I been taking a lot of wonderful fetish calls on Niteflirt!
One of My girlfriends from NYC wrote part one of this wonderful foot fetish story. Enjoy bois!
I’m on Fifth Avenue, half a dozen shopping bags dangling from my fingers, one of my little bitches credit cards snug the back pocket of my mini skirt, new shoes on my feet, and the sun is shining. The day is beautiful, early spring, and I’ve got a thin, sheer, white camisole on. Simple, and when men realize they can just make out my nipples through it, they lose their minds.
I like that about men. I like how easy they are to control. After one last street, and a few more dodged taxi cabs I see my target. The shoe store in question, a tiny place with strappy little shoes, few of which have less than four figures in their prices, but that’s not my concern, really. I pause at the door and glance down at my toes, freshly pedicure this morning. I can see the shiny pink polish peeking out the through sheer white of my Wolford stockings, and my pinky and ring toe are a hidden by the wide opaque white stripes.
The salesman nods at me, and gestures for me to come in. I step back and hold up both hands, filled with shopping bags which are in turn filled by pretty things I bought with money from men like him. Instantly he gets it (I’d been told he’s well trained) and he comes over and pulls the heavy thing open for me.
He is so very fucked already, and he doesn’t even know it.
I drop my bags by the door and tell him to take care of them, and he scurry’s to shove the behind the counter. I browse the place picking up pump after sandal after wedge after stiletto. When my arms get full, I snap for him to come over (he’s already hovering) and I pick shoe after shoe. “Size seven,” I say. “All of them now.”
He practically bows and say, “Yes mistr–. Yes, miss. Yes, right away.” He’s shaking hard enough to drop one of the shoes, then they all come tumbling down from his arms, clattering to the hardwood floor and he looks like he’s about to wet himself he’s so nervous.
“Pick them up,” I say quietly, and that seems to scare him more.
It takes him four tries to undo the straps on my current sandals, and I can feel the sweat from his nervous little paws as he trembles.
“I thought you were a professional,” I tease, kicking my toe into his chest. “Hmm?”
“I–I, you have beautiful feet,” he says, finally unhooking the strap. So slowly, so gently, he caresses the shoe off my foot. Then he covers my instep with a palm and curls his fingers under and sets my foot on the ground. I wiggle my toes inside my hose and he can’t seem to take his eyes off them while I do that, so I do it again.
“You going to admire my manicure all day, or are you going to show me some shoes and do your job.”
“Yes. Yes, I’m so sorry, I’m so–”
“Stop babbling and show me those. High heeled Mary Jane’s, patent leather, wedge heel. Black with white piping. Trendy, naughty, flashy, a little trendy for my tastes, but oh so shiny.
Reverently, he slips my toes in, then cups my heel and inserts that. “Perfect. Oh.” He slips on the second one and sets my feet on the floor, then stands and extends his hand. I stand, and I’m a few inches taller than him in these. I take a turn around the store, the heels must be nearly 6 inches, and they make my legs look a mile long.
He’s back on his knees, I realize when I turn, so I walk over to him, stand in front of him. He’s bent over awkwardly, and I have to laugh at him. Hard already.
“Stand up straight,” I say and he scrambles to his feet. I glance down at his pathetic little boner poking at the front of his pants and roll my eyes. “Do you think you can stop being such a pervert and do your damn job?”
He turns bright red. “Oh god, I’m sorry, please don’t, please.”
I turn and walk away from him, sit, extend my foot. “Shut the fuck up and do your job,” I say.
*
He can’t take his eyes off my toes as he slips shoe after shoe off and on my pretty feet. I swear I hear him moan a few times, and it’s all I can do not to dissolve into giggles at how pathetically easy it is to control him.
I point my toes and he compliments my arch, compliments my instep, stroking each as he does, and I swear to god I can see the drool in the corner his mouth. Time to move to the second part of the plan. Feeling inspired, I lift my foot, point my toe at the corner of his mouth and say,”You’ve got something there,” but its like he doesn’t hear me. His eyes follow my toes, like a dog following a ball. I actually move my foot back and forth a few times and it’s as if he’s hypnotized. I laugh.
“Can I touch it?” he begs, and he’s already lost. I’m not even going to have to try with this one.
“Sure,” I coo. “Sure you can touch it–” and before I can finish his hand tightens around my foot, and then he’s pressed my toes to his lips and he’s kissing one after another. I kick his mouth away.
“Did I say you can kiss them? Did I?”
He sort of whimpers, and one of his hands is sneaking down, in broad daylight. I don’t want us to be interrupted.
“Lock the door now,” I order, and he scampers to comply, then gets right back down on his knees in front of me.
“In the back,” I say. “Now. And take your hand off your pathetic boner. Go back there and wait for me.”
He goes, and I send a quick text message.
*
He’s got his hands in fists at his sides when I finally stroll back into the storeroom. Shoe boxes stacked to the ceiling, concrete floor, buzzing florescent lights overhead.
“Pants off,” I say, not bothering to hide my boredom.
Then I start laughing so hard that I have to grab the shelf to steady myself. Oh this is too much. “Look at the pretty panties,” I say in a singsong.
“No, they’re not mine, they’re, oh god, please can I touch it, please please.”
“Touch what? My feet? After you’ve touched that nasty thing? No way. And if they’re not yours, what are you, some panty stealing pervert freako? Some panty sniffing loser? Hmm?”
He makes a choked whine. “Yes I’m a loser,” he mumbles. “Yes mistress.”
“Don’t mistress me, you pathetic fuck. Those aren’t your mistress’s panties, why the hell would she give you her panties? Those are your faggot little panties, aren’t they?” I point at the hot pink satin stretched across his tiny little boner. “Turn around.” Of course it’s a thong.
“I’ll give you anything,” he begs. “Anything.”
“You’ll give me everything,” I say. “On your knees.” I order him to crawl over to the seat with the tilted mirror in the side, the one you can walk up to for a view of your shoes. “Now start jerking,” I say.
“Oh!”
“And don’t you dare come without my permission.”
“C-can I, may I see your toes?”
“Are you kidding me? Loser.”
That makes his widdle hand pump faster on his weenie. “I need to come, mistress.”
I kick him, hard, in the ribs and that makes him groan and squeeze, “Oh god, oh god, Oh please may I please may I come please?”
“I’m going to count to three I say,” and he cries out then. I yell, “Shut up. I’m going to count to three, and you’re going to come on that mirror, one two three go on you pathetic fuck.”
He does, big surprise that his little thing goes off so fast. His little thing squirts and squirts and he sounds like he’s being stabbed or something as he comes. I laugh, hard, then smack him in the back of the head. “Lick it up, fuckwad.”
“Wh-why?”
“So I don’t tell your mistress you’re a cheating fuck.”
That puts the fear of God into him and he’s slurping that come up in no time, licking the mirror clean, dragging his tongue up over the gooey mess. “There,” he says after one last slurp, “There, see, you don’t have to tell her. Please, please don’t.”
I hear a knock at the door and tell him to stay there. I let in the visitor, and we giggle as we walk back to the storeroom, heels clicking almost in unison on the hardwood floor.
When we get back there, he’s still licking the traces of come from his fingers, the little faggot. My friend laughs and he looks up, startled. Then he looks like he’s going to cry. “M-m-m-Mistress? This isn’t what it looks like.”
She and I just laugh harder.
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