jslv88
03-13-2011, 11:25 AM
"Perhaps you'd better tell me exactly what you want," the woman said. "It will be easier for both of us. Well, easier for me; better for you," she
amended, smiling faintly.
He continued to study her nervously. She was certainly no beauty; not in the conventional sense anyway. But there was something about her. Average height, maybe a little taller, with a medium frame. Not heavy by any means, but not slim, either. In her summery cotton dress and sandals, she looked more as though she belonged at an elegant garden party than seated by a solid oak desk.
"I - I'm a submissive," he said nervously. Tell her everything, they'd said. It was not easy saying that; the ache in his chest was speaking, not his head. She'd obviously heard it before; her eyes regarded him placidly. Gray, solemn and wide-set, they distinguished her long, equine face, offsetting her straight nose and thin lips. No lipstick, he noted absently. It gave her sort of an earthy look.
She raised her thick dark brows. "You mean you're a masochist?" she asked, mildly amused. "Do you want me to dominate you?"
It was her brows, he decided. Unplucked and untrimmed, they simply grew lush and unchecked, arching across the ridges of her occipital bones. Her cheeks bore the faint scars of a long-ago bout with acne that she had not entirely won. It was not a pretty face, a cute face, but it was regular and sensuous. Almost pure female animal, he thought, a little giddy. And incredibly erotic somehow. "Y-yes," he admitted.
She nodded slightly, "All right. I prefer that. Do you want me to abuse you? Humiliate you?"
Her dark hair was cropped short and brushed back casually so that it partially covered her eyes and the nape of her neck. It looked like it would be easy to care for.
"-yes," he said again.
"Hurt you?" she asked calmly. "Do you want pain from me?"
He blinked, a little startled. "Do-do you do that?" he asked.
This time her smile grew broader, showing even, white teeth. "Of course," she said. "I'm fairly good at it, if that's what you want. I know some things that you might find very . . . interesting." Her eyes continued to regard him curiously.
"I, ah-uh, no . . . I - - I'm not into pain," he said uncomfortably, wondering why the idea bothered him. Something about her willingness to deliberately hurt another person; a stranger.
She shrugged easily, "All right, then what are you into?"
"Um . . . feet -?" he ventured timidly.
The corner of her mouth quirked slightly, "you like feet? Good. I was hoping you might say that."
"Y-you were?"
She blinked slowly, "sure, I like you foot guys. I really do. I don't mind doing feet at all." Her sandal-clad bare foot swung slowly, as though to emphasize her point.
"Why?" he blurted, in spite of himself.
"Why?" she repeated, raising her brows again. "Do you really want to know? All right - because you're so easy. And because it feels good. I like doing feet."
"Oh," he said in a small voice.
She chuckled at his discomfort. "Tell me," she said casually. "Do you like dirty feet?" Pausing in mid-swing, her toes curled up from the thin insole of her sandal as though she expected him to inspect their undersides.
"Um-" he cleared his throat awkwardly.
"It's up to you," she said. "Either way. I can wash them if you want."
"Uh, no-" he said in a slightly strained voice. "That, uh, that won't be necessary."
"Dirty feet, then," she confirmed, nodding. "Good, it's easier for me that way. Do you like to smell them, too?"
"P-pardon?" he said, swallowing again.
"Feet," she reminded him patiently. "Do you like to smell women's dirty feet? Does that turn you on?"
"-uh, yes," he said, not meeting her eyes.
"When they're all hot and sweaty?" she persisted, enjoying his obvious discomfort. "When they've been in hose and high heels all day? Does that excite you?"
"Um, well . . . yes. Sort of-"
"Or sneakers?" she guessed, cocking her head. "And old sweat socks? Do you like that better? Dirty, smelly, raunchy feet?"
"Uh-" he said, coloring.
"You do, don't you?" she insisted. "It's okay. You can tell me. I don't mind that. Not at all." Her eyes were amused, but guileless. "I think we're going to get along fine."
"I hope so," he said weakly.
"Uh-huh," she confirmed, teasing him a little. "Would you like to put your face inside my old shoes? My sneakers? You know, way down inside? And smell them? Maybe taste them?"
"Oh, I . . . y-ess," he admitted, trembling slightly at the thought.
"Mm, I'll just bet you would," she chuckled. "And would you like to be my foot slave, when you're here? My devoted, humble, obedient foot slave?
He took a breath and then let it out slowly, "yes - I'd like that."
She shifted in the chair, making the leather creak faintly, placed her elbow on the padded arm and propped her chin on her fist, studying him. "Why have you chosen me?" she asked, curious. "You could have arranged for something like this easily."
"I - I've heard things," he responded nervously. "They said that you're different."
"Really?" she asked. "I wasn't sure men talked about such things." Amused, she added, "And what have you heard about me?"
He glanced away, "only that . . . you're good. Very special, very discrete, and very very good. I . . . I need all of those things."
She chuckled; a pleasant, throaty sound. "Are you finding it easier to talk to me?'
"-yes," he said. "A little."
Her smile returned. "You mean, after you've told a woman that you want to lick her dirty feet and have her humiliate you, you don't feel quite so bashful?"
"I-uh, something like that," he swallowed.
"You keep glancing at my foot," she observed dryly. "Would you like to examine it?"
He blinked. Clearing his throat, he said, "um, ah - would that be okay?"
She laughed at him, "of course. If it's that important to you, go ahead." Her gently swaying sandal came to a rest. When he bent forward, she made a small face, "not like that. Get down there and really look at it. Up close; study it as much as you want. I don't mind."
"Oh. Uh, sure-" he said, getting down to his knees on the carpet before her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "It . . . it's beautiful," he said softly, his voice rising slightly in a note of mild surprise.
She laughed again. "It's just a foot," she said to the top of his head. "A foot is a foot."
"No-" he protested earnestly. "It . . . it's perfect. Your foot is . . . is - well, it's magnificent! I've never seen such a beautifully shaped . . . proportioned foot. Your toes - the way your instep comes up and narrows - the curve of the edge of your sole - your heel - your nails, even - everything!" He sighed reverently, "I've never seen such a perfect foot."
"That's very flattering, I suppose," she said, smiling. "I take it that you like it."
"Oh, y-ess," he said, almost whispering. "It's absolutely perfect. No blemishes, or anything - none."
"Mm," she said, looking over his shoulder, "yes. I suppose my feet do get pampered a lot."
"By. . . by . . . other-?" he halted, unwilling to invade her privacy.
"When I was in school," she observed casually, rotating her ankle slowly for him, "more years ago than I care to remember, I learned that the guy I was going with thought that my feet were special. Very special-" She snorted at the memory, "I thought it was a little strange at the time. Especially the way that they seemed to give me some kind of unusual power over him. Then when I began looking, noticing that, I found that there were other guys who reacted the same way. It wasn't just him. Not everybody, of course, but it seemed that there were always some. It was just a matter of learning how to attract their attention. It became sort of an amusing challenge. To see how far they'd go, just to get a little foot." The idea obviously appealed to her.
"And-?" he prompted absently, enchanted with the appendage moving slowly a few inches from his face.
"And I found out," she said brightly. "It was fascinating. I guess that's what started me in all of this. I deal with a lot of things, but I've never had to worry about taking care of my feet since then."
"N-no-?" he asked.
She chuckled, "no, there's always someone around who is just dying to cherish and adore my feet. To devote themselves to caring for them. And grateful for being granted the privilege. Do you find that hard to understand?"
"N-no," he said.
"Would you like that?" she asked. "Would you be grateful to me for letting you care for my feet? Would you consider that a privilege?"
"Oh, yes," he breathed.
"Even if I wanted you to bathe them with your saliva when they're hot and sweaty?" she teased, reciting his preferences. "Clean them with your tongue when they're filthy? Lovingly caress and soothe them with your mouth and lips when they're tired and smelly and grimy? Would you consider that a privilege? A treat?"
"Yes," he repeated, his voice husky.
"Well," she said thoughtfully, ignoring the casual, independent movement of her leg, "I've always thought that men who want to be trampled beneath a woman's feet, really want to physically submit themselves to her. Mentally too, I guess. It's sort of absolute, when you think about it. I mean, they're making themselves totally vulnerable to her; to the full force of her physical being. Without any reservations. That's pretty trusting. It's almost complete submission, don't you think?"
"I, uh - well, yes, I guess -" he said.
"Is that what turns you on about it?" she asked cannily. "The idea that, at least while she'd doing that, you're completely helpless under her? Does it excite you to give her that kind of power over you? And accept whatever punishment she wants to give you?"
He sighed, enraptured by both her words and her moving foot. "Yes-"
"If you submit to me that way," she cautioned, "I will literally crush you beneath my feet. I will make you into a human doormat. I will trample and grind you underfoot and wipe my feet all over you. Every time you come to see me. Your chest, your face, your stomach, your groin; your whole body. Barefoot, stockings, shoes, sneakers, heels, boots - I'll walk on you with everything I own. Regularly and often. Until you come to regard it as your natural place in my life."
"B-but why-?" he said.
Ignoring him, she continued blandly, "I will deliberately hurt you with my feet. I've learned a number of little, special ways. You will spend hours twisting and flinching and writhing at my whim, with nothing to comfort you except the awareness that you have the precious feet you want so much. You will wear my marks and bruises and aches as a daily reminder of our little get-togethers, and you will be terrified of undressing or bathing in front of everyone else." She grinned wolfishly, "especially your wife."
"W-why-?" he pleaded, swallowing tightly.
Her face took on a serene, almost sympathetic expression as she looked down on him. "Why?" she asked. "Because there is nothing quite like the feeling that I will get afterwards. When you devotedly grovel before me and make heartfelt, passionate love to my feet. The same feet that have just hurt you and humiliated you by making you lie there and take it." She raised her dark brows, "that's pretty heady, you know. Having someone submit to you like that. I get quite a kick out of it."
"Oh," he mumbled. "I - I guess you would."
"Do you?" she snorted faintly. "I wonder. There's more."
"There . . . is-?"
"Oh my, yes," she said easily. "That's just the physical part. You're not that kind of a masochist, you've said. You don't like pain. So you must like the mental part; the part that cheapens you and strips you of your self-respect. The degrading part. I can't begin to imagine why, but it doesn't make any difference. That's what you really crave, isn't it?"
He started to color, "I-"
Shh," she soothed. "Don't fret about it. I understand. I prefer that be part of it too; it amuses me. In some ways, we're quite a bit alike, you and I. As only opposites can be. Believe me, I wouldn't do this if I didn't like it. As long as you willingly consent, I'll be happy to give you what you want. That's the part that I like best; knowing that underneath it all, you want it. You need it."
He groaned softly.
"It's true, isn't it?" she asked reasonably.
"I-don't know," he said miserably. "I - I'm not sure."
"Do you have a hard on? Right now?"
He glanced down involuntarily. "Uh, ah . . . sort of -" he admitted, embarrassed.
"I am going to teach you to beg," she said. "With all your heart and soul. You're going to beg me for the perspiration and dirt from my feet. And the precious stink on my socks and stockings. You're going to learn to treasure and adore those things. You're going to come to regard the oily, gritty sweat from my heels as pure nectar and the smelly grime from between my toes as heavenly ambrosia. You'll thank me profusely for taking the trouble to let it collect there, just for you. The special efforts I make to degrade you, will excite you and you will be intensely grateful to me for considering your needs. You'll take the filth from my feet into your mouth, and you'll relish the taste of it at the same time that you savor the idea of it. You'll belong under my feet, and you'll know it; freely admit it. To me and to yourself." She smiled sweetly, "won't you?"
"H-how can you possibly know these things?" he asked desperately.
"Because I know you," she said simply. "Because I've met men like you before. It isn't women's feet you worship; it's the idea of being reduced to nothing under them. And I don't mind doing that at all. It doesn't really take very much effort, and it's so rewarding to help a guy progress to the point where he will accept anything, literally anything, to achieve that."
"Help?" he protested, numb.
"Help, teach, lead - it's all the same thing," she said, shrugging. "You provide the energy, the drive, the need, and I just focus it. You crave humiliation and degradation; I help you find it and teach you to openly enjoy it. It's very simple really."
"God-!" he breathed, "You seem so sure of yourself. How can - I mean, I- it's frightening!"
She raised her brows, "do you want to stop? Right now? Pretend we never had this . . . little talk? We can do that, if you want."
"N-no!" he said hastily. "No, I don't want that."
"Then, do you want what I'm offering you?" she taunted. "Does it appeal to a dark hunger in you? One you can't deny?"
He hesitated, "-yes. But it's so dangerous!"
"It doesn't have to be," she smiled. "I'm certainly not going to tell anyone. It will be our little secret. As far as anyone else has to know, we'll be perfectly ordinary in our lives-" Her smile grew one-sided; slightly sardonic, her gray eyes sparkling, "and when we're together, I'll be your teacher. Your master. You want that, don't you? You crave it."
"Yes," he conceded, defeated.
"Good," she said, crossing her legs again and settling back, "you'll love it, believe me. Now, why don't we get started, hm?"
"S-started?" he said.
"Sure," she said, grinning. "Nothing complicated this time. Just a little sample, so that you'll look forward to the next time."
"Um, all right," he agreed, torn by conflicting emotions. "What-what should I do?"
"Well," she said reasonably, "This time, why don't you just kneel there and lick my foot? Don't worry about kissing it; I'll teach you about that later. For now, since we're just getting acquainted, you can start with learning to savor the taste of it. You want to do that, don't you?"
He looked up at her stormy dark eyes, slowly falling into them, being drawn from the very depths of his soul. "Oh, yess-" he breathed. Moving his knees farther apart, he squirmed awkwardly down until, sitting on his own heels, he was hunched over her foot. "May - may I take this off?" he pleaded, anxiously touching her sandal strap.
"Mm, no-" she said judiciously, easing back comfortably in the leather chair and drawing up her knee slightly so that her foot came close to his face. "I don't think so. Not this time. Why don't you just show me how much you're willing to humble yourself to me?" Smiling crookedly, she rotated her leg outward so that the bottom of her sandal was toward him.
"Oh . . ." he said softly, staring at her foot in hypnotic fascination. Moistening his lips nervously, he slowly bent his face to her, his hand coming up at the last moment to steady her foot with extended fingertips.
"Yes," she said approvingly. "That's the way. Don't hold back - yes, like that. Surrender to it -" still smiling, she reached out and entwined her fingers in his hair, careful not to disturb him. "Not many men would do that, you know," she told him, ruffling his hair affectionately. "I wear these old things him, ruffling his hair affectionately. "I wear these old things all the time. And I walk almost everywhere - downtown and all over."
"Um," he said, not pausing.
"Taste good?" she chuckled, continuing to gently graze him with her nails as she might a favorite pet.
"Uh . . . dry," he mumbled, pausing for breath. "-and gritty."
"Oh?" she snorted lightly. "But you'll fix that, won't you?"
"Mm," he said, renewing his efforts.
"Take out your cock," she suggested, amused. "Don't stop. Just take it out. It'll feel better."
Obediently, his free hand fumbled around down below, struggling with his tangled clothing. After a moment, he groaned softly and then brought his hand up to her foot, holding it with the fingers of both hands almost as he might have an ear of corn.
"Well, now," she said, glancing down, "you do like this, don't you?"
"Yes -" he whispered, his voice husky.
"Your face is getting all smudged," she informed him, laughing softly.
"I - I don't care," he said, concentrating.
Smiling, she tightened her grip, moving him away from her sandal. "Let's see what we can do about that," she suggested calmly. Ignoring his pitiful moan, she shifted on the creaking leather and slid her other foot boldly between his thighs. "There," she said brightly, flexing her ankle experimentally.
"How's this?"
He gasped as though she had scalded him.
"You like this?" she said, moving her ankle slowly, firmly.
"Oh, God-!" he croaked, closing his eyes.
"That's pretty tender there," she advised him. "You'll probably be pretty sore . . . later." Her eyes sparkles as they challenged him to object.
Taking in a hissing breath, he instead tried to move his face back to her foot.
"Suit yourself," she chuckled, releasing his hair and relaxing her ankle so that her foot rested sideways to him. Not as some vegetable, but rather as a precious treasure, a holy object to revered and venerated. That was how he held her foot. He cradled it carefully, as though afraid to desecrate her with his touch. Then he bent forward again to touch his lips chastely to the pale flesh below her ankle. "Oh, y-esss," he whispered.
"Taste it," she coaxed. "Lower yourself to it. Lick my foot, make love to it." She paused, watching him, "yes -yes, like that - - that's it -"
"Let me take this off," he said, looking at her with moist eyes. "Please -"
"No," she said almost sadly, gently caressing his cheek with the edge of her sole. "Not this time. You'll just have to do the best you can this way. Here-" She moved her shoe back to his lips, "I'll try to help you. When you put your mouth there, I'll lift up so that you can reach under. Try it-"
"Unggf," he murmured, his face pressed tightly against her.
"There," she said brightly, "see? Now try here - I'll lift up and you can go all the way around back -" Smiling broadly, she slowly moved her foot, positioning it for him. Umm," he said, craning his neck.
"Later on," she said judiciously, maneuvering with him, "I'll teach you how to do that with your teeth. To scrape the gently on me there and suck. That always feels heavenly." Lifting her foot momentarily, she looked into his flushed face. "You'd like to do that for me, wouldn't you?" she asked innocently.
"Oh, yes! Yes!" he assured her sincerely.
"Mm, I'm so glad," she said, returning her foot to his ministrations. "There are so many little things like that that I want to teach you. I think we're going to get along famously, don't you?"
"Mpf," he agreed, trying to stretch his tongue.
Sighing contentedly, she eased back in the chair. "Have you given your secretary my extension, yet?" she asked lazily, letting him move her foot as he wished.
"Wha - what?" he asked, pausing and blinking.
"It's okay to call me," she assured him. "I'm listed in the internal directory." Laughing, she added, "Under Special Affairs. They thought that was kind of appropriate, I guess."
"I-I can't do that," he protested, suddenly horrified.
"Of course you can" she said, letting the sandal resting in his groin move on him.
"Not . . . not right here in the building," he squawked, helplessly glancing down and then back at her. "Not regularly! That - that's madness!"
"It makes a lot more sense than you going out somewhere for it," she advised him. "And how regularly depends on you, doesn't it?"
"But, but-!" he sputtered.
"Shh," she soothed, moving her foot so that the tip of her sandal just touched under his lower lip. "When I was a little girl, I used to love going out in the fields on a hot sunny day, after the rains. You know why?"
He started at her, mesmerized. "No, why?" he asked.
"I used to try to find mud holes," she said, smiling. "And when I did, I'd whisk off my shoes and socks quick as a wink and go wading in 'em. I used to love the feeling of that warm mud squishing up between my toes." The smile turned into a rakish grin, "you s'pose all southern girls are like that?"
"I - I have no idea," he said helplessly.
"Well, I still love that warm squishy feeling," she said, lightly brushing his lip.
"Oh, God . . . " he breathed softly, his eyes moving to her waiting foot once more.
"Mmm," she said after a moment's pause. "Yes, oh yes, that's marvelous. Take your time . . . slowly - ah, yes, like that."
"Mm-mmm," he said dreamily. Eyes closed, her foot cradled carefully in both hands, he addressed himself to her toes by touch alone, finding and exploring them with his lips and tongue.
"Do you like that?" she asked archly, pulling her foot back slightly.
"Oh, yes - " he whispered, eyes coming open to meet her amused gray gaze.
"Then ask me for it," she said, holding her foot away, taunting him with it.
"Please -" he insisted huskily.
"Please, what?" she teased. "Say it. Say it out loud, so that we both can hear it." Her sandal lightly gazed his chin.
"P-please -" he repeated desperately. "Let me . . . lick your toes - between them . . . please-"
Smiling, she shifted and adjusted herself in the chair, positioning herself so that her outthrust foot fit comfortably between his quivering thighs and her sandal rested on his swollen member as it might have on the accelerator pedal of her car. "All right," she said, pushing on him experimentally, making him squirm ecstatically. "I think that might be an appropriate way to end today's session."
"Oh, God-!" he said in a strangled voice. Whatever else he might have added was lost when she permitted him to hold her sandaled foot once again and return it to his mouth.
"Yes," she said approvingly, a moment later. "That's it. Down under like that, with your whole tongue. Mmm . . . yes -" Sighing contentedly, she let him take the weight of her leg, satisfied that her foot was receiving his full attention. "You're becoming quite good at that," she informed him, gently flexing the ankle lodged between his legs. "Does it taste good?"
"Mmggh," he said, devouring her wetly.
Chuckling, she flexed her toes for him. "You see? The strap doesn't really get in the way, does it? You just have to learn to work around it."
"Mm-mmn," he breathed, angling his head awkwardly.
"And this way -" she continued brightly, pressing on him and moving her sandal sole deliberately, "you get to taste the leather too. Where it's all dark and discolored. You like that, don't you?" Her sandal moved again, slowly and firmly.
Rather than answer, he suddenly sucked in his breath and his hands clasped her foot tightly, as though he were drowning and her leg suddenly a lifeline.
"Well, now-" she chuckled softly, glancing down. "I guess you do like that, don't you?" The toe of her sandal continued to massage him, milking out the last remaining spurts, concentrating on emptying him completely. Toes clenched surely to manipulate the leather edge, her movements were sure and expert, something in which she obviously took quiet satisfaction, as a craftsman might skillfully apply finishing touches with a familiar tool.
"I - I haven't done any - anything like that in a very long time -" he said after a few moments. It was difficult for him to speak. He was still short of breath and he found it necessary to keep swallowing. His fingers fumbled with the front of his trousers, desperate in their haste to conceal the disorderly mess there.
"But you will, won't you?" she purred smoothly, leaning back in her chair. "From now on? You're going to come and see me often, aren't you?" Legs crossed at the knee, she let her foot swing idly, not caring in the slightest that where her sandal touched his crisp white shirt, it made faint smudges. "I - I am?" he said, looking at her slightly fearfully.
"Of course you are," she assured him. "That's what you want, isn't it?"
"Well, uh - um, yes -" he admitted, hanging his head a little shamefully.
Rising unsteadily, he pushed his hands into his pockets and then, looking down at the front of his suit pants, hastily withdrew them and put them into his coat pockets instead, holding the front closed. "I - yes," he said, helplessly melting into her eyes again. "I - I'll do that. I, um, I'll look forward to it . . . to seeing you - again."
"Oh, yes," she chuckled, pushing her chair back behind her desk in a manner obviously meant to dismiss him. Returning her attention to the papers there, she ignored him as he left. He'd be back, she knew that.
He continued to study her nervously. She was certainly no beauty; not in the conventional sense anyway. But there was something about her. Average height, maybe a little taller, with a medium frame. Not heavy by any means, but not slim, either. In her summery cotton dress and sandals, she looked more as though she belonged at an elegant garden party than seated by a solid oak desk.
"I - I'm a submissive," he said nervously. Tell her everything, they'd said. It was not easy saying that; the ache in his chest was speaking, not his head. She'd obviously heard it before; her eyes regarded him placidly. Gray, solemn and wide-set, they distinguished her long, equine face, offsetting her straight nose and thin lips. No lipstick, he noted absently. It gave her sort of an earthy look.
She raised her thick dark brows. "You mean you're a masochist?" she asked, mildly amused. "Do you want me to dominate you?"
It was her brows, he decided. Unplucked and untrimmed, they simply grew lush and unchecked, arching across the ridges of her occipital bones. Her cheeks bore the faint scars of a long-ago bout with acne that she had not entirely won. It was not a pretty face, a cute face, but it was regular and sensuous. Almost pure female animal, he thought, a little giddy. And incredibly erotic somehow. "Y-yes," he admitted.
She nodded slightly, "All right. I prefer that. Do you want me to abuse you? Humiliate you?"
Her dark hair was cropped short and brushed back casually so that it partially covered her eyes and the nape of her neck. It looked like it would be easy to care for.
"-yes," he said again.
"Hurt you?" she asked calmly. "Do you want pain from me?"
He blinked, a little startled. "Do-do you do that?" he asked.
This time her smile grew broader, showing even, white teeth. "Of course," she said. "I'm fairly good at it, if that's what you want. I know some things that you might find very . . . interesting." Her eyes continued to regard him curiously.
"I, ah-uh, no . . . I - - I'm not into pain," he said uncomfortably, wondering why the idea bothered him. Something about her willingness to deliberately hurt another person; a stranger.
She shrugged easily, "All right, then what are you into?"
"Um . . . feet -?" he ventured timidly.
The corner of her mouth quirked slightly, "you like feet? Good. I was hoping you might say that."
"Y-you were?"
She blinked slowly, "sure, I like you foot guys. I really do. I don't mind doing feet at all." Her sandal-clad bare foot swung slowly, as though to emphasize her point.
"Why?" he blurted, in spite of himself.
"Why?" she repeated, raising her brows again. "Do you really want to know? All right - because you're so easy. And because it feels good. I like doing feet."
"Oh," he said in a small voice.
She chuckled at his discomfort. "Tell me," she said casually. "Do you like dirty feet?" Pausing in mid-swing, her toes curled up from the thin insole of her sandal as though she expected him to inspect their undersides.
"Um-" he cleared his throat awkwardly.
"It's up to you," she said. "Either way. I can wash them if you want."
"Uh, no-" he said in a slightly strained voice. "That, uh, that won't be necessary."
"Dirty feet, then," she confirmed, nodding. "Good, it's easier for me that way. Do you like to smell them, too?"
"P-pardon?" he said, swallowing again.
"Feet," she reminded him patiently. "Do you like to smell women's dirty feet? Does that turn you on?"
"-uh, yes," he said, not meeting her eyes.
"When they're all hot and sweaty?" she persisted, enjoying his obvious discomfort. "When they've been in hose and high heels all day? Does that excite you?"
"Um, well . . . yes. Sort of-"
"Or sneakers?" she guessed, cocking her head. "And old sweat socks? Do you like that better? Dirty, smelly, raunchy feet?"
"Uh-" he said, coloring.
"You do, don't you?" she insisted. "It's okay. You can tell me. I don't mind that. Not at all." Her eyes were amused, but guileless. "I think we're going to get along fine."
"I hope so," he said weakly.
"Uh-huh," she confirmed, teasing him a little. "Would you like to put your face inside my old shoes? My sneakers? You know, way down inside? And smell them? Maybe taste them?"
"Oh, I . . . y-ess," he admitted, trembling slightly at the thought.
"Mm, I'll just bet you would," she chuckled. "And would you like to be my foot slave, when you're here? My devoted, humble, obedient foot slave?
He took a breath and then let it out slowly, "yes - I'd like that."
She shifted in the chair, making the leather creak faintly, placed her elbow on the padded arm and propped her chin on her fist, studying him. "Why have you chosen me?" she asked, curious. "You could have arranged for something like this easily."
"I - I've heard things," he responded nervously. "They said that you're different."
"Really?" she asked. "I wasn't sure men talked about such things." Amused, she added, "And what have you heard about me?"
He glanced away, "only that . . . you're good. Very special, very discrete, and very very good. I . . . I need all of those things."
She chuckled; a pleasant, throaty sound. "Are you finding it easier to talk to me?'
"-yes," he said. "A little."
Her smile returned. "You mean, after you've told a woman that you want to lick her dirty feet and have her humiliate you, you don't feel quite so bashful?"
"I-uh, something like that," he swallowed.
"You keep glancing at my foot," she observed dryly. "Would you like to examine it?"
He blinked. Clearing his throat, he said, "um, ah - would that be okay?"
She laughed at him, "of course. If it's that important to you, go ahead." Her gently swaying sandal came to a rest. When he bent forward, she made a small face, "not like that. Get down there and really look at it. Up close; study it as much as you want. I don't mind."
"Oh. Uh, sure-" he said, getting down to his knees on the carpet before her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "It . . . it's beautiful," he said softly, his voice rising slightly in a note of mild surprise.
She laughed again. "It's just a foot," she said to the top of his head. "A foot is a foot."
"No-" he protested earnestly. "It . . . it's perfect. Your foot is . . . is - well, it's magnificent! I've never seen such a beautifully shaped . . . proportioned foot. Your toes - the way your instep comes up and narrows - the curve of the edge of your sole - your heel - your nails, even - everything!" He sighed reverently, "I've never seen such a perfect foot."
"That's very flattering, I suppose," she said, smiling. "I take it that you like it."
"Oh, y-ess," he said, almost whispering. "It's absolutely perfect. No blemishes, or anything - none."
"Mm," she said, looking over his shoulder, "yes. I suppose my feet do get pampered a lot."
"By. . . by . . . other-?" he halted, unwilling to invade her privacy.
"When I was in school," she observed casually, rotating her ankle slowly for him, "more years ago than I care to remember, I learned that the guy I was going with thought that my feet were special. Very special-" She snorted at the memory, "I thought it was a little strange at the time. Especially the way that they seemed to give me some kind of unusual power over him. Then when I began looking, noticing that, I found that there were other guys who reacted the same way. It wasn't just him. Not everybody, of course, but it seemed that there were always some. It was just a matter of learning how to attract their attention. It became sort of an amusing challenge. To see how far they'd go, just to get a little foot." The idea obviously appealed to her.
"And-?" he prompted absently, enchanted with the appendage moving slowly a few inches from his face.
"And I found out," she said brightly. "It was fascinating. I guess that's what started me in all of this. I deal with a lot of things, but I've never had to worry about taking care of my feet since then."
"N-no-?" he asked.
She chuckled, "no, there's always someone around who is just dying to cherish and adore my feet. To devote themselves to caring for them. And grateful for being granted the privilege. Do you find that hard to understand?"
"N-no," he said.
"Would you like that?" she asked. "Would you be grateful to me for letting you care for my feet? Would you consider that a privilege?"
"Oh, yes," he breathed.
"Even if I wanted you to bathe them with your saliva when they're hot and sweaty?" she teased, reciting his preferences. "Clean them with your tongue when they're filthy? Lovingly caress and soothe them with your mouth and lips when they're tired and smelly and grimy? Would you consider that a privilege? A treat?"
"Yes," he repeated, his voice husky.
"Well," she said thoughtfully, ignoring the casual, independent movement of her leg, "I've always thought that men who want to be trampled beneath a woman's feet, really want to physically submit themselves to her. Mentally too, I guess. It's sort of absolute, when you think about it. I mean, they're making themselves totally vulnerable to her; to the full force of her physical being. Without any reservations. That's pretty trusting. It's almost complete submission, don't you think?"
"I, uh - well, yes, I guess -" he said.
"Is that what turns you on about it?" she asked cannily. "The idea that, at least while she'd doing that, you're completely helpless under her? Does it excite you to give her that kind of power over you? And accept whatever punishment she wants to give you?"
He sighed, enraptured by both her words and her moving foot. "Yes-"
"If you submit to me that way," she cautioned, "I will literally crush you beneath my feet. I will make you into a human doormat. I will trample and grind you underfoot and wipe my feet all over you. Every time you come to see me. Your chest, your face, your stomach, your groin; your whole body. Barefoot, stockings, shoes, sneakers, heels, boots - I'll walk on you with everything I own. Regularly and often. Until you come to regard it as your natural place in my life."
"B-but why-?" he said.
Ignoring him, she continued blandly, "I will deliberately hurt you with my feet. I've learned a number of little, special ways. You will spend hours twisting and flinching and writhing at my whim, with nothing to comfort you except the awareness that you have the precious feet you want so much. You will wear my marks and bruises and aches as a daily reminder of our little get-togethers, and you will be terrified of undressing or bathing in front of everyone else." She grinned wolfishly, "especially your wife."
"W-why-?" he pleaded, swallowing tightly.
Her face took on a serene, almost sympathetic expression as she looked down on him. "Why?" she asked. "Because there is nothing quite like the feeling that I will get afterwards. When you devotedly grovel before me and make heartfelt, passionate love to my feet. The same feet that have just hurt you and humiliated you by making you lie there and take it." She raised her dark brows, "that's pretty heady, you know. Having someone submit to you like that. I get quite a kick out of it."
"Oh," he mumbled. "I - I guess you would."
"Do you?" she snorted faintly. "I wonder. There's more."
"There . . . is-?"
"Oh my, yes," she said easily. "That's just the physical part. You're not that kind of a masochist, you've said. You don't like pain. So you must like the mental part; the part that cheapens you and strips you of your self-respect. The degrading part. I can't begin to imagine why, but it doesn't make any difference. That's what you really crave, isn't it?"
He started to color, "I-"
Shh," she soothed. "Don't fret about it. I understand. I prefer that be part of it too; it amuses me. In some ways, we're quite a bit alike, you and I. As only opposites can be. Believe me, I wouldn't do this if I didn't like it. As long as you willingly consent, I'll be happy to give you what you want. That's the part that I like best; knowing that underneath it all, you want it. You need it."
He groaned softly.
"It's true, isn't it?" she asked reasonably.
"I-don't know," he said miserably. "I - I'm not sure."
"Do you have a hard on? Right now?"
He glanced down involuntarily. "Uh, ah . . . sort of -" he admitted, embarrassed.
"I am going to teach you to beg," she said. "With all your heart and soul. You're going to beg me for the perspiration and dirt from my feet. And the precious stink on my socks and stockings. You're going to learn to treasure and adore those things. You're going to come to regard the oily, gritty sweat from my heels as pure nectar and the smelly grime from between my toes as heavenly ambrosia. You'll thank me profusely for taking the trouble to let it collect there, just for you. The special efforts I make to degrade you, will excite you and you will be intensely grateful to me for considering your needs. You'll take the filth from my feet into your mouth, and you'll relish the taste of it at the same time that you savor the idea of it. You'll belong under my feet, and you'll know it; freely admit it. To me and to yourself." She smiled sweetly, "won't you?"
"H-how can you possibly know these things?" he asked desperately.
"Because I know you," she said simply. "Because I've met men like you before. It isn't women's feet you worship; it's the idea of being reduced to nothing under them. And I don't mind doing that at all. It doesn't really take very much effort, and it's so rewarding to help a guy progress to the point where he will accept anything, literally anything, to achieve that."
"Help?" he protested, numb.
"Help, teach, lead - it's all the same thing," she said, shrugging. "You provide the energy, the drive, the need, and I just focus it. You crave humiliation and degradation; I help you find it and teach you to openly enjoy it. It's very simple really."
"God-!" he breathed, "You seem so sure of yourself. How can - I mean, I- it's frightening!"
She raised her brows, "do you want to stop? Right now? Pretend we never had this . . . little talk? We can do that, if you want."
"N-no!" he said hastily. "No, I don't want that."
"Then, do you want what I'm offering you?" she taunted. "Does it appeal to a dark hunger in you? One you can't deny?"
He hesitated, "-yes. But it's so dangerous!"
"It doesn't have to be," she smiled. "I'm certainly not going to tell anyone. It will be our little secret. As far as anyone else has to know, we'll be perfectly ordinary in our lives-" Her smile grew one-sided; slightly sardonic, her gray eyes sparkling, "and when we're together, I'll be your teacher. Your master. You want that, don't you? You crave it."
"Yes," he conceded, defeated.
"Good," she said, crossing her legs again and settling back, "you'll love it, believe me. Now, why don't we get started, hm?"
"S-started?" he said.
"Sure," she said, grinning. "Nothing complicated this time. Just a little sample, so that you'll look forward to the next time."
"Um, all right," he agreed, torn by conflicting emotions. "What-what should I do?"
"Well," she said reasonably, "This time, why don't you just kneel there and lick my foot? Don't worry about kissing it; I'll teach you about that later. For now, since we're just getting acquainted, you can start with learning to savor the taste of it. You want to do that, don't you?"
He looked up at her stormy dark eyes, slowly falling into them, being drawn from the very depths of his soul. "Oh, yess-" he breathed. Moving his knees farther apart, he squirmed awkwardly down until, sitting on his own heels, he was hunched over her foot. "May - may I take this off?" he pleaded, anxiously touching her sandal strap.
"Mm, no-" she said judiciously, easing back comfortably in the leather chair and drawing up her knee slightly so that her foot came close to his face. "I don't think so. Not this time. Why don't you just show me how much you're willing to humble yourself to me?" Smiling crookedly, she rotated her leg outward so that the bottom of her sandal was toward him.
"Oh . . ." he said softly, staring at her foot in hypnotic fascination. Moistening his lips nervously, he slowly bent his face to her, his hand coming up at the last moment to steady her foot with extended fingertips.
"Yes," she said approvingly. "That's the way. Don't hold back - yes, like that. Surrender to it -" still smiling, she reached out and entwined her fingers in his hair, careful not to disturb him. "Not many men would do that, you know," she told him, ruffling his hair affectionately. "I wear these old things him, ruffling his hair affectionately. "I wear these old things all the time. And I walk almost everywhere - downtown and all over."
"Um," he said, not pausing.
"Taste good?" she chuckled, continuing to gently graze him with her nails as she might a favorite pet.
"Uh . . . dry," he mumbled, pausing for breath. "-and gritty."
"Oh?" she snorted lightly. "But you'll fix that, won't you?"
"Mm," he said, renewing his efforts.
"Take out your cock," she suggested, amused. "Don't stop. Just take it out. It'll feel better."
Obediently, his free hand fumbled around down below, struggling with his tangled clothing. After a moment, he groaned softly and then brought his hand up to her foot, holding it with the fingers of both hands almost as he might have an ear of corn.
"Well, now," she said, glancing down, "you do like this, don't you?"
"Yes -" he whispered, his voice husky.
"Your face is getting all smudged," she informed him, laughing softly.
"I - I don't care," he said, concentrating.
Smiling, she tightened her grip, moving him away from her sandal. "Let's see what we can do about that," she suggested calmly. Ignoring his pitiful moan, she shifted on the creaking leather and slid her other foot boldly between his thighs. "There," she said brightly, flexing her ankle experimentally.
"How's this?"
He gasped as though she had scalded him.
"You like this?" she said, moving her ankle slowly, firmly.
"Oh, God-!" he croaked, closing his eyes.
"That's pretty tender there," she advised him. "You'll probably be pretty sore . . . later." Her eyes sparkles as they challenged him to object.
Taking in a hissing breath, he instead tried to move his face back to her foot.
"Suit yourself," she chuckled, releasing his hair and relaxing her ankle so that her foot rested sideways to him. Not as some vegetable, but rather as a precious treasure, a holy object to revered and venerated. That was how he held her foot. He cradled it carefully, as though afraid to desecrate her with his touch. Then he bent forward again to touch his lips chastely to the pale flesh below her ankle. "Oh, y-esss," he whispered.
"Taste it," she coaxed. "Lower yourself to it. Lick my foot, make love to it." She paused, watching him, "yes -yes, like that - - that's it -"
"Let me take this off," he said, looking at her with moist eyes. "Please -"
"No," she said almost sadly, gently caressing his cheek with the edge of her sole. "Not this time. You'll just have to do the best you can this way. Here-" She moved her shoe back to his lips, "I'll try to help you. When you put your mouth there, I'll lift up so that you can reach under. Try it-"
"Unggf," he murmured, his face pressed tightly against her.
"There," she said brightly, "see? Now try here - I'll lift up and you can go all the way around back -" Smiling broadly, she slowly moved her foot, positioning it for him. Umm," he said, craning his neck.
"Later on," she said judiciously, maneuvering with him, "I'll teach you how to do that with your teeth. To scrape the gently on me there and suck. That always feels heavenly." Lifting her foot momentarily, she looked into his flushed face. "You'd like to do that for me, wouldn't you?" she asked innocently.
"Oh, yes! Yes!" he assured her sincerely.
"Mm, I'm so glad," she said, returning her foot to his ministrations. "There are so many little things like that that I want to teach you. I think we're going to get along famously, don't you?"
"Mpf," he agreed, trying to stretch his tongue.
Sighing contentedly, she eased back in the chair. "Have you given your secretary my extension, yet?" she asked lazily, letting him move her foot as he wished.
"Wha - what?" he asked, pausing and blinking.
"It's okay to call me," she assured him. "I'm listed in the internal directory." Laughing, she added, "Under Special Affairs. They thought that was kind of appropriate, I guess."
"I-I can't do that," he protested, suddenly horrified.
"Of course you can" she said, letting the sandal resting in his groin move on him.
"Not . . . not right here in the building," he squawked, helplessly glancing down and then back at her. "Not regularly! That - that's madness!"
"It makes a lot more sense than you going out somewhere for it," she advised him. "And how regularly depends on you, doesn't it?"
"But, but-!" he sputtered.
"Shh," she soothed, moving her foot so that the tip of her sandal just touched under his lower lip. "When I was a little girl, I used to love going out in the fields on a hot sunny day, after the rains. You know why?"
He started at her, mesmerized. "No, why?" he asked.
"I used to try to find mud holes," she said, smiling. "And when I did, I'd whisk off my shoes and socks quick as a wink and go wading in 'em. I used to love the feeling of that warm mud squishing up between my toes." The smile turned into a rakish grin, "you s'pose all southern girls are like that?"
"I - I have no idea," he said helplessly.
"Well, I still love that warm squishy feeling," she said, lightly brushing his lip.
"Oh, God . . . " he breathed softly, his eyes moving to her waiting foot once more.
"Mmm," she said after a moment's pause. "Yes, oh yes, that's marvelous. Take your time . . . slowly - ah, yes, like that."
"Mm-mmm," he said dreamily. Eyes closed, her foot cradled carefully in both hands, he addressed himself to her toes by touch alone, finding and exploring them with his lips and tongue.
"Do you like that?" she asked archly, pulling her foot back slightly.
"Oh, yes - " he whispered, eyes coming open to meet her amused gray gaze.
"Then ask me for it," she said, holding her foot away, taunting him with it.
"Please -" he insisted huskily.
"Please, what?" she teased. "Say it. Say it out loud, so that we both can hear it." Her sandal lightly gazed his chin.
"P-please -" he repeated desperately. "Let me . . . lick your toes - between them . . . please-"
Smiling, she shifted and adjusted herself in the chair, positioning herself so that her outthrust foot fit comfortably between his quivering thighs and her sandal rested on his swollen member as it might have on the accelerator pedal of her car. "All right," she said, pushing on him experimentally, making him squirm ecstatically. "I think that might be an appropriate way to end today's session."
"Oh, God-!" he said in a strangled voice. Whatever else he might have added was lost when she permitted him to hold her sandaled foot once again and return it to his mouth.
"Yes," she said approvingly, a moment later. "That's it. Down under like that, with your whole tongue. Mmm . . . yes -" Sighing contentedly, she let him take the weight of her leg, satisfied that her foot was receiving his full attention. "You're becoming quite good at that," she informed him, gently flexing the ankle lodged between his legs. "Does it taste good?"
"Mmggh," he said, devouring her wetly.
Chuckling, she flexed her toes for him. "You see? The strap doesn't really get in the way, does it? You just have to learn to work around it."
"Mm-mmn," he breathed, angling his head awkwardly.
"And this way -" she continued brightly, pressing on him and moving her sandal sole deliberately, "you get to taste the leather too. Where it's all dark and discolored. You like that, don't you?" Her sandal moved again, slowly and firmly.
Rather than answer, he suddenly sucked in his breath and his hands clasped her foot tightly, as though he were drowning and her leg suddenly a lifeline.
"Well, now-" she chuckled softly, glancing down. "I guess you do like that, don't you?" The toe of her sandal continued to massage him, milking out the last remaining spurts, concentrating on emptying him completely. Toes clenched surely to manipulate the leather edge, her movements were sure and expert, something in which she obviously took quiet satisfaction, as a craftsman might skillfully apply finishing touches with a familiar tool.
"I - I haven't done any - anything like that in a very long time -" he said after a few moments. It was difficult for him to speak. He was still short of breath and he found it necessary to keep swallowing. His fingers fumbled with the front of his trousers, desperate in their haste to conceal the disorderly mess there.
"But you will, won't you?" she purred smoothly, leaning back in her chair. "From now on? You're going to come and see me often, aren't you?" Legs crossed at the knee, she let her foot swing idly, not caring in the slightest that where her sandal touched his crisp white shirt, it made faint smudges. "I - I am?" he said, looking at her slightly fearfully.
"Of course you are," she assured him. "That's what you want, isn't it?"
"Well, uh - um, yes -" he admitted, hanging his head a little shamefully.
Rising unsteadily, he pushed his hands into his pockets and then, looking down at the front of his suit pants, hastily withdrew them and put them into his coat pockets instead, holding the front closed. "I - yes," he said, helplessly melting into her eyes again. "I - I'll do that. I, um, I'll look forward to it . . . to seeing you - again."
"Oh, yes," she chuckled, pushing her chair back behind her desk in a manner obviously meant to dismiss him. Returning her attention to the papers there, she ignored him as he left. He'd be back, she knew that.