she could force him, with silence.

If I tell you what I’m thinking,’ Douglas said, ‘you’d probably…’

‘Probably what?’ she said, soft.

‘Probably never speak to me again,’ he admitted.

She said nothing. Raised her eyebrows. Then shifted her foot, caressed the arm of that settee, still waiting.

And without Douglas Snr, without the courage that came from someplace outside of himself, without the knowledge that other people had fought this battle, and won.. without all those things, known, Douglas Jnr might never have said what he said next. It came out, like in a jumble, like he wasn’t really saying it, like…

‘I want to kiss your feet,’ he said. ‘I mean, really kiss them. I… in fact, it’s more than that, it’s like – you could walk on me even, I mean, actually walk on me, and I’d feel…’ he stopped, unsure… ‘I’d let you’, he finished, quietly, almost in a whisper.

‘Oh, would you now?’ she said. Almost teasing. ‘You’re sure about that, are you?’

She hadn’t run. She hadn’t hid. Maybe it would have been better if she had…

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I would.’

‘And these shoes?’ she said.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, she said. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’m wearing shoes. Have you noticed that, I wonder…?’

She knew damned well…

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘And do you like them’ she asked.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. Like, YES. Like…

‘I hope you do,’ she said. And she shifted a little, moving her body towards a sitting position. ‘I really hope you do. Because let's say what you're telling me is true? Well, if you were sure about all that, then the first thing these shoes would want from you, if you really liked them, is for you to show it. And… for you to really show it, the next first thing you’d need to do, before you even start, is to get undressed and then kneel in front of them. Now, do you think my shoes are special enough for that…?’

For the second time that night an inside strength came, which was beyond the gin, beyond the birthday excitement. It came from Douglas senior, and it came from Heaven…

He nodded. And he knew, right then, as his fingers felt for his belt buckle, that he was about to lose his virginity, and at his own birthday party. Not straight sex – he’d tried that a long way back, and it was special… but this. This was what he’d always wanted, and was about to try and give... worship. To submit to this woman, to have her walk on him, to kneel at her feet, kiss her, have her completely put on a pedestal – him, the pedestal, her, in those damn hot die to lick, die to kiss shoes…God, please don’t let this be a tease…

But he knew, it was no tease. He was about to feel the pain of true desire… The voice in his head had been allowed to speak. As if Destiny…

(So thank you, in a different way, to Daddo – for making us believe.)

S

[Steel Etto]

It would have been hard to have described all the feelings that went through Douglas’s mind as he began to make that strip. Partly, the problem with describing his mental state would have been that the overloads weren’t confined to his mind – they had taken over his whole body. This was his parents' lounge, the familiar light blue carpet, with dark blue diamonds – the fibres had burned his elbows, on what might have been described as similar occasions. Except they weren’t similar. This wasn’t making love, as he knew it. Nothing was the same. The wine stains – they were new, not familiar. The soft backing vocal of Lee Anne Womack wasn’t the usual paternal Wagnerian Ring Cycle, shoes on the settee would normally have been unheard of – and what would Douglas’s mother have thought if she'd been able to see her son being turned on by watching this hot, relatively young woman’s heels on her furniture? What would she have said seeing him strip himself naked for Philippa Welch? What would anyone else have thought, if they’d come out of the bedroom…

Jesus! What was Philippa herself thinking? She’d suggested he completely undress, kneel in front of her, just out of respect for… for her feet. No, not even for her feet - for her shoes. She was sat there, legs together, shins angled away to the left from the knees down to the ankles, those heels biting into the carpet, the sole of one shoe pressing a small piece of cream cake deep into the pile… the smile on her face was unmistakeable as he stood, trying not to give away his embarrassment, took down his trousers - pulling off his socks and, at the same time, almost overbalancing… the photo of his mother, on the mantle, it worried him. He wanted to turn it round, stop it seeing. But he left it, looking on. He didn't dare interrupt the moment, like he could wake them both from this real life dream by being distracted...

Excitement, drunkenness, anticipation, disbelief, fear – all those emotions and more, turning the familiar room into something amazing, something charged with everything Douglas had dreamed of but was now so, so, scared by. To make these kind of gestures in front of another human being? This was mad, dangerous...

‘Very nice,’ she said. Looking at his cock, examining it, almost – like a clock collector might look at a fifty year old clock, interested, knowing – almost re-assuring, like she might even reach out and turn the cogs, stroke the hands. ‘So come a little closer,’ she added. ‘And get down on your knees in front of me, if that’s still where you really want to be?’

Douglas obeyed. There was no other word for it. He’d always liked to feel he was confident with women, in some degree of control – but not this time. He was naked, he was on his knees, he was crawling closer to her feet, even as she beckoned him… and just that little movement of her finger, without any words, was enough to make it all the more obvious that what he’d always thought he wanted was a true desire… he felt his cock harden, despite the fear, despite the drink, despite the tiredness he’d felt only an hour before. She lifted one foot, and rested it on his thigh.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

It felt so good, even though it hurt a little, even just the tiniest pressure on that thin, round, metal spike. She flexed her ankle, and it hurt even more. She lifted her foot back – there was already a small circular mark, and he heard her draw in a little breath, like even she was impressed by the effect on his naked skin. Then she placed her foot back almost exactly where it had been before, excepting to slide the toe of the shoe to the right and… to…

Brush it against his cock, and laugh. And just the feel of it, just that one little touch, not only made him almost rock hard, it damn near made him come, and it made him look at her, like a little boy, out of his depth, looking at her smile, her almost triumphal glow.

She continued to toy with his cock, and he loved it and hated it. This was something, already, he knew he could be made to beg for. To be touched by this woman’s shoe. He’d tasted the fruit, and he already knew he was lost in it… and even then, at the same time, he wanted her to stop, to take away that slow, hard, stroking of her toes and her sole over his manhood, before he went and showed her without a shadow of a doubt how much he loved it all – before he came, and embarrassed himself even more than already, more than he could have coped with.

And suddenly, the movement stopped, and the heel prodded deep into his thigh, forcing him to look back into her eyes…

‘Hang on - I thought you said you wanted to kiss them?’ she said.

‘Well, yes, I…’

‘Sound like you mean it, then,’ she said.

‘Oh, God. Pippa… I want to…’

‘Well, ask me properly then,’ she said. She watched him for a while, and then she added. ‘See, my little pet – I AM going to walk on you. You can count on that. But you're going to have to make up your mind whether you’re going to be a proper carpet, that makes me and my shoes feel special, and welcome – or else the only steps I’m going to take on your body will be the ones on the way to the door. And believe, me, that’s REALLY going to hurt. Or am I making a mistake here?’

She took her foot away from him, returned it to the carpet, raised her eyebrows.

‘No,’ he said.

‘No, what?’

‘No, you’re not making a mistake,’ he said.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Well, come on then. Ask me properly.’


S

[wormee]

Great start. It's really making me anxious for the next part.

[Steel Etto]

This had to be mad. Philippa, just an older girl, that’s all; a flame. A woman who knew how to use words well, who was well schooled, who made good money putting red lines through magazine stories, who rejected people’s work without a thought, and had sometimes red-lined Douglas’s own work, from college, in private… Fine, so she was impressive, so he’d always fancied her, so she was confident, good looking, had plenty of spending power. But everything Douglas’s own family stood for surrounded him – the pictures, panelled walls, glass doors to the huge garden… the light, already coming up. He could see it, seeping through the curtains. It was like, everything he felt on one side of him, against everything he felt on the other… every time he’d seen a sexy foot in the street, thought his mad thoughts – up against normality, the need to get the house straight, to pull back from this, not to be so crazy as to go kissing someone’s shoe, letting them step on you like you were some, some… And anyway, what kind of woman would be so arrogant as to think she could actually walk over another human being, ask him to kiss her foot, to press your lips to trodden-in ash, or sour, congealed cream… Hell, a woman that conceited would just be such a…

‘It would be a privilege,’ he said, his heart beating like it had suddenly turned into one of those damned Wagnerian tympani drums - like it was his dad, now, rather than his mum: watching disapproving. Douglas’s lips, dry – his voice feeling like it had no breath to drive it. ‘Phillipa, right now – there’s nothing in the world I want more than to be allowed to kiss your foot. To be like, like a servant, at your feet. For you to – Hell, I want you to walk right over me. I really want it.’

She smiled again. A really evil smile, this time. At least, it was the sort of smile that would have been called evil, in a story book. To Douglas, she was the angel and the serpent, all in one. Those shoes should have been snakeskin. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’ve always wanted to do something like this. Right from a little girl, when I could press my toes onto my dad’s cigarette packets, hear twigs crunch as I walked through the woods, see how my feet looked in my first proper pair of heels. Real heels, that cut into wood…’ it was like she was off on a new thread of her own, when suddenly she seemed to pull her thoughts back to the now. ‘Kiss them, then. Before I let them give you some real special love bites – ones you’ll never forget. Get yourself right down there, right on the ground, and kiss them.’

Douglas went from his knees, to being completely prone. On his front, crawling, like she’d been the serpent, and now he was the crawling reptile, down on that carpet, his cock dragging through something damp, something sticky, just another bit of trampled pizza, probably – it’d been in control, that party, right up until the end, right up until… Even then, he should have known. If any one of the males had behaved like those girls, if there’d been one single guy left up… but there hadn’t been, and not even the knowledge of the price he would pay with his folks, for what those women had done at the end - never mind what this one was about to do now - nothing was going to stop it… And then, anyway, the sharp pain in the side of his ribs renewed the spell. Her voice, from above.

‘Over on your front I think, don’t you? I mean, I want to see your face.’

She was above him, her ass still on the seat, but leaning forward peering down, her eyes absolutely alight, as though she, too, was under the same spell, only from the other side. One foot was still jabbing right into his side, prompting him to roll over, like a dog would roll over, and he was doing it – rolling, onto his back, sliding along that floor, getting up closer, waiting to see what she’d do next.

Suddenly, a cold feeling, on his gut. He felt the cold before he believed his own eyes, even though he’d seen her leg lift, and drop, and at first he was surprised, there seemed to be no pain. And then, suddenly, like everything was out of sequence, he could feel the pain, the heel settling between his front rib bones, finding flesh that had nowhere to protect itself, nothing to fight back with, skin against sharp steel.

He winced. And she laughed. ‘Wait till I’m standing,’ she said. That’s just my leg. You wait till it’s all of me – and don’t think I’m going to let you off it. See, I’m not that kind of girl. Now, you wanna know WHAT kinda girl I am?’

Douglas felt already sure. The kind that didn’t play games. He’d wished for something, and he was going to get it. Hell, he should have known, he’d seen spikes go through plastic, through tiles. And yet he’d wanted… Well, now she was giving it to him. But before he could speak, before he could let out the half ecstatic, half terrified sound that was stuck in his throat, there was a flat surface against his lips, and a hard, poking, probing on the side of his neck.

‘This kind of a girl,’ Pippa said. ‘And I always knew you knew. Now, go on. Kiss.’

She said it soft – like talking about a straight kiss, like with something passionate, like you’d hear in a bedroom. Whispered, a hundred times: kiss me. The sound had that feel, like love between his lips and the leather, whilst the steel found every available nerve end, every available place for producing pain, and pressed, seemingly harder and harder.

One foot on his face, and one on his gut – the one on his gut was slid down a little, towards his cock, but not far enough to touch, even though it was erect, throbbing, giving away just how much he was loving this. No point him ever trying to deny it after the event… and anyway, he didn’t want to think of after. And while she sat, leaning forward, all but nailing him to the floor, he made that first kiss. Gentle, against the sole, and then more firmly, more passionately. She’d told him; if he really wanted to be her rug, to be nothing but that, then he had to kiss her feet, behave like he meant it.

And he wanted her – every inch, every demanding kilo, every arrogant curve, driven deep into his hide, he wanted the marks, the pain – he was terrified of wanting, it, but not terrified enough to stop him raising his hand, caressing that upper, the toe, holding it tight, guiding it back to his lips, and planting the most passionate kisses he’d ever given, letting his tongue wash away the smell of stale cigarettes, and stale wine, and make love to that rough surface, while she watched him, her eyes wilder than ever, her smile one of complete satisfaction.

‘Oh, man,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you how good this feels.’

He bucked, inside his stomach. So good, yet so hard. And he knew it would be so much harder, the test to come. But the more this vicious female pained him, made him want to scream out – the more he wanted not too. The more he wanted to give her everything. To take it all, and make his pain arouse her, make his sacrifice take her somewhere wonderful, somewhere excruciating and new, beyond her expectations. Hell, though, it was going to be tough. She surely expected plenty?

He wanted to satisfy her in this. Beyond all her boundaries. He wanted to do it, more than he’d wanted anything in his short eighteen year life. Wanted, like crazy.

S

[Aramis]

Great story! Fine writing, anticipation, description, yes! Good job and thank you!

[humble freak]

Thank You, excellent story, very skillfully written!
I'm waiting in excitement for the continuing story

[aussiefootslave]

great story please continue....hope it has some bare foot stuff too......thanks again

[MistressValerie]

This is WONDERFUL!!! Please continue it :) :) :)
:theband: :theband: :theband:
Luv and squishing,

[Steel Etto]

If Douglas had needed any evidence that the test was going to get harder, it wasn’t long in coming. But it wasn’t quite how he expected, the next problem. The sound of someone moving about in the upstairs bedroom - the soft creaking, as whoever it was moved around on the wooden floor… if any proof was needed that this was all reality, and not a dream, the slightly heavy, hungover footfalls from up above sent out new warning signs. Douglas’s eyes looked up at Philippa’s, hoping for clues. But her lids were almost shut tight, right at that moment. And her hand… he hadn’t noticed that before, but her hand had moved up between her legs. If he’d needed to know whether this was making her feel good, this… this, servitude… if he’d needed to be sure? But then, as if it needed to be made even clearer for him, she spelt it out.

‘Don’t even think of stopping,’ she said. ‘Not now.’

Fine for her to say. It was always going to be a whole lot easier to keep face, being found having your shoes licked, while you used the licker as a footstool – easier, that was, than being found doing the licking - being found laying naked under someone’s feet, with that person fully dressed. If it wasn’t hard enough to reconcile all this stuff in the first place, in the straight, sensible side of his brain – the taste of that ash, the tongue along the sole of her foot – it was made a whole lot more difficult by the thought of being caught in the act. But just in case of any wavering… ‘I mean it’, she said. ‘This is just so – so good. I mean, I’ve always loved to feel my feet on stuff, but…’

For the first time, she moved her legs far enough apart to be treading on Douglas’s face and his cock at the same time. He felt the hard steel flick against the top of his erection, cause another whole lot of pleasure and another whole lot of pain. And then she began to slowly massage his cock, like she was putting in that little extra insurance, making it that little bit harder for him to even think of pulling away, that incredible, unforgiving shoe, right in the place where it could do the most damage of all… pressing on him, jabbing at the soft skin… and that just made him kiss her right foot all the harder, and he could see her squirm, rub herself against the settee, like a cat, settling into a cushion by just the right kind of fire… and, suddenly…

‘Beg me!’ she said.

What? That had just come from nowhere. Beg her for what? How?

It was like she’d got impatient, without warning, cross – almost out of control.

‘I said beg me,’ she repeated. ‘You wanted me to walk all over you. That’s what you said – so beg me.’

She dragged back her left foot, and Douglas felt a layer of skin tear, underneath her. He made a fist, and held it firm, wanting not to shout, or call her a bitch, or cry even… no way was he going to wimp out on this, if he thought he could get through it.

‘Do it babe,’ he said. ‘Please, I’ll do anything in return. But do it. You’re just – just so fucking perfect, so sexy, so exciting… tread on me, please. I’m begging you, babe. You like walking on stuff – well take it further babe – walk on a man, on me, on someone else’s body. Strut right over me babe, c’mon. Show me you’ve got what it takes to do it…

‘Oh, oh my God…’ It was her, this time, that let out excited words. And she just kept saying it. ‘Oh my God, oh hell – you said just the right thing. But I’m going to do it, do you understand. I’m going to step onto you, trample all over you honey, like you were a bit of old trash on the floor… these shoes are going to bite you so hard babe… you’re going to… shit. Get up, and go lie behind the couch. Do it. Now.’

Without warning, the pain was going. Her feet were off him, his lips were against nothing but air. She was hardly even looking at him. Her legs were still apart, and she was still fingering herself, and the uncertainty was creeping back, the sounds of whoever it was, now in the bathroom, still there, the risks, all the risks, still there…

‘I said do it!’ she said. Soft, but no doubt about her mood. And almost before she’d finished saying it, she rammed her heel into the top of his leg, hard. Really hard. Again, the clenched fist. Again, wanting just to say, you bitch. You fucking bitch…

You fucking, lovely, dangerous, cruel, unbelievable fucking bitch.

Those were the words that were going through his head as he crawled from the front of the settee to the back of it, his leg hurting like nothing had ever hurt before. And he could kind of understand why this pain was like no other – because of how it had happened, because of the whole deal. He’d spent many night-time hours, in his teenage life, fantasising about playing this role. But that hadn’t prepared him in the least for the reality of it – a full grown woman, completely taking away everything from him. Hurting him, taunting him, humiliating him at her feet – and he’d always thought of the female sex as soft, apologetic – like those heels, when you got up close, would turn out to be fluffy, cuddly, painless. God, but they weren’t.

He could feel her, behind him – hear her movements, quiet as they were. The swish of her dress against her thighs. He felt her prod at him again, almost before he was properly in place, wanting him rolled over, once more, to face up to her.

‘I could do this barefoot,’ she said. But as she spoke, she already had one shoe pressing into his gut, like a victory pose. No, what was he thinking, like… it WAS a victory pose. ‘I could do this barefoot… and I will, I promise, after a bit. I do promise honey, I know this is going to be hard, but…’

That was all the warning he had. The look of her, staring down at him, her eyes wilder then ever – that had been one thing. The feeling of her spiked heel resting on his belly, and the knowledge of what it would be like if she’d actually stepped up, that had caused fear, adrenaline, all kinds of things – but nothing prepared Douglas for the pain of it, when she actually lifted herself off the ground, rose up onto him, using one high-heeled shoe as the lever, whilst she searched around for somewhere to rest the other one. She was holding the back of the settee with one hand, and standing full weight on him, one foot on his gut and the other foot, after one or two false starts, on the top of his right leg. He saw her hand go straight between her legs.

‘Ohhhhhh, my God….’ She let the words out, like they were a deep breath, with just a message attached. Not like she was actually talking to anyone.

Douglas, for his part, had never seen a woman look so wonderful, so powerful, so sensual and sexual, never in all his life. He was glad to have seen it - more than glad, he wouldn’t have missed it for anything, and he knew that, and he knew it was right. He knew that, even though right now he was in more pain than at any other time in his entire life, and he couldn’t breath, and he was sweating, and he wasn’t at all sure she wasn’t going to pierce right through his skin, the heels were that sharp, that painful...

As for her, to say she was out of control – that would hardly have covered it, as a description. Her fingers pressed between her legs, one hand on her crotch, the other still holding on the settee – as far as Douglas could tell, if she was going to work towards some kind of orgasm here, if she was going to get more carried away than she already was…Jeeze, what did she need, to get off with the ultimate buzz? To ram her heel right through his body as she came? To spear through his chest, and gouge a hole right into his heart?

How was it possible to fancy someone, to be completely possessed by someone, and to all but hate that person, all at the same wonderful, horrible time? Shit, Pippa – you’re body is killing mine. Yours is… damned expensive pleasure.

[Steel Etto]

(Thanks so much for the comments. Mistress Valerie, even. Wow.)

[Steel Etto]

Maybe people think they really want to die, for sex? Maybe people believe they want go to that ultimate place? Douglas knew, right from the moment that he was being near enough impaled on the floor, he didn’t want to die. He didn’t even want to come close, he didn’t even want that all invasive, over-the-top agony. For another fleeting second, as his fingers flailed around on the carpet he’d grown up with, knocking against yet another discarded shoe, the image of his mother came back, yet again – would she ever have forgiven it, to give life to a son, and for some other woman to trample on his unprotected flesh, for her – obvious – sexual satisfaction. The thought came, and it went, subliminal images, that helped block out the pain, that helped him keep his hands away from Pippa’s ankles, the incredible temptation to pull at her, to stop her, to tell her the game was too hard, that he couldn’t take this abuse for anything, or anyone, no matter how breathtaking the image, no matter how incredibly self-possessed she had to be, to take the offered apple.

If he told her how unbearable it was, surely she’d stop? He looked up at her, she was in a world of her own, almost. Like he was just what could make it happen, but not directly invoved – except she blew him a kiss, and smiled, and then closed her eyes once more, and let out another excited sigh, shifting her position just slightly – which, for a second, felt like it was all that was needed to make the whole thing possible. But that was another lie, told to him inside his head, and it couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds before the pain was coming screaming into him from new places, and a bone felt like it was trapped at the top of one leg, so excruciating this time he thought he might even pass out - and he could feel a raw line across his belly, where her leg had jerked back, without lifting, and she’d taken yet more skin away.

His hands closed around the discarded shoe on the floor, squeezing the heel for all it was worth, like the shoe in his hand had some connection to the shoe on his belly, or the one on… the one that suddenly moved, brushed across his pelvis – he heard her exhale, laugh and exhale almost at the same time, and the next thing she was stood where she specially shouldn’t have been stood. Most of the weight was on his balls, and it was a sole, not a heel – but the movement had pulled his foreskin right back, trapping it, like circumcising someone with a bulldozer… the shoe in his hand cut into his fingers, he was gripping it so tight. Whose mule was that, Linda’s? God, what would Linda have thought – and her shoe was causing him all this pain, when she wasn’t even anywhere near it, she was lying in bed, probably sleeping – unless it had been Lin, bumping up and back to the loo.. if only there’d been a camera… if only he was able to tell himself that he could someday watch himself taking this, watch her coming close to destroying his cock, watch the sweat pouring off him, making her slip, making her tear another little gash into his belly, but there was nothing, no reward beyond the present, and he was going to have to…

A scream came right up to his throat, a strangled scream, like from someone who has no voice – because the pressure on one spike, driving deeper still into his gut, was worse than even before… and all from her just moving the tiniest, tiniest bit… the tiniest movements were the worst, and anyway, what the fuck…?

Then he heard something hit the floor, but couldn’t see for a moment, his eyes moist, the beginnings of tears, and then he felt a foot on his cock again; stepping back onto it, though he didn’t remember even feeling it lift off, but then…

It wasn’t so painful, this time. In fact, there was pressure, for sure, but different. More bearable. Pleasant, almost. And then the pain from his gut changed, and metal pressed against his ribs, but only for a tiny moment, where she was using his body to prize off her other shoe, and Douglas could actually make sense of what was happening, as the pain became less. On his cock, now, and on his belly – just the soles of her stockinged feet – still probing, still pressing and moving, as she writhed and breathed heavy, as her hand pressed tight between her legs, and desire began to take over her completely.

He let go Linda’s mule, wishing he’d never needed it, wishing he’d never had it so firm in his grip – like a betrayal, as though he should have known Pippa wouldn’t actually kill him, wouldn’t actually take it further than he could handle. He felt to his left, and found Pippa’s shoe, instead, Fingered it, felt the warmth, where her feet had been – and was able to look, once more, to lift his head a little, and see where those feet were now. It hurt his neck, holding himself in that position – but the view was so stunning, the blue dress shimmering above him, like a victorious banner, and for yet another strong, sure second, it was once again worth the cost.

She was leaning towards the settee more and more, like her emotions were stealing from her balance, like she was almost fully lost in the moment - her rounded, feminine figure, writhing, grinding his stomach and cock, her toes, her heel, just one layer of thin, shiny mesh, but otherwise near enough flesh on flesh, a gasp from her mouth, another twist of her body – shit, even in just the nylon, that movement his cock so, so sore, his skin under hers, the friction, the pressure, the heat…

And then another shift of her weight, and she kind of threw her head back, and moaned, and whatever happened now, he knew he could give away this bit. Her pleasure was beyond bounds, and for him, looking at her squirming there, writhing in enjoyment, the pain turned completely to ecstasy, like there was some chemical inside him that acted, like a drug, a morphiate, created by her own dance of delight. Oh God, he’d given her everything… she’d taken it, too, was still taking.

If he’d ever had any doubts about where his fantasies could take him, about what he could really give to a woman – well, those doubts were gone, and all this thoughts of her being a bitch – they were gone too. It wasn’t that she’d hadn’t been one. It was just that he knew, somehow, that she knew the place she’d let him take her was going to be as enchanted for him as it was for her – wicked magic. And somehow he knew, too, that he still had more than a kiss goodbye to come, for allowing it. And the gasp that came next from her lips, and the way she leaned once more, heavy footed, onto his cock, like she’d forgotten completely what it was, under her. He hoped it had been the best gift ever for her. He hoped it, more than he’d have thought if possible to hope. Then he, too, was taken out of his own thoughts by what was happening inside her. Whatever else, could wait for a minute. Right now, she was taking him in there, right in alongside her, right where it was all volcanic and warm. The man, with the woman inside the woman.

S

[Steel Etto]

It seemed quite some while: Philippa Welch, still standing there, even after she’d stopped convulsing, shuddering, squeezing every last drop of pleasure out of the sweet, sour, bite she’d taken out of his self-image. Her heel, still crushing his cock, still as though she’d forgotten what it was – and a strange thing, that what pain there was from her still doing it – that pain didn’t come from the pressure from above, but from a feeling like a bone somewhere at the base of his erect member was pressing into some other bone, below it. It couldn’t be, surely? But that was what it felt like, and what made it still uncomfortable. Not the heel of her foot, on the most vulnerable part, on the tip – that wasn’t a problem – that was, beautiful. She was, it was, the whole thing was – beautiful. The shape of her arch, a curve he’d always admired so much more than he’d ever admitted. The gentle, rounded, smooth lines of her calves… hell, everything about her was just stunning, always had been. How had he not realized this before… And it was almost as if she'd engraved that sexuality right into him, carved it across him, with steel pens.

‘Doing a bit of thinking?’ he voice came, from way above. Soft, but slightly uneven, still giving away signs of the orgasm he’d donated his pride to afford to her…

‘Oh God, you’re incredible…’

It was all he could say. Even after what she’d just done, what she was still doing. Stood there, like Lady Muck… and him, so proud to be the ground beneath her feet. What kind of thinking..?

‘Well, thank you, kind sir.’ And she sort of curtsied, mocking style, and then held firmer on to the back of the settee, and lifted one foot, grappled with the top of her stocking, felt for the slide… it hurt, her unsteadiness as she slid the nylon down her leg, the whole of her, on one foot, but then the prize. Completely bare, soft… pressing hard into his abs, while she repeated the process with the other leg. Both feet, free, on his gut – and then the step forward, that he wasn’t expecting, but he loved the idea of. Without warning, she’d moved up his body - onto his chest. Her toes, not more than an inch from his chin. Painted red. Plush red, and not a chip that he could see, in as much as he could see at all, raising his head being even more difficult than ever. Class, pure class. The first time on his chest, too, and he was glad, in a way, that she didn’t have the shoes for this one. That image with the heel through the heart, it seemed all too possible – he could feel the elasticity of his rib cage, feel his bones actually bending, like palms in front of her coming. Bending, in some kind of divine wind, to touch the ground ahead of her advancing feet… where the hell had THAT idea come from? Divine wind… palm trees? No wonder she was looking at him, puzzled. Like she was trying to figure something out. Those cogs of hers, going round, further, faster…

The movement she made next was slow, graceful – but not so slow that it took more time than would be needed for a trip to become a fall. As if tripping had anything to do with it, except in the adrenaline rush sense of the word – she had great balance, that was obvious, even enough to have undressed while standing on a living, breathing, human being. And now she’d used every bit of her poise, to stretch out her right foot, and press her toes to his lips. He could feel the warmth, and moistness, on his chin, covering his mouth, feel one toe almost touching his nose, and…

‘I though you said you wanted to kiss my feet?’ she teased. ‘I thought you liked them?’

Like them?! It was way past like. Past love, even, right now. He would have sold his soul to be stuck in this moment for all time, he was sure of it – and the greater the sacrifice he imagined, for her touch, the more the touch was like soft gold… ‘I adore them,’ he said. ‘I don’t just want to kiss them. I want... I want to lick them, bite them, to... To have them inside me, have them on me, sleep with them next to me on my pillow… no, I wouldn’t be on the pillow, you’d be on the pillow. I’d be at the foot of the bed, just caressing them, kissing them…' Christ, where were these ideas coming from, and where was he finding the courage to voice them out loud? Baring so much more than just his body to a woman? To a particular woman, who could actually hear the words. This wasn't some whim, safe inside his head...

She pressed her toes harder into his face. ‘Mmm’, she said. ‘You know, that sounds nice, that sounds real nice. But, I thought you’d have learned – you shouldn’t say to me what you’re not willing to do?’

Oh, God, Oh, God. ‘Maybe – maybe I’ve learned more than you think..?’ Maybe he had, too. He couldn’t imagine having come out with lines this real, this true, ever before. They had to knock, You come here often? right into a cocked hat. You've taken me, all of me, and used it... you've torn my insides out, my dreams... don't ever stop doing it... you can't stop, you musn't...

‘Hmm,’ she said. Still stood there, her foot on his lips, the pressure on his chest from the other foot starting to tell a little more as it went on. ‘You know, I think I want a little more from you, for my feet, seeing as you say you like them so very, very much. Something not from your lips. Something that really shows how much you think of them, something that shows you can get really excited, not even by my lips, or my breasts, or the thought of my hand on your dick, just, even just by my feet? Now, I just wish I could think of a way of you showing me that.’

‘You don’t want..?’

Oh, no, what now? Where was she taking him now, just when he’d thought…

‘One kiss,’ she said. ‘For each of my toes. That’s all, for now. And then I want you to give them a proper gift – something that really shows how you feel. Are you ready to do that for them, my little angel of the morning? My little pedestal?’

Without needing to be asked twice, he began to do as he thought he was being asked…

The ball of her foot rammed into him, hard, on the mouth, on the chin – almost like she’d stamped, but just the right side of painfully playful.

‘Did I tell you to begin,’ she said. She put her finger to her lips, before he could answer. ‘No, she said. I didn’t. You don’t kiss my feet until you’ve thought of a way, for after, to really show me how much they mean to you. So, I think you’d better start doing a bit of thinking, don’t you? ‘Cos I think they deserve to be kissed, big time.

She was looking down at him, those wild, blue eyes back, obviously getting right back where to she’d been before, intoxicated by what she’d found he’d do for her… she was rocking back and fore, between his chest and his lips – if she wasn’t careful, his teeth would cut right through, from the inside, on each of the times when she placed that little bit more weight on his mouth than felt safe…

‘Okay?’ she said. ‘Are we getting there yet? I thought boys were supposed to be problem solvers. So when are you going to start into the solving, hmm?’


S

[johnanthony]

Ste Letto,

Wow...this is a great story.
Philippa has total control of this situation...and she is getting intoxicated by the power.
She knows she has a slave forever.
Please continue.
Thanks.
John

[MistressValerie]

.

[Laryywildman]

How do you write things like this? I mean the imagination it takes is amazing! Thanks for sharing your gift for writing. You must do this for a living because how well it flows is not a fluke, it is a gift. Real talent. Wow!

[Steel Etto]

Philippa stepped down, back onto the carpet. Her feet, still by his face, not touching, not even giving the impression they were there to be touched. In fact, she didn’t seem that concerned with the prone body, right now. She seemed more interested, for the time being, in all the bits and pieces strewn around her: an upturned ashtray, the red mules – one of them, that Douglas had held on to, so tight, not ten minutes earlier… She kicked at that, gently, and then ran her toes along the other one of the pair, side to side, stroking it, the way Douglas wished she was stroking…

‘Theresa,’ she said. ‘Always did go for the cheaper stuff.’

‘Theresa?’ Douglas showed his surprise, before he had time to stop himself. ‘I thought they were Linda’s.’

‘Good answer,’ she said.

‘Why?’ Genuinely puzzled. Douglas had never fully understood women’s minds.

Pippa said nothing for a bit, just padded around, prodding at the occasional paper plate, tipping some food from one onto the carpet by pressing her toe onto the edge of it. A sausage, and a tomato. Lying there, now, added to the whole mess that was going to cause so much hassle, as it was… then she touched the same toes against something even more a part of the memory of the night. A different shoe, an even more familiar one. ‘And what about these? Do you know whose these are?’

‘Yours’, he said. Without any doubt, excepting sounding a bit doubtful, not understanding any of the questions she was asking, right now.

‘Top answer,’ she said. ‘Mine.’

She started at him, an intense, burning stare.

‘Pick one up,’ she said. ‘Hold it in your hands. Touch it against your skin.’

It was like some whole new kind of game, and he didn’t understand this one, either. But he did as she said. He held it, sitting himself up, touching it against his chest. She moved closer, bridging his thighs momentarily, then placed one hand on each of his shoulders, and squatted down, her face as close to his as it had been all night. But it wasn’t his face she was looking at. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Some of these marks, now the light’s got on them – they’re evil.’

He nodded. She was right. Blue, and red, a whole lot of little circles, some still indented, all over his lower body. And the scratches, too, scarlet.

‘You know what I’d like,’ she said. ‘And I’m going to try and get it through to you, if I can, without actually spelling it out. Now look, Douglas – it is Douglas, isn’t it? Yes, I thought so. So, look, Douglas - seeing as my feet have done so much for you, I’d like you to do something very, very special for my feet. Something I can remember, even after I’ve left, even as I drive home. Now, what do you think you could do with my shoe, that would leave me with something to remember you by, in that way? Something for MY shoes, that you wouldn’t dream of doing for Linda’s shoes, or Theresa’s shoes… Something I bet you’ve never ever done in your life – well, not with anyone sitting watching – at least, I hope you haven’t?’

Douglas couldn’t quite put it together – he was sure it was close, his own thinking. He’d thought, for a while, that she’d been thinking of a foot job, but he hadn’t dared allow himself to go charging up that imaginative highway… what a come down, if he’d been wrong - although even that, right now, would probably have had its compensations. She was so strong, in this early morning underworld, so assured – even her blowing him out was likely to be performed in a way which would have him jacking off over it for months. That’s how it felt, that’s how it seemed she’d become – from the minute he’d let her see, for sure, that he’d allow her what he’d allowed - the moment she’d seen it without question - she’d got harder, stronger, wilder… There just didn’t appear to be a single thing she could try right now which wouldn’t excite him. Which was kind of why the footjob didn’t seem the answer. She was still taking, not giving. But that had to be more or less where she was headed, unless…

‘You want me to – to kiss the insides…?’

She shifted. The hands were taken from his shoulders, and she stood, moved back to here she could kind of half rest, half sit on the back of that settee. She stretched out with her left foot, and placed it on his thigh. Right back where they’d started. Little prods, flesh on flesh. ‘Now I like that idea,’ she said. Yes, I like that a lot. It wasn’t quite what I had in mind, but you’re getting warmer. Prepare the ground for seed, kind of thing – lick away some of the sweat, even. It gets a bit sweaty, wearing heels, at times – I don’t suppose you know about that? Check it out – go on, don’t be shy.’

She was animated, the whole time she was saying this. Tossing her hair, shifting her stance - keeping her foot on him, almost like with a cat’s paw on a semi-stunned mouse, toying with it before the kill… but she wasn’t going to kill him, he knew that. Take his life, maybe, but that was different. And anyway, right now, what there was of his life… She already had it. There wasn’t a single memory he could dredge up, not a single personality or lecture he could think of, strong enough to make him pull back from this drug. So he begun the next part of the journey, with her watching, intent – as though there was really any doubt he was going to allow her take this whole one-woman-show on a little further, a little longer. How the hell could it feel so good, he kept on and on asking himself: someone doing this to you? But it did, and that was all that mattered. He held the shoe closer to his face, as she watched him, as her toes still stroked his thigh, a little firmer, a little higher.

‘Oh wow,’ she said. ‘You know, I knew I’d like to see you do that. But I didn’t know how much I’d like it. Can you smell where my toes have been… is it nice… do you like being so close to the scent of me, I bet it’s even a little moist, if you taste?’

She was right. It was. Very moist. And quite a strong aroma, but not something that turned him off, not like he’d thought it would. He’d already experienced the smell of her, but direct from her skin – this was different, a little more stale, and a little more the smell of the leather mixed with the smell of HER. He’d have thought it would have made him feel sick, but not even close. And her foot, still stroking, almost touching his cock now, that made the whole of it worthwhile, even having a woman watch him sniff her insoles… he’d done this once before, he knew. On the grass, at a rock concert, in the dark - what had that girl’s name been? Janice. Hell, but even with Janice, he wouldn’t have used his tongue… just a quick sniff, when he’d rolled to one side, and suddenly found those sandals, almost touching him, almost in his face… but he kind of had the idea of exactly what Philippa Welch was looking for, slowly coming clear, now. Preparing them for seed… she wanted him to do more than just lick… she wanted him to get even closer, not just her feet against his balls, but against the contents of his balls. She wanted what was inside out, so she could tread all over that, too, squash it into the corners of her shoe, swish his sperm around her toes as she walked, press them flat each time she pressed on the brakes…

‘Got there finally, have you?’ She was smiling. Hell, sometimes, all through this, it had been like she could read his mind. But then, perhaps, if your mind had that kind of cover on it, then the chapters were easy enough to imagine, for a smart female. Shit, had she got his number, or what?

‘Foot cream?’ he offered. The best he could think of, and still give himself a way out, if he’d got it terribly wrong.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Jackpot. Foot cream, and plenty of it – I like to keep my feet good and moist. You think you can arrange that for me…?' And even as she spoke, she moved her leg once more. That beautiful, feminine arch pressed down on his cock, bringing the blood streaming in into it like red nail varnish was a magnet to his veins. ‘And not a drop on the carpet,’ she said. 'I want it all, just for me – so you hold on to that shoe, just in case, huh?’

Fuck’s sake. How the hell did this woman get to turn him on so much, so easy. So she was proposing to parade round in some kind of miniature footbath of his fresh cum, and just the realization of it… He remembered, once, she’d told him what a great word enthralled was. She’d told him it had layers, different meanings. And right at this moment, as he prepared to do yet another thing for a woman that he’d never ever have dreamed of doing for anyone ever before now, he understood exactly what she’d been trying to explain. She sure as hell enthralled him, and not a shadow of a doubt. He prepared himself – thinking this was treats time, relaxing a little – waiting for her stroking toes and for the scent of the shoe to take him to paradise. And then, from nowhere, it stopped.

‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ she asked.

Oh, Jeeze – what now. What had he missed out? His brain went into overdrive, rewinding the past half hour. What had she said… and what the hell had actually had happened to the night, which was gone… the birds, clear as anything, and the feel of the room, now, even more as though someone could come into it at any time. All quiet upstairs, for the while, and in truth there wasn’t that much chance of anyone getting up so early, after such a late night… Late night? It was still happening, for some. But what the fuck had she said, in between grinding those heels into his tender body, in between exposing every bit of his pride, as well as every bit of his body, as well as treading on his face… That was when he remembered. He reached out with his hand, gently held her ankle, cupped it, lifted it, guided it, taking the weight of her leg in his hand…

‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘Nice recall.’

[Steel Etto]

(Ok, now before I go back over the most recent part and try and make sure I've zapped as many typos as poss, I have to say thanks. First, Mistress Valerie: thank you so much for both posts. Since you play either part, so to speak, and since you are also a woman... what more can I say. I've liked the replies as much as you appear to have liked the narrative. Good, good.

Laryy: those are really strong comments, and I really appreciate them. I wasn't sure if I'd attract posts or not, and had decided from the outset that I'd go with the 'count', otherwise. I've seen a lot of stories (and picture threads) where this has been an issue, and I was determined not to make it one.

Aramis, Aussie', Humble Freak, John Anthony, Wormee: yes, what people always say on these threads is right. It makes a real difference, the feedback.

The thread itself, as I'm sure people have picked up, is dedicated to the board, to what it does, and to Daddo. So I'm glad, as far as I can tell, that it's hitting the spot.)

Thanks, again, S

[Steel Etto]

Nice recall, indeed. He touched his tongue and his lips to her hot, damp skin - by what was more or less his own choice, for the first time… But, what the fuck had been in that gin? Like, Stella Artois could turn the idea of a reasonably good curry into a treat of treats. That gin, though, it had turned the idea of the young Miss Welch’s lower limbs into something way beyond a treat, into something like, some kind of addictive Ambrosia. Except… young? Who was he kidding, exactly? Young for his dad, maybe, but she had to be mid-twenties. So she had at least six years on him, fuck, she would have been walking to school without her hand being held, when he was still in the cradle… as if someone like that was going have her hand left unclaimed, all that often. For a second, he could almost imagine her, the sort of tidy, clean-socked, elastic-never-coming-down girl that people would say was, A little madam. Jesus, had he hit on something there….? No of course he hadn’t, of course things weren’t as clear as that, cradle to grave – but he had to admit, even to himself, it was funny – and there he was, after kissing the first of the smooth, round, moist toes, caressing his tongue around it, feeling for the pattern of her skin, that print, that made everyone individual, different... Slightly salty, maybe? But Douglas had never been one to refuse salt, even in more conventional circumstances. And, all the while, all these little memories kept coming flicking into his mind, memories that helped, that were insurance - in case he were to lose confidence, by seeing himself from the outside in the wrong way: a man, at another person’s feet, licking and kissing the dirt from beneath, like an animal…

Uncle Jack – they’d always called him that name, though it wasn't clear how he was an uncle, in truth – Jack said something once, about that Labrador of his, lapping away at his wife’s toes while she ate toast. When was that now, ‘91? ‘92? Didn’t matter…

‘These dogs, you know – all right for them. They don’t have to explain what they’re up to. Dog’s life? Human’s life, they should call it, for us – not a dog’s life, for them.’

Douglas remembered, even then, wanting to watch that animal lick, but finding it hard, and not really catching on to what Jack had meant… shit, was that yet more evidence that it truly WAS in the genes, or something? Were there people like Pippa, and people like Jack (or like Douglas, or like that damned dog, or…) Helen, that was her name, Jack’s other half. Nice looking, to be fair, bit plump, but.. Yeah, no nonsense… hell of a smile, like she believed… Don’t be ridiculous – it can’t be that simple.

Aaaaagh. Ouch, that hurt. The ball of her foot, rammed against his mouth, a second time. Why the fuck…?

‘Painful, was it?’ she said.

He nodded, catching her stare. He even brought his hand up to his lips, and could feel the trickle.

‘Have I cut you?’ she asked. But she could see the blood, surely. Probably best not to challenge her with that argument though, right now. ‘Well, you should have been concentrating, shouldn’t you?’ she added.

What! Worst of all, worse than her saying it, was her knowing it. How had she been able to tell, how could she see right into his head, the way she did? He was about to reply, to smear away the evidence with the one hand he was left able to use, the other still clutching her shoe…

‘I’d tell you I was sorry,’ she went on. ‘But then I only do that if there’s been an accident. Which there hasn’t – and don’t go wiping it clean, you’re not going to bleed to death. Let it run round my toe, if it’s going to. I like to think of that. It’s a good start. Look, it almost matches the polish… do you like the polish? Maybe we can get you to try your hand at that, sometime? Can you paint, huh? You’d have to be a good painter, for me to let you do that – or you’d be doing it forever, getting it right… hmmm?’

He tried hard, right then, to lift his gaze from her foot, to make himself properly look at her. It was hard – she could make it into a kind of contest, and she was a deadly player. She leaned down towards him a little, hardened the stare, and then let it turn to almost a laugh. ‘Did I suggest that you stop, anytime?’ she said.

No, she hadn’t. So, after a polite pause – not so long as to cost any more blood, he thought best – after just managing to return that stare for long enough not to feel completely outdone… he returned to what felt like his role. And the slight taste of iron, with the salt, and with the moisture… it wasn’t wrong, it wasn’t obscene. In fact, he could have asked, even then, for her to marry him. It wasn’t that he knew she’d say no that bothered him, as his tongue, her toes, his blood, her laugh, his excitement, her sweat – as they all washed round his consciousness. The fear of rejection wasn’t the dilemma - the problem was: marriage, as an offer, wouldn’t in any case have seemed a solid or valid enough kind of a proposal. Not for this firebrand.

Douglas would never have believed that a girl, any girl, could have had what it took to actually make him WANT to do this, for real. Whenever he’d thought of making his fantasies into reality, apart from all the obvious confusions, apart from not being sure he actually wanted to feel that much beneath someone, when push came to shove… apart from all that, he’d always considered it likely that it was he, himself, who was going to have to usher his own ego into the final, unnegotiable place where no person could otherwise have put it, and kept it, without his help. He’d always thought he’d have ended up having to convince himself some other person was capable of bettering him, without the fact of it, in the final analysis, being able to stand up to evaluation. But Pippa, she needed no help, no conjecture. She was going to walk on everything he could offer, without any questions asked either way, right down to walking on the seeds of what otherwise would have been his unborn children…

‘Pippa… I wanted to ask you something?’

‘What’s that?’ Genuinely inquisitive, not frustrated sounded, despite him taking his tongue from her skin for a second. And that was another thing he was captive to - the way the firmness went with humour, and with sensitivity: passion, and fun.

‘Can I do this on my knees, instead of sitting?’

Her face, that wild look again, even more intense. But she still spoke quietly, still held onto the calm, assured, almost considerate diction.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘You sure can.’

[aussiefootslave]

Ste Letto I will say it again...FANTASTIC!!!!!!!!! thank you for all of your time and efforts believe me it is appreciated...

[Steel Etto]

The position was so, so right. The little shift, not just from his backside to his knees, but also to being face on, rather than sideways on. Perfect. And it meant Philippa could actually get herself positioned to best advantage (as if that was likely to be foreign territory) partly supported by the settee, but partly supported by having a foot on Douglas’s thigh – whilst he held her other foot in one hand, and caressed it with his mouth, and at the same time holding her shoe, like a talisman, gripped tight in the separate clutch of differently greedy fingers; down low, almost by the floor. It wasn’t comfortable. Not for Douglas. Being right, and being comfortable, they weren’t at all the same thing in this drama. Funny, even an hour ago he might have failed to see that, but he saw it now. The more his muscles ached, the more sweet the taste of her flesh, the more sweet the taste, the more lovely she looked: the more lovely she looked, in his eyes, the more confidence she oozed, from hers. And in the end, it was what came out of those eyes of hers, as much as anything, as much as any dress, or any pair of shoes, that melted him, like fire and ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire… What the fuck was that? Shit, Frost? In fact, if his memory wasn’t playing tricks, it was her that had introduced him to that damned poem, in the first place? The power of language, she was always advertising. She must have loved that job of hers. He could just imagine, he knew exactly how she dressed for work… he could picture it, young writers, in front of her, no protection against what she felt or said about their prose at any given moment, and that red pen…

She could sting, even with that pen – he knew it, from experience. But Douglas cut that line of thought short, before it became a daydream. The pen was one thing, but a stamp in the mouth was another, he knew that as well. He’d already had the warnings, written in blood. Back he went, full concentration, back to the job of worshipping the woman who was editing his whole existence in the same way as she almost certainly edited those manuscripts: with unpredictable but unwavering conviction.

He caressed every inch that was offered: with his lips, with his tongue, with his fingers, with his palm… from the ball to the ankle and back, and back a third time, and a fourth, and under, and over; kneading – and needing – every centimetre, every rise, every fall, every bone, every nail… then, all over again, after a slow, painful switch, when she changed from the one side to the other… right to left, left to right, mirror images… starting anew… where all the best things seemed to come in pairs… all over again, his left thigh taking the load, where, before… his right thigh, where all her weight had been for the first act... (He noticed, whenever he dared look, it was kind of mending itself… the redness from her supporting herself on that same part of him for, what, ten minutes or so? It was slowly dulling, even though the cramps and muscle spasms still threatened, time after time…)

He could kind of imagine how this would look, in a film – the image, through the eye of a well-trained camera. Him, he’d probably have shot it from the side, had the pair of them in profile. Douglas, like a man in prayer almost; facing her, hair thrown back against the furnishings, whole body thrown back, in fact - but with the most of her weight, throughout, supported by the muscles at the tops of Douglas’s legs, and then, above that, the line of her raised thigh, and her calf, and at the end of that wonderful collage of curves: his lips and his tongue. God, was that why people went to art galleries and places? Get real – sunflowers maybe had a time and a place to come into their own, but if he’d had a painting like that available to him now, right now, he’d… he’d have placed it right down the floor, and seen something of living beauty instead: her, dancing her siren’s dance, all over the fucking thing, like… Bring me the head of Vincent van Gogh, no, better: bring me one of his most valued works, lay it down there, in front of living destruction… Oh fuck, what an idea, what a thought… and then back came his sensibilities and, once more, before he earned himself another kick, he made sure and kept the focus on the woman in hand. He took the energy of the imagined, trampled artwork, and turned it into adoration, sucking even harder, kissing even heavier, caressing even more enthusiastically… And in return, almost immediately, he got a little moan from her lips, like she’d noticed the difference.

Maybe that painting had a value, after all – for the living? All those brush strokes, for that one moan. Had to be worth the cost of a canvass? And if the famous Vincent really appreciated the worth of things, surely he’d have understood…?

The balance of her shifted – he felt it, a big shift. Against his face, and on his thigh, quite different pressures, constantly changing, for maybe five or six seconds. She was kind of wriggling about, getting a different type of purchase on the back of the settee, and then the foot lifted from his thigh altogether, and… he felt it touching against another part of him; somewhere he could only have dreamed of, till now, but hadn’t dared really believe. Stroking his cock, from the underneath, the long, reddened nails even scratching a little, scaring him a little – making him harder, even – and alongside of all that, too, the thought, still floating, of her dancing on The Sunflowers… and that incredible feeling that if someone could afford the price, Philippa Welch would have very likely have done that slow, seductive dance in a heartbeat… too much, too much, too many images, too many feelings… he could feel the orgasm on its way, setting off from base, already close to the moment when there’d be no stopping it… and the more he fought to try and make it last longer, the more he felt the mental dam being smashed, and the firm movements against that sensitive shaft, not stopping, not giving him hope – it wasn’t even going to take her ten seconds, the way things were, for her agility to tease out the reward she wanted… he was making a last, exasperated mental check… left foot, right shoe… he supposed she’d want some for each, not one wet, one dry… don’t miss any, she’d said…

‘Maybe I should stand on those balls of yours?’ he heard her saying. ‘Squeeze it out, like normal cream…? Great mixture, half playful, half threat. And the sound of her voice, from in the silence, the thoughts behind the actions… as if he needed reminding she was there, watching it, orchestrating it… both feet down by his groin now, one stroking, one kinda roving... her, looking down at them teasing him, watching them making it happen... oh Jesus, Pippa. They'd have tried to burn you at the stake. You'd have scared them, terrified them. But.. concentrate!

He wasn’t going to let her down, not now. He wanted to make sure she stole every last drop, just like she’d said. He held the shoe tight – like it was playing the role of his very own plastic, child’s bib, whilst she played the role of the adult in this awesome game – and he held it firm, ready to catch what spilled over… and he felt her toes, still stroking, still moving against the shaft, near to bursting and, almost too late, he realised how powerful this was about to be, and lifted the shoe above, rather than keep it below, turning it upside-down…

‘Nice touch…’ He heard the words, excited almost, from her lips, and then he only felt the flow, pumping, and for all that he’d have loved to be sure, he didn’t actually have control over where the whole load shot to, other than to know that either the inside of the shoe, or her foot, had to be getting sprayed by at least some of it…

He wasn’t far wrong.

S

[Steel Etto]

(Aussie - thanks again. You know, I didn't have the first idea where I was going with this when I started, I only knew I wanted to get something out there, for the board. Then you came along with the comment about bare feet. So I though, shit, why not, eh? So there you go. The route is now set.

Actually, I think it headed it towards the right places, too. Without having had to stop and think about what you'd typed, I don't think I'd have found the same direction.)

Take care, S

[Steel Etto]

Maybe a minute or two passed, and it was silent again. An embarrassing silence, in which the extent of what had happened was calling out its name, as clear as anything. And just in case of any attempt to deny it, two fresh round indentations, one on each thigh, where she’d pressed down on him one last time - while he’d held her shoes, and she’d pushed her feet into them, first one, then the other. Her toes, on the left foot, had been close to dripping. And the right shoe, that hadn’t failed to get a healthy shower - it’s own hot, sticky deposits, pumped into the places she’d asked, and with a power he really couldn’t remember feeling before. Even the orgasm had been painful, the rush of it, the force, from his balls to the tip...

He’d watched the toenails disappear into the black sheaths, and could actually hear it, the sound of his sperm being forced around the outlines, having to fight for space…

‘Well, now,’ she said. ‘I guess I should be making tracks. Things to do, people to see. You know, maybe I’ll have to have you over again, sometime?’

She turned away, searched for her stockings, picked them up. He’d thought, for a short… but no, she put them in her bag.

‘I wouldn’t normally wear these shoes without,’ she said. ‘But – just this once.’

She straightened the dress, checked for a mirror, pushed her hair into place with her fingers – but didn’t comb it. She looked around her, at the scene, like she was making one, last, mental recording.

‘Quite a renovation job?’ she said.

She wasn’t joking.

‘Still,’ she said, ‘you and… The-re-sa… can get your scrubbing brushes out, get it all nice for mummy and daddy, hmm?’

She beckoned him over, closer. He thought this was it, the kiss. There had to be a kiss, surely? But as she got closer, the kiss wasn’t first on the list. Instead, she pointed at a sad looking plate, with two profiteroles left on.

‘Bring one over,' she said. ‘Please?’

Girls and chocolates. Always the same. Didn’t surprise him in the slightest, such a damn sharp female, but a sweet tooth. Douglas rose from the floor, walked, stiff, over to the Welsh Dresser, picked up the plate she’d referred to. Felt more naked that ever, at a distance, standing, a whole lot less cum left in his balls, equalling a lot less courage into the bargain. And the drink, too, seemed to have deserted him without much warning.

He stood, facing her. Him, still, completely exposed - and feeling it more strongly, with every tick of the internal clock. Her, still fully clothed, though not without showing signs of passion. The lack of the stockings was a clue, that maybe a few astute observers might have picked up. But the colouring of her, the rosyness of her face, the life in her eyes, the slightly less immaculate hair – they all told the tale, too. God, she was stunning. Stood there, legs slightly apart, almost impatient, but with a smile that took the edge of it. That lethal smile, that comes out of knowing you’ve had what you wanted – but still having the grace not to turn it into a smirk, still being able to keep it the tolerable side of defeat.

She owned the space around her, completely. He understood that much. There was no sound from the bedrooms upstairs, no scrunching of approaching wheels on the driveway, not even the clink of milk bottles, the clatter of post through the letterbox to take away from how she dominated that scene, right now – and Douglas knew, too, that it would stay that way. A witch, first order. He stood, for a little while longer, doing nothing but looking, knowing he had this crazy, admiring smile on his face. So she hadn’t exactly had conventional sex with him, so what? So she’d turned him more than a little inside out, so what? So his mates would say she’d made him look stupid, say they’d never have done it…

Well, maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have given his mates the chance. And maybe, just maybe, they’d never know just what a fucking mindfuck they’d missed out on. Guys always said they didn’t like headfucks – well, a headfuck from Philippa Welch, it might be damn hard to swallow – but got, what a taste, left in the mouth. He knew he was going to say it, and he knew that it was the right thing to say, and so…

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Pleasure,’ she said. ‘And, like I said….’

Again? Did she still really mean again? Douglas wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to look her in the eye again, once she’d walked through that door, never mind…

‘You want these…? He held out the plate, like there was some kind of invisible screen between them. Couldn’t cross the space.

‘Put them down a second,’ she said. ‘In front of you, there, look. That’s it, just on the carpet there, and don’t worry about it… but stay where you are, otherwise, just right where you are. You know, you have a real nice body. I like it. And I really like all those patterns… I mean, REALLY like. Do you understand what I mean?’

He nodded. He probably did. Although what they meant to him and what they meant to her were more than likely quite a bit different. The etchings, from her heels.

‘So aren’t you going to ask me to give you a proper kiss, goodbye?’ she said.

He nodded.

Good, she said. And she moved closer to him. So close, that all that separated them was the width the paper plate itself. She looked down, flicked at it with her toe, tipped it, the way she’d done before – watched the last two profiteroles, topple, then roll off, onto the carpet. She kicked away the plate, reached out to him, turned him a little. All that separated them now, less than a plate’s width. Just two items of food.

‘So’, she said, ‘ aren’t you going to ask me for that kiss?’

He asked, and she smiled. And she stepped forward, and held him, tight, and he could feel her whole body, writhing, moving against his, her lips pressed up to him tight, her tongue, exploring, her arms and hands moving, squeezing, gripping. And then she pulled away. Turned, then turned back, the kissed her finger, and blew on it, like she was blowing the kiss his way.

And god, it blew him away, too, that last image. Blew him away completely. At his feet, one hell of a spread of crushed chocolate, and cream, and just… mash. All smushed right into the carpet, where every little bit of that unforgettably animated kiss was represented there, excepting for those bits… he could see some remains, still on the edge of one of her shoes, and he knew that it was the same, outside and in: squished, white, creamy mush. Her stood there, his sperm, her shoes, the cream, his parent’s carpet, his birthday, her present…

She turned, one last time, and walked to the door. She didn’t look back a second time. He heard the scrunching in the gravel, the footsteps, and then heard the car door open, and close. He heard the engine start, then heard it rev, and knew, that as she pressed down on that pedal…

He heard the whole of the turn she made. Back, forward, back, the tyres biting into the loose stones. Her feet, accelerator, brake, clutch… and all the time, the contents of those shoes…

He heard the revs jump like crazy, one last time, like she’d stamped the pedal right through the floor, and then the wheels bit into the driveway, and he heard the stones again, thrown all round…

Damned bitch… that’d be three or four hours to sort out, just on it’s own. They’d be in the flowerbeds, those little stones, and up the paths, and over the grass… and damn, if he didn’t want to go out there and kiss every little one of them.

And as for the carpet, well… maybe someone else could clear up the tomato, or the pizza, or even the bits of come that got away, invisible, but sure to be there….

Not the chocolate and cream, though. Douglas, if it had been his carpet, might even have considered never cleaning it at all. But if it was going to have to be done…

Back on his knees, and first just a kiss. Then his tongue, trying to prize the sticky remains from the fibres. He knew there’d been other feet there, dancing – Theresa’s, and Linda’s, to name just two – but he hoped Pippa would understand, as he chewed, madly, at the dirt, and the pile… It wasn’t because of that, he was doing this thing. It was in spite of it.

To love someone, to have a passion for them, to feel sick in the gut every time the video of the mind rewound the image of them walking out of that door… to feel that way, as you lick every last morsel from the ground her sperm soaked feet have walked on… To feel that way, you have to know that no other human being comes close. And actually, Douglas thought Pippa, in her own thoughts, would understand.

[gusset]

A very Excellent story Steel Etto. Plenty of room for more to come. Please Oh Please do. :thumbsup

[bronch1]

excellent stories- thanks again for taking the time to give it to us:)

[aussiefootslave]

thank you for the kind words.....this story keeps on getting better and better....please continue.......your detail amazes me!!

[Intrepid]

Steel - that was an incredible story. Thanks!

[Steel Etto]

The comments are appreciated, as always. You know, I’ve had a lot of fun doing this, and there were a couple of things I really liked. The responses, I’ve already mentioned. (Though Bronch, Gusset and Intrepid have added their thoughts recently. Those, too, have been valued.) On top of that, there was the day when the yellow stars turned up. I was like a big kid sat here, stunned. And then there was the fact people were coming back, so I figured: well, must be doing ok. So I’m not going to pretend it hasn’t been a good feeling. I wanted to give something to the board, but it wouldn’t have felt the same if the board had indicated, as clear as anything: thanks, but no thanks.

I was interested by the idea that this could be taken further, because I hadn’t really thought that myself. I guess I need to throw it around a bit more, in my head, ‘cos my own feeling was that maybe I’d do something further sometime, but not with the same people. Then I saw the comments and thought again, and started wondering about putting them in different situations. But, we’ll see.

The other thing, of course, is that I happen to have had the time, this past week. I don’t always have that luxury, etc, etc.

The final big thing with me, whatever I'm having a go at, is mood. When I started this, the mood was ‘good’, and it stayed ‘good’, and then once I’d got going then it all kind of kept rolling.

For now, though, this one is on the buffers. Take care, and thanks once more. S

[Tabasco]

Your writing style is truly amazaing. Verbose! Rich! Flavorful!
The erratic motion and thematic shift in your paragraphs most accurately reflects the associative jumps the mind makes when in an excited state.

I noticed a lot of your focus was set on Douglas and the thoughts rushing through his head. We don't get much from Phillipa's perspective, and most likely that may be due to your lack of authority on what goes through a woman's mind when she's on top. That intimacy with Douglas is most endearing but the abstract mystery of Pippa's internal emotions and thoughts makes her feel more like a literary instrument used to stage a motive for the protagonist. Even the slightest reflection into her thoughts/emotions would lend her a lot of credibility.

A way to resolve this is to focus on Douglas from a 1st person perspective.

Overall a great story with plenty of content to establish a strong relationship between the characters. The upstairs bathroom trip was also a nice touch.

Keep up the good work, my friend.

[Steel Etto]

Many thanks, Tabasco. I guess what I was going for is that she is a mystery to him, the way he sees it - and that his lack of understanding of her, set against the full realization of what she's doing, would kind of work itself out, effect-wise. I went for third, not first, because of this being the first story I'd attempted here. I didn't want to be appearing to mislead. But for sure, I might try it different, another time.

By the way, I wish you all the best with your roommate. Maybe you could play it like you were actually discovering how much you REALLY like it, as you go along, and use that 'discovery' as a way of getting to let her know? I think you are right, that to tell her too much could be a problem, but to continue to keep it quiet is a problem also. It's not an easy one, and I understand exactly how it is when an action you feel you need to take in order to make something happen in the best way possible has the attached risk of that action it itself maybe preventing anything from ever happening again, at all.

S

[subinchico]

Thank you dear goddess!!

Your talent is exquisite!!

[doormat2002]

What can I say? This is truly a work of art! Great narrative, awesome imagination, and beautifully written to top it all off. Thank you!

[kalkar]

very well narrated and constructed as usual, but there is very little crushing (uncaring heels on his precious things) scenes in it...

kalkar

[iceblock]

That was brilliant, I'm just glad I've only come here now to find it in completion. Lucky me! Nothing more frustrating than being an occasional visitor (as I consider myself) and to start reading such an epic only to find it unfinished.

While there are possibilites for continuing, as it stands the story ends perfectly, leaving the reader wanting more so that in a quiet moment of reflection we can let our minds wander and wonder how young Douglas deals with what he has done.

I certainly will be recommending this to others, thanks for your time to write it, and congratulations on doing such a great job with it.