|
Feet First
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Feet First
a variation on a fantasy
She is asleep on the sofa. The living room is large, with
high ceilings and a picture window on one side overlooking the
park. There is no furniture, apart from the sofa and a small
desk; just books piled up in the corners. A small electric
heater warms the room as snowflakes lightly dance on the window
pane. The camera eye pans 360 degrees to reveal this.
He is awake in the middle of the floor surrounded by papers
and open books and file folders. He watches her sleep. Empty
wine bottles litter the floor, her wine glass knocked over
drunkenly by her unsteady hand, his wine glass is in his hand as
hand as he takes a brief sip. Close up of his eyes. Watching
over the rim of his wine glass.
He and she have been working late that night discussing what
should be done with the project at hand. They have discussed
many alternatives of organisation and presentation, and perhaps
even come to a few conclusions. It is tiring work, compounded
with the wine, and she is exhausted.
She is wearing a big sweatshirt and sweatpants and is
barefoot, with her feet up on the arm of the sofa. He is in
jeans and a thick sweater, white sport socks, sitting in middle
of the floor
He looks at his wristwatch and sees that it is late. He is
also tired. But the sight of her bare feet is more intoxicating
than the wine they'd been drinking. Quietly, he stands.
Moving with the quite assurance of obsession he approaches
her.
Her feet are small, wide, and slightly pudgy with a high
arch and good definition in the sole. He had seen her touch her
own feet earlier and by the ease of the flesh could tell that her
feet were soft too. He's been sitting in positions all night
trying to hide the growing lump in his pants.
To sneak a purloined kiss of an unknowing foot is a awkward
situation. The potential for embarrassment, of revealing such a
less-than-mainstream fetish exposes more about oneself than
should be revealed. This is what he thinks.
It is late enough that he can dry kiss her big toe, and
should she wake up suddenly he can give the excuse of being about
to leave and didn't want to disappear without saying goodbye.
How heavy a sleeper is she?
He bends over her feet, and quietly inhales the salty
popcorny smell which brings saliva to his mouth. And places a
single dry kiss to the pad of her big toe.
Nothing.
No movement from her.
He kisses her toe again.
Nothing.
As dryly as possible, he licks her big toe.
Small movement from her.
He stands upright, about to make a quick exit.
Nothing.
He bends over and inhales deeply the scent of her feet
again.
He draws his tongue across the ball of her foot, under her
toes, and a kiss in the arch.
She moves. Turning over onto her face. Her feet are now
soles up, toes hanging down.
He positions himself underneath her toes, and delicately
sucks each one. Tasting their dried sweatiness each in turn.
She moves, back onto her back, but does not awaken. He
knows he is pushing his luck, but must continue, compelled to
continue. His erection is actually painful.
Her feet back pointing up, he gently draws his cheek across
her soles.
He then notices that her hands are deep down her track pants
and that she is masturbating silently in her sleep. He smiles
and gently licks under her toes.
"Wha?" she says, awaking very suddenly, and a bit confused.
She sees her hand down her pants and realises what has
happened. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I'm really embarrassed. I
don't know what you must think of me."
He thinks she doesn't know what *he* thinks of *her*?
"Hey," he says, trying to be as cool as possible,
"masturbation is natural. Not something to be embarrassed about."
"It's still embarrassing."
"Actually, I was in the process of leaving." He bends over
her foot and is about to give it a goodbye peck, when she raises
her other foot and snuggles it into his crotch.
"That felt nice."
He holds one of her feet, while the other is rubbing his
crotch, and gently licks her sole. She is blushing, still
glowing a bit red, puts her hand down her pants and continues her
clitoral self-stimulation.
Slowly.
Methodically.
He takes each toe into his mouth and gently sucks them in
turn.
Her mouth is smiling, and now a grimace, and now she comes,
with a throaty gasp and her mouth open wide. Her eyes widen in
pleasure.
Her feet point into a stretch, as far as they can, and he
licks her soles wetly.
She squirms in her wet pantied pleasure.
He licks his saliva off her foot.
"Hmmm," she says quietly
"I should be going. It's late."
"Hmmm. Do you have to?"
"Yeah. I think I should. We work together and should
probably keep things ..."
"Probably right."
"Believe me, I'm going straight home to jerk off for a
week."
She laughs.
He gives both feet one last semi-dry lick, and is out the
door.
The camera follows him out into the wintry night.
End.
--
|
|
