AT MY EX-GIRLFRIEND’S FEET
Dear reader, my friend, my brother, my equal, let me tell you a story: the story of how I became my ex-girlfriend’s lover and slave, or better said, of how I became a slave to my ex-girlfriend’s lovely feet.
It all started when we arranged to meet for lunch in a fancy Italian restaurant. It was the first time that I was going to see my ex-girlfriend after our break-up a year before. The break-up had been friendly –sort of: it had been Nancy’s idea to split up, seeing that our relationship was quickly deteriorating (long silences, absurd discussions for absurd reasons, and almost no sex during the last months), and although it hurt, I later understood that she was right, that we were no longer happy and that we were best apart from each other. In fact, just three months after leaving Nancy, I met Susan: a cute, warm brunette who gave me shelter and understanding and helped to mend my heart and my self-confidence (and my sex life in the process).
So I was quite surprised when Nancy called me and asked to meet me for lunch. We had exchanged cold but polite emails for different reasons (to sort out the things that we shared during our relationship, to wish each other Merry Christmas or a happy birthday, that sort of thing), but none of us had spoken about seeing each other again. I wasn’t sure if I was ready, but I talked about it with Susan, I thought about it for a couple of days, and replied to her affirmatively, agreeing to meet in a public place, at daylight (that’s how I phrased it, trying to sound funny; I don’t know if she found if funny or not).
So here I was, in this fancy Italian restaurant, waiting for Nancy to appear and eating too much bread and butter. Susan had ordered a private table for us, almost hidden in a corner behind a table, but I could see the entrance from my seat. I felt sweaty and ridiculous: I had tried dressing casually, but nice enough; not too overdressed, but not too “everyday” either. I didn’t want her to think that I wanted to impress her, but I also didn’t want her to think that I was a mess without her. And then she entered the room, and every inch of confidence that I had before fell shattered to the floor. She was simply stunning: she was wearing a very professional outfit (grey jacket, black dress with a short skirt, stockings, and high-heeled open sandals). She was not the skinny model type, but the girl-next-door type, and I preferred it that way: small-to-medium sized tits, nice round ass, soft white skin, deep brown –almost black-eyes…). Anyway, when she crossed the room, stood before me and gave me a firm but gentle hug, she left me completely speechless. When she broke the hug, she was smiling.
“So”, she said, “how have you been?”
And then, suddenly, it all stopped being weird and it was just like the old days: we talked, we laughed, we ate, we had fun, we remembered “the good old times”, we drank… In fact, now that I think of it, it was me who drank most of the time, probably because I was still a bit shaky, and also, now that I think of it, because Nancy kept refilling my glass at every opportunity. When we got to desserts, we had shared almost every aspect of our old and new life, and I was feeling fairly drunk. In any case, when she proposed to have a limoncello (a shared passion of us) after coffee, I couldn’t say no to her. I looked at her and felt a warm feeling inside me (probably an effect of the alcohol, now that I think of it): we were talking, we were friendly, everything was good, everything was normal.
And then, suddenly, it all stopped being normal. I had just finished swallowing the last drop of limoncello when Nancy asked quite abruptly: “So, are you seeing anybody right now?”
Yes, the question. It was the only topic from which we had quite consciously kept away during lunch: our love and sex life. And now it was on the table. I tried drinking some more limoncello before responding. There was none left.
“Well”, I answered then, “yes, in fact, I have been dating a girl these past months. Her name is Susan”.
“Susan? I like it. And what is she like?”
I hesitated for a moment. On the one hand, I didn’t want to hurt Nancy by talking too effusively about Susan; on the other hand, I wanted her to know that Susan made me happy and that I loved her very much. So I started painting a quite positive portrait of Susan, from appearance to intellect, trying to avoid any comparison with my previous girlfriend, i.e. Nancy. And while I did that, Nancy kept smiling (I was tempted to use the word “grinning”), like if she was examining me and I was failing, or like if she did not believe a word I was saying. When I finished, there was a bit of silence, and then she asked again:
“And how about your sex life?”
“Sex life?”, I choked.
“Yes. Sex. How is it between you two?”
I felt myself blushing, and my ears burning. Was it normal for an ex-girlfriend to ask about that? On the first meeting after a year?
“It’s… good. It’s good. Everything is fine between me and Susan”, I said, trying to be evasive but sounding defensive.
“Good? Not great?”
“Yes, no, I mean, yes, it’s great. It’s great between me and Susan. Sex, I mean. Great sex”.
Nancy’s eyes: were the always that deep, that penetrating? Did they always catch and reflect the light the way they did now?
“Does she do everything you want? Does she do everything I used to do to you? Everything?”
That was definitively inappropriate. And I was about to stand up and leave, when I felt Nancy’s foot firmly pressed against my knee.
“Don’t stand up. Answer the question. Does she do what you want her to do, in bed? Does she do this?”, and her foot starting to slid up my thigh, and my body, almost unconsciously, responded by moving forward on the chair, giving easier access to my crotch.
You see, my dear reader, my friend, my brother, there is something you need to know, something that I probably should have told you earlier: I have this thing for female feet. I love them. I am mesmerized by them, enchanted by them, consumed by them. I can have good, satisfying sex with a woman without touching or even seeing her feet at all, but touching them, licking them, pressing them against my body is, for me, the highest point of any sexual relationship. What really gets me going and what really can make me howl and scream and lose myself. Now, Nancy knew it; Susan didn’t. In fact, I had thought of telling this to her, but at one point she had started talking about “those weirdos and perverts” who “like to do strange stuff in bed”, so I kept my mouth shut and made the most of the few opportunities I had to touch or even see Susan’s (or other women’s) feet.
And now, after a year without any proper foot action, I could feel Nancy’s toes caressing my inner thigh. I didn’t want it to stop. And Nancy knew it.
“So? What do you say? Does she do this?”, she repeated.
“That’s not… you shouldn’t…”, I mumbled.
“Just what I thought. She doesn’t know about your little ‘kink’, does she?”
I wanted to reply “That’s none of your business”, but at that point her foot finally made its way to my crotch, and pressed it firmly. I almost jumped off my chair… but I didn’t. Instead, I closed my eyes and swallowed, overwhelmed by a rush of pleasure and lust.
“Don’t close your eyes. Look at me”, Nancy commanded. And so I did. Her eyes… have I talked already about how deep her eyes looked? How they seemed to capture all the light in the room and make it twirl in spirals and circles and stars?
“Yes, that’s right”, Nancy continued, while her foot started tracing circles around the tip of my erect penis. “Look at them, look into them. Look deep into my eyes. Look deeper and depper into my eyes. Feel the power of my eyes and of my soothing voice. You know that you can trust me and my eyes and my voice. Now, tell me the truth, does Susan ever let you touch her feet?”
I felt dizzy: the wine, the heat, Nancy’s foot rubbing me, her penetrating eyes fixated in mine…
“Huh”, was all I got to answer.
“And you miss touching a woman’s foot, don’t you. You don’t need to answer; I can feel it by the bulk in your pants. Look into my eyes. Keep staring into my eyes. I want you to look into my eyes and listen to my voice, listen to my voice and feel the pleasure that comes from looking into my eyes and listening to me.”
Her foot kept pressing my cock at regular intervals, not too fast, making the pleasure grow but not go over the top.
“I want you to remember all those times that I let you touch my feet, lick my feet, worship my feet. I want you to remember every footjob that I did to you. I want you to fill your mind with images of my feet and all the pleasure they gave you.”
I looked into her eyes but instead, in my mind I saw her sexy, perfectly arched feet, with her cute playful and skillful toes (the same toes that now were playing with my balls under the table).
“I want you to focus on my voice, on the pleasure that my voice and my eyes bring to you. I want you to lose yourself completely in my voice, and think only about me, and the pleasure I give you, the immense pleasure my feet can provide”.
I don’t know how long this lasted. I kept looking into her eyes, and feeling the pressure of her foot against my dick, rubbing it up and down, in circles, playing with it but never stroking it too hard or too rapidly. I was in bliss; I was in hell. Nancy was still talking about how I could trust her, how I should trust her, how I had to trust her, and nobody else, because only her could give me pleasure like this.
And then, suddenly, she stopped. I almost cried in agony.
“Now”, she was saying, “think about that Susan you are dating”
“Please”, I wept, “don’t stop”
“Shut up”, she almost shouted, sharply. “Think about Susan, think about her and the pleasure she is taking away from you. How she doesn’t make you happy, how miserable she makes you in fact”.
I didn’t know, was I miserable? I was miserable at that moment, wishing for Nancy to keep caressing me with her feet. And it was all Susan’s fault. Yes. It was all Susan’s fault. Susan was making me miserable. Susan was taking pleasure away from me.
“Say it”, Nancy commanded. “Say that you hate Susan”.
“I… I…” Did I? “I…”
“Look into my eyes. Look deep into my eyes. Say that you hate Susan or you will never touch my feet again. Say it!”
I couldn’t resist those eyes, those sparkling, alluring eyes.
“I hate Susan”, I said, finally.
“I hate Susan”
“I hate Susan”
“Very well, my slave”, Nancy said, and placed her foot once again on my crotch, projecting me into pure and almost painful ecstasy.
“Don’t cum yet”, she commanded, “and keep looking at my eyes. Now, I am going to let you touch my foot. That’s right, you can grab it. You can grab I and rub it against your cock, but you can’t cum yet. Go ahead, do it”
And so I did, and I felt pleasure and pain like I had never felt before. Her sole was tender, silky and cold. I grabbed it by the ankle and firmly pressed it against me, almost making Nancy fall from her chair. And I pressed it, and I pressed it. I was way passed the point of no return. I was way passed my usual cumming point.
“That’s right, feel it feel the pleasure that only my feet can give you, feel the pleasure that only I can give you, the pleasure that Susan is stealing from you. Look into my eyes. I will let you cum in a moment. But first, you have to surrender completely to me. To my eyes. To my voice. To my feet. Say it. Say that you are my slave”.
I gasped for air, tried to focus.
“Say that you are my slave, and I will let you cum”
“I… I am your… slave”, I said, marking every word with a new rub (up, down, up, down) of her foot in my penis.
“Say that you surrender yourself to me”
“I surrender… to you”
“Say that you will obey me and worship me”
“I will… obey… you. I will worship… you”
“Say that you are my slave”
“I am… your… slave”
“Say that you are my slave”
“I am… your… slave”
“Say that you are my slave”
“I am… your… slave”
“Very well, you can come now, slave”
And I did, and it was the strongest, longest, more powerful orgasm I had ever felt. I kept pressing her foot against me, even if my back was arching, my muscles spasmed and my mouth shouted Nancy’s name over and over again without my control. At that instant, my mind permanently melted: it became a shrine to Nancy’s feet, to Nancy’s body, to Nancy’s voice. Nancy, my new mistress.
When I opened my eyes, my pants were soaked in semen, and a waiter was politely but firmly asking us to leave the restaurant. Immediately. And Nancy was smiling (grinning) again.
What came after that, dear reader, my friend, my brother, my equal, you can very much guess it for yourself, so I won’t bore you with it. You have read it in other stories, because it’s an old story of sex, control and submission.
Nancy made me pay for dinner, and leave a generous tip. She made me order a cab, and pay for it (and leave a generous tip). When we got to her apartment, she made me undress, lay down on the floor (where, as she graciously pointed out, I could worship her feet better) and lick her and pleasure her for hours. Then, she made me fuck her slowly, steadily, patiently, masterfully, for another hour or so. My dick was getting sore when she had her first orgasm. It was completely numb when the fourth hit. By the sixth, it was in pain. But I didn’t care, I had Nancy’s feet firmly grabbed with both hands, and I was happy. Finally, when she was satisfied with my services, she ordered me to cum on her feet and then allowed to fall sleep (faint would probably be more accurate) on the carpet.
When I woke up (still on the floor) I looked around, and I tried to recognize the room, the view from the window, even my clothes that lay on the floor in front of me. I didn’t feel much like myself. I tried standing up, but my legs were shaky. I sat on the bed and looked on the bedside table: I saw some books on hypnosis, some unopened condoms and what looked like the package of some strange looking glowy contact lenses. I started to reconstruct the night, and all came back to me. What I had done. What had been done to me. I jumped from the bed to the floor and looked for my mobile phone. I had 10 missed calls, 7 from Susan and 3 from work. My hands were trembling.
At that point, Nancy came into the room, wearing nothing but her underwear.
“Oh, you are up. You are stronger than I thought, maybe I will have to give you another session”.
I tried moving, but the image of that body, and of her naked feet rubbing against the carpet, made me shiver and lose all power.
“Oh, and by the way, don’t bother calling your boss or your girlfriend. I have already texted both of them telling them it’s over. It’s all over. Now, slave”, she said, pushing be down on the bed and sitting on top of me, “look into my eyes and listen to my voice”.
And that, fellow reader, my brother, my friend, my equal, is how I lost my life to my ex-girlfriend’s feet, and how I became her sexual slave, forever. And if I am happy that way (and Nancy says I am happy, so I am happy), who are you to judge me?