This is another little foot fetish story. A lot of typical foot fetish scenarios are worked into a context of a top/bottom dynamic, but although I don't mind including some in my D/s imaginings, I usually don't focus on that. I want my D/s to be about me, not a body part or a particular act. But I do have a bit of a foot fetish fetish, quite separate from anything to do with power exchange. Thus this -- though it could turn into something a little more kinky in a follow up, if there is one.
That summer I was working as in a small local hotel as a general dogsbody, doing anything from managing bookings to waitressing to pulling pints at the bar. That day I was at the reception, when a guest - an American, single traveller, roughly my age - came down to complain about the TV not working in his room. I tried to get hold of the handyman but he wasn't around so I went up myself. It was a warm day and I was wearing linen trousers and plain, flat sandals, but I'd slipped them off under my desk and I didn't bother putting them back on for my stint at facilities maintenance.
I walked upstairs - up those wide, fairly shallow, wooden stairs covered in a dark carpet with only a hint of a pattern - he followed behind me. I had a very vague feeling that he was looking at me more intently than normal, that he was looking at my body, but there was nothing really obvious there and I just shrugged it off, thinking that maybe he was a fan of big blondes with hips spreading far wider than current beauty standards required.
The same feeling returned when we were in his room. The TV problem was with to do with jumbled up cables and wrong sockets so I went down on all fours by the sideboard, almost sitting on my heels really, but with toes curled up underneath.
We exchanged a minimum amount of small talk while I sorted out the cables and plugs but all the way throughout I had this persistent if still vague feeling of his staring at me quite intently, and maybe his breathing felt just a little bit faster, but nothing more than a faint vibe still. I went back to my desk and pretty much forgot about it until a couple of days later.
I worked in the dining room that evening and it was a busy night so I was pretty worn out after running between tables and the kitchen for four hours. Eventually everything was finished and other people left to do whatever young hotel staff do after work on a Friday night. I was ready to leave too, but stopped at a set of benches on the grass to the side of the hotel carpark for a cigarette before my drive home.
It was dark but not completely dark, with the full moon, clear sky and light from the foyer giving everything that quiet, eerie glow of a night-time countryside places.
I was wearing knee-high low heel boots over fitted black denim trousers, and my feet were killing me. I contemplated taking my boots off even before I drove home, but for now I lit my cigarette and sat back, right foot crossed over my knee, my back stretching, enjoying my rest and looking forward to the bath at home.
It was then that the American guest from few days ago appeared with a polite ''Good evening'', asking me if it was OK if he joined me on the bench. I didn't object, he sat next to me and we did more small talk, the usual stuff.
I dragged on my cigarette, complained again about my long shift and indicated towards my boots with a wave of my hand, "I really want these off now, I hope you don't mind". I wasn't really asking, and before he said anything I put out my cigarette and reached to unzip the first boot.
"No, no, of course not," he said and I realised he was actually staring at me.
Or rather, staring at my boots, at my foot placed across my knee, my hands pulling the zip down and the boot off, complete with the sock, my foot free. I flexed it and wriggled my toes, ankle still resting across my knee, the bare skin pale in contrast to my trousers, the chipped red nail-polish looking still acceptable in the low light.
I heard a sharp intake of breath from the man sitting next to me and it was really only then that I consciously realised what was going on, or at least got an idea of what it could be. The strangest thing was that it should have crept me out but for some reason it didn't and I made a bit of a show of struggling with the zip of the other boot until he offered to help and I accepted it. I still don't know why. I was tired, I'd had a large drink before I left the building, my mind was in that twilight zone where the standard version of reality becomes less solid and possibilities start slowly swirling around.
And so I said ''Yes, do help if you don't mind,'' knowing now that he more than didn't mind, and he dropped to his knees on the ground by the bench and carefully unzipped the boot, pulled it off, pulled off the thin cotton sock too and I found myself with him sitting on his heels in front of me, holding my foot in both his hands, his fingers starting to rub gently.
I wondered if it was sensible, again, but those swirling possibilities were doing their job and actually I was enjoying the situation and enjoying getting just a little, fuzzily, turned on by the now obvious sexual tension. I slid my other foot up between his knees so it rested against his crotch and yes, he was hard and made a small stifled groaning sound when I touched him.
"Yes. I'll tell you if I get uncomfortable," I said.
He started massaging and stroking - and his touch was exquisite. Firm when necessary, soft when needed, rubbing and pressing the muscles in the various areas, pushing the hem of my trousers up to get to my ankle, then lifting it up as he leaned down at the same time, bringing my foot closer to his mouth.
He looked at me as if to check if it was ok and I sighed and nodded a yes.
It was greedy but slow at the same time, wet and firm yet pliant and it made me, suddenly, throbbing, wet, aroused beyond what I could have ever imagined having my feet caressed could possibly do. I wanted my other foot licked now, or both at the same time, I wanted to feel his cock on my sole, skin on skin and not through layers of fabric, I wanted to fuck him with my feet there and then.
I moaned and he stopped for a second, as if waiting for me to tell him it was OK to go on.
''Don't. Stop. Now. I'm so fucking turned on…'' I stuttered, breathlessly, undoing my belt and unbuttoning my jeans, and sliding my hand into my panties, between my labia, feeling my own wetness and heat. The next part was bizarre, in hindsight, but by then I was too turned on to think that much. I made my fingers really wet and withdrew them, leaned down and smeared the sticky wetness on my toes and instep.
''Lick. Taste for yourself.''
He did, with a sharp intake of breath and a moan louder than mine had been, his tongue now frantic on my toes, then sucking them, his hands firmer holding my foot, as if he wanted to stop them shaking.
"Let's get out of here before someone else comes out" I offered when he came up for air, the voice of reason making itself heard in my mind, or maybe just making sensible arrangements for the rest of the evening. He got up without a word, standing there and waiting for me to move.
"Carry these for me, will you?'', I nodded towards my boots before walking to my car, barefoot, the bits of gravel in the packed-dirt carpark rough on my soles, my boots in his hand.
I didn't live far so I didn't bother putting them back on and just drove barefoot. We didn't talk much on the way, as if either was a little scared of spoiling the mood, piercing that bubble that we placed ourselves in when his lips touched my instep for the first time. I took my turn, parked the car, opened my door, put my right foot on the paving tiles of the driveway.
"They'll need a wash now" I said, not even teasingly but simply stating the fact.
"Yes. Yes, they will," he replied.