Boots off

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.

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That summer I was working as in a small local hotel as a general dogsbody, doing anything from managing bookings to waitressing. 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 guest that I had seen around for a few days 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.

"May I?"

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.

I take a gingerly few steps across the drive, he follows me in, through the hall and into the living room where I collapse on a messy sofa covered with a mess of books, clothes and unspecific household items. I eye him carefully, standing in the door, my boots still in his hand, looking a little unsure but smiling a little too, looking hopeful but not as if he was going to push anything, and the memory - the feeling itself - of our little encounter on the bench by the carpark comes back to me, the bubble is still there.

I'm tired though, weary and stiff, my body feels numb despite the still present damp warmth between my legs and the echo of his mouth on my foot, so I stretch my legs out on the rug, ankles crossed, and wave my hand towards him.

''Just dump them here. Bathroom is off the hall, there should be a bowl and other stuff there.''

His smile grows bigger and he turns back and disappears in the hall, to emerge in few minutes carrying a square plastic washing bowl that I normally use for my more delicate underwear filled with hot water, and what looks like at least three of my best towels over his forearm. The pockets of his jacket seem to be stuffed with other bathing supplies and it all looks a bit silly and a bit touching and I am now sure I do want tonight to continue, and I'll worry about what to do next afterwards.

He puts one of the towels on the rug in front of me, the bowl on top, then drops to his knees and reaches to my feet, rolling the bottoms of my trousers up, his fingers straying lower but not remaining there,  before I put them in the bowl. The water is hot, but not burning, the splash of bath oil fills the air with jasmine, rose and lavender, and when he starts washing my feet I stop thinking of pedicures or of miner's wives in coaltown cottages, because although his touch is firm and practical, it's also undoubtedly, unmistakeably erotic, his fingers, slippery with soap and water, rubbing my skin, carefully, thoroughly, toes first, one by one, than between them, taking his time, moving to the soles, mostly still with his fingers but occasionally reaching for a flannel. He moves to my ankle next, more of a massage than a scrubbing, pressing the tired muscles and rubbing the swollen parts.

It's all happening in silence, apart from my occasional sigh and a ''yes, that's great'' of confirmation and encouragement, and I can hear my own breathing, and I can hear his, maybe a little deeper and faster than it would be normally but not in any way obvious. When he's through with the washing, he moves the bowl/towel ensemble to the side and places my feet on another towel, this time it's the big, thick, pale grey bath sheet which makes a luxurious nest. I expect him to start drying them with as much care as he put into the washing but instead he sits on his heels and picks my right foot, still covered with the film of water, up in both hands, leans down, gives me the same look he did at the bench and when I nod with a smile, brings it to his mouth, licking, kissing and then licking again, the damp of his saliva mixing with the damp of the water.

This is turning me on again, and I sigh and moan a little to show him how I'm enjoying it and to let him know he should go on, which he clearly takes seriously because the next moment he's on his back on the floor, my right foot still in his hands but now directly above his face, the left one still on the towel on the floor next to his shoulder.

He focuses on the sole next, his lips moving slowly, almost methodically, starting with the little toe and along the outer edge, firmer on the tougher skin of the heel, I can feel his teeth, biting but not painfully, than the inner edge, towards the arch, his tongue probing, testing, lingering, tasting, especially between patches of skin with different texture, tracing and mapping my sole and however ridiculous it might sound it feels like he's making love to my foot.

I sigh and adjust my position, unzip my trousers again, start slowly touching myself, wet and hot and starting to throb, arch my back a little which makes my foot push down on his face and he lets it happen, his mouth open and his breathing now close to panting. I move the right one up against him, make it creep up his side and to his cock, full, hard, straining against the fabric of his trousers.

''Turn sideways. No… take your pants off first, then turn on your side, the other way round… do the other one now…'' I stammer. He stops, with a little delay that feels like coming up for air more than reluctance, gets up and starts removing his trousers, pants, socks. Our eyes meet and I can't help but laugh a little, to him rather than at him, in wonder at this thing we are doing here, the bubble of sex that surrounds us and in which all that matters is the mutual need. He smiles back, his eyes growing wider when he sees me pulling my jeans and panties off, my legs open wide and wanton, my fingers emphasising rather than concealing the slick spread of my cunt, the swollen bud of my erect clit emerging between the labia a perfect counterpart to his rigid cock.

''Oh fuck….'' he groans, back on his knees, closer to me, leaning lower.

''Do the other one, I said,'' I don't know how or why I decided to do it, why I am not doing the obvious, the natural thing here and pulling him in, making him use that clearly accomplished mouth of his between my legs, but I know that's what I want just now so there is no reason not to suggest it, even if the suggestion comes out somewhat harsh and demanding.

He moans again but does what I told him to do, attending to my other foot as I focus on the pleasure pooling between my legs, as I get closer to the plateau on which I can stay for a while before reaching the edge of my orgasm, not caring now about the sounds I make or the movements or the view he might have from down there, until I have had enough of that, until I want more and different, and pull away from him, get up and make for the door.

''Come on,'' this comes clipped and harsh again, not because I want to humiliate him but because all I can think about now is my own need and this man whose desire lit that flame has now - at least for this moment - become nothing but a tool of its fulfillment.

He follows me to the bedroom, a couple of steps behind me, and waits expectantly when I stretch myself on the bed, on my front, my feet hanging off the edge of the bed, my legs slightly apart but not enough to let him see anything much.

I make myself comfortable and, with my head on my crossed arms, give him a glance across the dim room and call ‘’C’mere. Get to work. My soles, now.’’

In less than an instant he’s on his knees down there, his mouth and hands eager and beautiful, touching, stroking, licking, stopping, perhaps to look at my soles, the pressing and sucking again, almost all of the muscular tension of the whole day gone now, replaced by the spreading glow of arousal, my skin supple and warm, my cunt dripping with desire that is less directed at than facilitated by what he’s doing for me.

I raise my hips a little, my pelvis feels full, flushed and hot, I want to be touched. My feet spread wider, I am sure he can see up between my legs now, and even if he can’t, he’ll be able to smell me. I want his mouth elsewhere now.

‘’Come up and kiss down my spine, slut,’’ I say, the ‘’slut’’ unexpected yet bizarrely fitting.

He obeys wordlessly, I don’t look at him but can feel his body next to mine, his erection brushing my thigh when he leans down, his lips slow and precise on the back of my neck, moving down, my hips lifting up to meet him, his hands on my buttocks, his moan in response to my ‘’Yess, there…’’ when his tongue slides down to my ass and brushes my anus before getting the first taste of my wetness.

He’s stretched between my legs now and I’m rubbing myself on his face, all vestiges of decorum gone, panting and moaning, first on all fours, then shifting up, so I’m nearly sitting on him, my thigh cramping a bit but I ride it through, my hands in his hair, pulling, the focus of my desire moving from the exquisite sensations flowing over my skin to what I am doing with him and to him, the sounds he makes appear pained and this is turning me on in the most unexpected ways and I want more of it, fucking more, and more, shifting again and pushing him into a place that would fit what I want and need now.

I’m leaning against the headboard, my knees up, he’s flat on his back on the bed still, looking dazed, sticky faced and a little bit breathless.

''On your front and fucking lick,'' I hiss, my toes brushing his lips as he follows my command, the thrill of doing it like a jolt through my whole body, suddenly aware that I could actually kick him, make his lip split on his own teeth, make his bleed here for me, and maybe he would lash back out at me, but maybe he wouldn't and that possibility makes me dizzy with desire of a kind I have not experienced before, the same one that prompts me to push hard against his face and mouth, make him gag and groan in discomfort.

I'm rubbing myself furiously now, my clit like a hard and slippery nub under my fingers, so sensitive that I can't even touch it directly. I grab blindly to the side of the bed, grasp a diIdo I use occasionally and slide it deep into my throbbing cunt, the pleasure of this act a huge gasp and a swearing moan. He's still licking and kissing my feet but I can see him glance up to all the action between my legs now and then.

''Stop... just watch me. Don't... touch... yourself... without... asking....'' I stutter, high up there on the plateau of my pleasure, his frustration and obedience rising the heat.

He does as he's told, though his breathing is fast and loud and when I moan he responds with small, quickly stifled moans of his own. I get close, closer, almost there, my pleasure the whole of my world, the man I brought to me bed a panting shadow on the very periphery of it, his waiting, his patience, his at this moment utter focus on what I am experiencing an afterthought, a sweetly hot one but no more than that.

I come alone, in a huge, convulsive shiver spreading from my toes to the top of my head, and spilling at my core, a scream and a laugh few seconds later.

I stretch and relax, my right foot sliding to his crotch, now I remember him again, grateful and happy, with no urgency.

''Please...'' he whispers, and I answer with a not-quite-dismissive ''OK, go on then. On my feet," his hand a blur, his panting moan turning into a deep groan, the sticky warmth of his release splattering and dripping off my instep.

''Clean it up now."

I'm not really thinking he will, but it seems worth trying, the newly found role talking through me more than me talking from the role, his breath warm on my toes as he leans down to obey.

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