by Ella Ford
I continue across the room, heading towards a booth that has free seats, moving without any conscious action or intention. I sit down on the comfortable leather seats and look down at the table in front of me. The scene shifts again and my focus blurs, then returns to clarity. I find myself sitting before a place set for dinner, expensive looking cutlery and multiple wine glasses looking like a scene from a fancy restaurant. Between the knives and forks and spoons is a metal half dome with an ornate handle that covers the meal within.
I find myself gripped by curiosity and reach forward, gripping the metal handle and lifting the dome from the plate. I gasp and touch my hand to my chest as I realize that in the place of a plate, there is instead another velvet lined hole in the table, and emerging from the hole is a pair of female feet. The feet are clad in sheer, black nylon, reinforced at the toes and heel, with a thin seam running across the soft sole and disappearing up the back of the calf into the table.
As I watch, the feet rub together, dancing for me and inviting me onwards. I find my heart beating quickly, hammering in my ears. I feel light headed and reluctant, yet strangely compelled to reach out and touch the writhing feet. I lift my hand and, with a trembling finger, drag a single nail down the wrinkled sole of one of the feet. The toes flex and splay outwards, stretching the thin nylon gauze, and my heart skips a beat.
I lift my other hand and wrap my fingers around both of the feet, holding them still, relishing the warmth and the silky smooth touch on my skin. I’m breathing heavily now, unable to control myself, knowing what I want, what I need.
I lean forward and open my mouth, pulling the feet towards me. I close my eyes and push out my tongue, ignoring the niggling feeling that what I am doing is forbidden or taboo, knowing that I want only to taste this delicious meal. I sense them now, so close that I can feel the warmth of them on my face, and smell their intense aroma - rich shoe leather and subtle sweat, it is intoxicating and overwhelming. I prepare myself, free of doubt and fear…
Buzz buzz buzz. My alarm wakes me up with a start and I sit up in my bed, drenched in sweat and trembling with the lingering memory of the dream. I can feel a dull throbbing between my legs, an insistent pulse that I try to ignore.
Damn, I think to myself, I’m going crazy.
Chapter 1: Monique and me
I’m Jessica Ridley. Jess for short, or Jessie if you’re my grandmother or really trying to annoy me. I’m twenty two, work in a library in the city and I’m painfully shy. Like cripplingly shy, to the point where I’d happily fake my own death to avoid a conversation with a stranger.
I guess I’ve always been a little bit different. Different from the other girls at school, different from my colleagues at work, different from my three sisters. If there was a model to conform to, I’d usually find myself as far from it as it was possible to be. While my friends were into boy bands and Taylor Swift, I preferred moody indie music and eclectic oldies. When a group was getting together to see the latest Iron Man flick, I usually made my excuses and went to see a Monty Python matinee at the run-down old picture house on the outskirts of town.
Consequently, I spent a lot of time alone, locked in my room, reading Dungeons and Dragons books that would never get played, or wasting away my life in World Of Warcraft. I was every nerd boy’s fantasy - a pretty and knowledgeable nerd girl with debilitating social anxiety! Form an orderly queue guys!
But of all my weird eccentricities and peculiar habits, I think the weirdest of all would be my attraction to (drumroll) female feet. I know what you’re thinking - gross! Right? Well, hold your horses partner and reserve judgement until you’ve read my kinky little confessional. See if you haven’t changed your mind about les pieds by the end of it.
Feet - my one weakness, my Kryptonite, if you will. As far as I know, I’ve always had this fetish, but the first time I can remember it playing a part in my life was way back in elementary school. I must have been six, or maybe seven, and my home room teacher was a pretty and unassuming woman called Miss Alexander.
Miss Alexander was young and unconventional, a free spirit in every sense. I can remember my dad complaining that she was into some “hippy dippy bullshit” and would probably turn every kid in town into raving communists. At the time, I didn’t know what a communist was, but I knew that I liked Miss Alexander in a way that I didn’t like the other teachers at school.
My overriding memory of Miss Alexander is that she would make us push our desks back against the walls of our homeroom and then gather on the floor around her as she sat on her stool and told us stories. She said that it invoked the spirit of the great American campfire. I’m not sure my dad would have approved. But it wasn’t this unconventional teaching style that I liked about her. Oh no.
Instead, I loved the way that she always wore pantyhose and strappy sandals, even in the summer. At the start of every homeroom session, I would race to move my desk and then skip back across the room to be first to sit down, securing my position at her feet. Then I spent the next hour gazing dreamily at her toes and the gentle arch of her sole. I stared at her painted nails, barely visible through the reinforced material of her nylon hose. I followed along hypnotically as she crossed her legs and bounced her raised foot with a steady rhythm while reading that day’s story.
I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the first manifestation of my foot fetish. Or was it the origin of my foot fetish, I’m not really sure. Did I have it this unconventional attraction before, or did Miss Alexander conjure it into existence with her pretty feet and painted toenails? Who knows? I’ll leave that one to the psychologists who study my work in future years.
Suffice to say, my course was set, and I spent my formative years stealing furtive glances at random women and their pretty feet, or finding excuses to shut myself away in my room and hungrily study the footwear and lingerie sections of my mom’s mail order catalog, not entirely sure to do with the feelings that surged through my body as I gazed at the soft nylon covered toes or intricate shoes and underwear.
As I sailed the choppy seas of puberty, I found myself gripped by feelings of guilt and shame, the twin offspring of my conservative upbringing and the need to conform. Increasingly, I found myself repulsed by my fledgling desires and pushed them back, deep inside myself. Instead, I channeled my energies into futile crushes on the cute bassist in the terrible Nirvana cover band that won the school Battle Of The Bands or the stern-but-fair math tutor who rocked a tweed vibe like Colin Firth in his prime.
But it was all a lie. I liked girl’s feet, simple as that, I just didn’t have the self-confidence to face that desire and wouldn’t until much, much later.
I graduated high school and spent three years avoiding social situations at community college, then moved out to continue my awkward odyssey in the big city. I found a pretty cool job at the library - about the only place where it was virtually impossible to get into a conversation with anyone - and rented a room in a tiny apartment that I shared with a girl called Monique.
Monique was my exact opposite - perky and vivacious, she seemed to have no trouble at all interacting with human beings and wanted nothing more than to propel herself forward into the adult world and Achieve Great Things. That was how she said it, just like that - capitalized and grandiose. She’d spend hours talking about how she wanted to graduate college, secure a full time position at one of the bland and faceless downtown corporations and then buy a nice tract house out in the suburbs. Sheesh.
Despite our differences, I liked Monique. She pretty much left me to my own devices and didn’t hassle me to come with her to parties or gatherings. She seemed to get that I needed my alone time and respected my space.
But what I liked most about Monique, though she doesn’t know this and never will, was the part that she played in the events that would ultimately lead to me meeting Miss Laura Todd, and the glorious awakening of my sexuality.
It all started one weekend in late July. It was Saturday morning and the library wa
s closed for essential gas work, so I had the day off. I intended to use the time wisely, to not waste this pristine gift of freedom on such a lovely summer’s day. After a long lie in, I was going to pull the drapes shut, fix myself an energy drink and a sandwich, then level my Warcraft alt to 90! Heaven.
By one o’clock in the afternoon, I decided to stop fighting against the cruel shafts of sunlight that were glaring through cracks in the window and get myself out of bed. It was early, and I was groggy, so I grabbed my robe and stumbled out into the hallway that connected the rooms of our tiny apartment.
As I staggered across the hall, I became aware of a commotion from Monique’s room. I stopped and listened, wondering what my roommate was up to.
“Oh no, this won’t do,” I heard her say, muttering away to herself in her thick, midwestern accent. Then a crumpling sound, the sound of clothing being tossed to the floor.
My curiosity piqued, I tiptoed across to her door and paused, listening for more clues. I raised my hand to knock and ask if she wanted me to fix her a coffee, thinking that was the kind of thing that a fully functioning human might do. But before I could do anything, there was another disgruntled huff, then something soft hit the door and slid down. I stifled a gasp as the door creaked open slightly and revealed a thin crack of light that let me see into Monique’s room.
I peered in, more concerned for her than anything. At least initially.
My roommate was standing in front of the full length mirror with her back to me. She was basically naked, wearing nothing more than a pair of white panties, matching bra, and a pair of sheer, tan pantyhose. I gasped, and slammed my palm over my mouth, suddenly terrified that I’d be caught. But Monique didn’t hear me and she continued to stare at the mountainous pile of dresses and blouses at her feet.
After a few seconds, she bent over at the waist and began to sort through the garments. My eyes widened as I gazed at her perfect ass, pointed directly at me as though she was aware that I was watching. I knew that I should look away, but found myself unable to, feeling transfixed by the way her nylon hose stretched across the twin mounds of her ass cheeks and the endless length of her legs. I studied the skin on her back, so pale and unblemished, an endlessly smooth expanse that demanded touching, caressing. And her feet, so soft and small, clad in the shimmering pantyhose material, her toes flexing almost imperceptibly as she shifted her weight. Abruptly, I became aware of my heartbeat, pounding away in my head, loud and insistent. I was sure that she would hear me, sure that she would turn around and see me lurking in the dark hallway. But I was paralyzed and unable to move, and continued to watch her.
Finally, she stood up straight, pulling a pretty grey dress from the complex tangle of garments. Then she reached her hands above her and slid the dress over her shoulders and down her slender body. Shaking her head and freeing her ponytail, she reached over and took hold of a serious looking blazer and slipped it on. Then she turned to the mirror and posed, placing her hands on her hips and angling her body so that her left leg was forwards slightly, revealing her creamy thigh and toned calf.
“Okay,” she muttered to herself, “I think this will do. Oh… one more thing!” She turned to the door and I gasped, stepping backwards and sinking into the shadows, ready to turn and run if she came this way. But she didn’t even look in my direction. Instead, she found what she was looking for beside the closet. She took a step to the left and disappeared from my view, then returned to the mirror seconds later, wearing a pair of black, low heeled pumps.
She posed again, appearing to pay particular attention to how her legs and feet looked. Finally, she nodded and made an approving noise, then began to undress, slipping the jacket off and folding it neatly on the chair beside her.
As she unzipped the grey dress and began to pull it over her head, I decided to leave, to retreat to my bedroom and sort through the mental images and invigorating emotions that my voyeurism had awakened within me. I stepped backwards away from the door and turned on my heel.
Suddenly, there was a loud creaking sound as I stepped on a loose floorboard. Damn, I thought and felt my heart skip a beat.
Through the crack in the door, I saw Monique spin around to face me, clutching the dress to her chest. “Jess, is that you?” she shouted, her voice sounding nervous and unsure. Did she know that I was at home today? Had I mentioned it?
I coughed, clearing my throat and thinking fast. My mind was racing. Had I been caught? Could I just sneak away and pretend this had never happened. Instead, with a trembling voice, I said, “Yeah Monique, it’s me. I was just … uh … I was going to go out for some lunch, would you like to join me?”
I’ve no idea where that came from. I never go out for lunch with Monique, or anyone!
There was a moment of silence, and I feared that she was about to burst out and accuse me of being a pervert, but eventually she called back, “Sure Jess, I’ll be right out!”
I breathed deeply, savoring the feeling of relief. Then it slowly dawned on me that I now had to go through an awkward lunch with a virtual stranger and my heart sank.
Lunch with Monique was predictably torturous, but I somehow managed to get through it. In truth, I mostly sat in silence while Monique droned on and on about her job, her new boss, some strange dress code that her employer was now requiring. For my part, I withdrew into my own world and tried to think about anything other than what I’d seen through that crack in my roommate’s door.
I didn’t want these feelings, these strange attractions! I wanted to be normal, to step out on the town with my main squeeze and go bowling with other couples. Instead, I found myself unable to think of anything but the smooth curve of Monique’s ass, the way her panties looked beneath the pale mesh of her nylon hose, or her pretty little feet and her perfect toes, painted and dainty and wiggling in my mouth. Oh god! I thought to myself as I glumly chewed down on my sandwich, what was wrong with me?
I felt like a pervert, a sick creep who spied on innocent girls for my own sordid enjoyment.
With new resolve, I pushed the thoughts back, quashing them whenever they arose and attempted to fill my mind with other thoughts. I woofed down my lunch and made a nervous excuse, then left Monique in the cafe and hurried back to the apartment. Finally alone, I shut myself in my room and sat on my bed, unable to concentrate on anything else but the familiar desires that had returned to my mind after many years of blissful absence.
Over the course of the following week, I regained a semblance of sanity. I plunged myself into my work and my hobbies, never allowing myself even five minutes for my mind to wander. I played Warcraft obsessively, watched endless cult films and trawled the flea markets downtown for old comics that I hadn’t yet hoarded. All the while I avoided Monique entirely. I made sure that I didn’t leave my room until she’d left on a morning, and I steered clear of the kitchen when she was cooking. I became a strange creature of the night, cooking after dark and showering at midnight. With glacial slowness, my hormones returned to normal and I found myself able to focus on something other than female feet.
And I firmly believe that I would have gotten away with it, if not for what I saw the following weekend.
It was Saturday morning and early, about eight o’clock, and I was where any civilized human being should be at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning - fast asleep and not intending to be anywhere else any time soon. Abruptly, I was awakened by the sudden blare of a car horn outside the building. I moaned and turned over, sinking my head into the pillow and cursing whoever would be so inconsiderate at this time of day.
“Aw, shoot!” came a voice from outside my room. Monique… “Coming!” she called out, and a distant part of me damned her to a painful death.
I pulled the comforter up around my head and buried my ears in my hands, wishing that this godawful torture would end.
Beep beep, the car horn blared again, insistent and urgent this time. I heard Monique’s door slam shut and the shuffle of a coat being pulled on, then t
he click click of heels on the wooden floor in the hallway. Finally, the door to the apartment slammed and banished any hope I had of falling asleep anytime soon.
I mumbled something unrepeatable and pulled myself out of bed, shuffling to the window where I intended to make an elaborate hand gesture at my roommate.
Pulling the drapes aside, I recoiled from the harsh glare of the early morning sun, then blinked to focus my eyes. I arrived in time to see Monique skipping down the steps at the front of the building to a waiting yellow cab. And here’s where the story starts to get strange…
My roommate was dressed in a most peculiar way, one that made me gasp with surprise and confusion. She was wearing a short, cream trench coat, one that barely covered her ass. Not normally a problem, but she seemed to be wearing little else underneath. Except for, of course, oh cruel universe, a pair of sheer black pantyhose and shiny, black, high-heeled pumps. I watched her totter down the steps and across the sidewalk with rapt attention. Her skirt must be very short, I thought to myself, more curious than aroused, at least at first. Her legs looked impossibly long, freed from the terminating hem line of a modest skirt, and the heels looked unfathomably high.
I felt a stab of jealousy as the taxi driver ogled her approach with lecherous eyes, wishing I could see what she looked like from the front. But she seemed to ignore him, and opened the rear door, lowering her body to sit down in the back of the car.
