It started with the most innocent of touches.
Sprawled out on the floor of Jane's bedroom, we were killing time in that familiar, lazy way that best friends had; shooting the breeze and flicking through glossy magazines, talking about boys and bands and the high aspirations of innocent youth. Then, without even thinking, I reached across Jane's legs to retrieve the latest copy of Marie Claire, a bold headline catching my eye, one that I can't even remember now.
As I reached, Jane shifted, crossing her ankles together, lifting her foot slightly so that her toes brushed against the underside of my arm. It was perfectly innocent, the briefest of contact, the kind of touch that had happened a thousand times in our long friendship, but there was something different this time.
With a gasp, I glanced down at her foot, an involuntary reaction caused by the minute tingle of pleasure that rippled lightly up my arm. My eyes fell on Jane's toes, encased in soft nylon, five perfectly colored jewels muted beneath the tantalizing mesh of her pantyhose. As I watched, she absentmindedly bent her toes back, then splayed them out, stretching the light material that imprisoned them. It was captivating, mesmerizing, provoking a sensation that I'd never felt before, a sensation that shocked me with its intensity and insistence.
I sighed quickly, looking away from the hypnotic dance of Jane's toes, a sudden rush of guilt and shame flooding my young mind. Then I grabbed the magazine and withdrew, trying to think of something, anything other than this new fascination that had imprinted itself on my thoughts so quickly and totally.
But the seed had been planted, taking hold in fertile soil, blossoming with notions and urges that were previously vague and unformed, but which now found substance with the haunting vision of Jane's soft feet. My mind began to race with a thousand new thoughts. What would her feet feel like? What would they smell like? What would it be like to touch my face against them, to bury my nose in the space behind her toes? What would it be like to taste them? To soak her pantyhose in my mouth's wetness?
My heart raced, my breathing becoming quick and shallow. I glanced over at my new obsession, following the lazy arc that her foot traced as she rotated her ankle, utterly oblivious to my growing interest. I became fixated with the bold line of the seam over her toes, perfectly outlining the undulating line of those captivating digits. Deep inside me, a warmth took hold, a tiny fireball that pulsed and grew with every sordid consideration or forbidden thought.
And then, with no conscious thought, I reached out and stroked my hand over her sole, caressing my fingers along the length of that impossibly soft expanse of nylon and warm flesh. She sighed and trembled at my touch, shaking her foot back and forth.
"What are you doing?" she said with a playful ignorance, unaware that my touch was anything other than completely innocent.
"I couldn't help it," I said distantly, gazing at her pale toes.
"Do it again," she said, fixing me a suddenly deep and distant stare, "it felt good."
I gasped, shocked and terrified in equal measure, unsure what her capitulation and permission signified, wondering where the line fell between innocent and sensual, but needing more than anything else to touch her silky soft foot.
I reached out again, and stroked my slender fingers slowly over her sole, gripping her toes and lightly tugging at her pantyhose. She squirmed beneath my fingertips and I heard her sigh. With a confidence that I couldn't place, I began to massage her foot, wrapping my hand around her, sinking my thumbs into the yielding flesh of her sole, relishing the way she trembled in my grip. I shifted my body until I was lying parallel to her, top to tail, my head directly above her writhing feet, never once relinquishing my grip on my silky soft prey.
Then I inhaled, powerless to resist the animalistic urge to fill my nose and throat with the sensual scent of my best friend. My mind exploded, invigorated beyond reason by the hot aroma of her. An intoxicating blend of sweat and shoe leather and sweet perfume, the distillation of a long day at the mall. My pussy surged as Jane's scent filled my senses, the fireball leaping outwards with throbbing pulses, saturating me with impossible sensation. I breathed again, filling my lungs, mouth hanging inches from her feet, eyes squeezed tightly shut. I felt wetness between my legs, a slick friction between my thighs as my pussy reacted to these new urges.
"Wh-what are you doing?" said Jane from somewhere far away, her voice nervous and trembling, thick with confused anticipation.
I panted, and turned to her, meeting her wide-eyed stare and fixing her with a look of hungry desire. "Do you want me to stop?" I asked.
She exhaled quickly, mouth hanging open, cheeks flushed with a ruddy pink glow. "N-no," she replied, uncertain but sure at the same time, the compelling paradox of her forbidden desire giving her pause.
But I didn't share her hesitation, I was no longer shackled by the limitations of friendship or the manacles of expectation. Something inside me had changed, desire given form by circumstance and sensation. I knew what I wanted, and there was no force in the world that could stop me now.
I turned back to her feet, soft and delicate and perfect in ways that I had never imagined. Then I leaned forward and wrapped my lips around her toes, wild now with a hot lust that made me hungry for her, desperate to complete the trifecta of sensation, adding taste to my portfolio of senses like a collector of pleasure.
We gasped in unison as my warm mouth began its sensual exploration, tongue flicking out and caressing her writhing toes. She tasted unbelievable, indescribable, a hot, musky flavor that ignited the growing conflagration in my body with its myriad dimensions. She moaned, and I felt her hand reach out and stroke my leg, trembling fingers tracing exploratory lines on my calf and thigh. But all of that was distant and vague as the focus of my awareness collapsed on the singular point of contact between my tongue and her toes, obsessively soaking her with my spit, greedily sucking and lapping at my best friend's foot.
It seemed, for one shining moment, as though I had reached a pinnacle of sensation, as though nothing could top the indescribable intensity of ecstasy that my hot worship of her foot had conjured into existence. I felt lightheaded and dizzy, overwhelmed by it all, throbbing pussy roaring with every new discovery.
And then, without warning, without build up or escalation, Jane placed my toes in her mouth, completing the sinful symmetry of our unexpected tryst, causing my invigorated senses to explode with a supernova of sensation!
It had started with the most innocent of touches, but desire is frequently born of innocence. And as Jane and I explored each other's young bodies that night, and on countless times in the weeks and months after that first, halting contact, I slowly came to realize that no touch is truly innocent.
Sprawled out on the floor of Jane's bedroom, we were killing time in that familiar, lazy way that best friends had; shooting the breeze and flicking through glossy magazines, talking about boys and bands and the high aspirations of innocent youth. Then, without even thinking, I reached across Jane's legs to retrieve the latest copy of Marie Claire, a bold headline catching my eye, one that I can't even remember now.
As I reached, Jane shifted, crossing her ankles together, lifting her foot slightly so that her toes brushed against the underside of my arm. It was perfectly innocent, the briefest of contact, the kind of touch that had happened a thousand times in our long friendship, but there was something different this time.
With a gasp, I glanced down at her foot, an involuntary reaction caused by the minute tingle of pleasure that rippled lightly up my arm. My eyes fell on Jane's toes, encased in soft nylon, five perfectly colored jewels muted beneath the tantalizing mesh of her pantyhose. As I watched, she absentmindedly bent her toes back, then splayed them out, stretching the light material that imprisoned them. It was captivating, mesmerizing, provoking a sensation that I'd never felt before, a sensation that shocked me with its intensity and insistence.
I sighed quickly, looking away from the hypnotic dance of Jane's toes, a sudden rush of guilt and shame flooding my young mind. Then I grabbed the magazine and withdrew, trying to think of something, anything other than this new fascination that had imprinted itself on my thoughts so quickly and totally.
But the seed had been planted, taking hold in fertile soil, blossoming with notions and urges that were previously vague and unformed, but which now found substance with the haunting vision of Jane's soft feet. My mind began to race with a thousand new thoughts. What would her feet feel like? What would they smell like? What would it be like to touch my face against them, to bury my nose in the space behind her toes? What would it be like to taste them? To soak her pantyhose in my mouth's wetness?
My heart raced, my breathing becoming quick and shallow. I glanced over at my new obsession, following the lazy arc that her foot traced as she rotated her ankle, utterly oblivious to my growing interest. I became fixated with the bold line of the seam over her toes, perfectly outlining the undulating line of those captivating digits. Deep inside me, a warmth took hold, a tiny fireball that pulsed and grew with every sordid consideration or forbidden thought.
And then, with no conscious thought, I reached out and stroked my hand over her sole, caressing my fingers along the length of that impossibly soft expanse of nylon and warm flesh. She sighed and trembled at my touch, shaking her foot back and forth.
"What are you doing?" she said with a playful ignorance, unaware that my touch was anything other than completely innocent.
"I couldn't help it," I said distantly, gazing at her pale toes.
"Do it again," she said, fixing me a suddenly deep and distant stare, "it felt good."
I gasped, shocked and terrified in equal measure, unsure what her capitulation and permission signified, wondering where the line fell between innocent and sensual, but needing more than anything else to touch her silky soft foot.
I reached out again, and stroked my slender fingers slowly over her sole, gripping her toes and lightly tugging at her pantyhose. She squirmed beneath my fingertips and I heard her sigh. With a confidence that I couldn't place, I began to massage her foot, wrapping my hand around her, sinking my thumbs into the yielding flesh of her sole, relishing the way she trembled in my grip. I shifted my body until I was lying parallel to her, top to tail, my head directly above her writhing feet, never once relinquishing my grip on my silky soft prey.
Then I inhaled, powerless to resist the animalistic urge to fill my nose and throat with the sensual scent of my best friend. My mind exploded, invigorated beyond reason by the hot aroma of her. An intoxicating blend of sweat and shoe leather and sweet perfume, the distillation of a long day at the mall. My pussy surged as Jane's scent filled my senses, the fireball leaping outwards with throbbing pulses, saturating me with impossible sensation. I breathed again, filling my lungs, mouth hanging inches from her feet, eyes squeezed tightly shut. I felt wetness between my legs, a slick friction between my thighs as my pussy reacted to these new urges.
"Wh-what are you doing?" said Jane from somewhere far away, her voice nervous and trembling, thick with confused anticipation.
I panted, and turned to her, meeting her wide-eyed stare and fixing her with a look of hungry desire. "Do you want me to stop?" I asked.
She exhaled quickly, mouth hanging open, cheeks flushed with a ruddy pink glow. "N-no," she replied, uncertain but sure at the same time, the compelling paradox of her forbidden desire giving her pause.
But I didn't share her hesitation, I was no longer shackled by the limitations of friendship or the manacles of expectation. Something inside me had changed, desire given form by circumstance and sensation. I knew what I wanted, and there was no force in the world that could stop me now.
I turned back to her feet, soft and delicate and perfect in ways that I had never imagined. Then I leaned forward and wrapped my lips around her toes, wild now with a hot lust that made me hungry for her, desperate to complete the trifecta of sensation, adding taste to my portfolio of senses like a collector of pleasure.
We gasped in unison as my warm mouth began its sensual exploration, tongue flicking out and caressing her writhing toes. She tasted unbelievable, indescribable, a hot, musky flavor that ignited the growing conflagration in my body with its myriad dimensions. She moaned, and I felt her hand reach out and stroke my leg, trembling fingers tracing exploratory lines on my calf and thigh. But all of that was distant and vague as the focus of my awareness collapsed on the singular point of contact between my tongue and her toes, obsessively soaking her with my spit, greedily sucking and lapping at my best friend's foot.
It seemed, for one shining moment, as though I had reached a pinnacle of sensation, as though nothing could top the indescribable intensity of ecstasy that my hot worship of her foot had conjured into existence. I felt lightheaded and dizzy, overwhelmed by it all, throbbing pussy roaring with every new discovery.
And then, without warning, without build up or escalation, Jane placed my toes in her mouth, completing the sinful symmetry of our unexpected tryst, causing my invigorated senses to explode with a supernova of sensation!
It had started with the most innocent of touches, but desire is frequently born of innocence. And as Jane and I explored each other's young bodies that night, and on countless times in the weeks and months after that first, halting contact, I slowly came to realize that no touch is truly innocent.
