Wordlessly, she slipped her heel from her stockinged foot and set it down beside her. I looked on entranced as she slowly crossed her legs and slid her foot down the shapely curve of her lower leg, then flexed her toes, stretching the gossamer thin weave of her pale nylons.
"What are you doing?" I asked, feeling dizzy.
"I thought you'd like it," she replied, purring.
"You know I do."
"Well then."
She reached down and gripped her foot, curving slender fingers around that impossibly inviting softness. I watched as her painted toes rippled, five muted magenta jewels, a parade of perfection.
"Mmm," she sighed. "That feels so good. My feet are so sore..."
Her hand began to slide over her sole, fingers kneading soft flesh. I licked my lips and sighed. My cheeks were on fire.
"Can..." I started, but couldn't finish, paralyzed with doubt. She was my best friend.
"Can you what?" she said, smirking.
"You know what..." I whispered, barely able to speak, barely able to breathe. All I could think about was the what they must feel like... what they must taste like. It wasn't a new thought, but a resolution to my feverish wonder seemed unspeakably close.
She sat back on the stairs, resting her elbows on the next step up. Then she smiled. It was a look I knew. An expression I'd seen a thousand times in the years I'd know her. Determination, expectation... desire.
She lifted her stockinged foot and held out her leg, extending her toes so that they were pointing directly at me.
"Beg me."
I gasped in surprise. "What?"
"I said, beg me. If you want to do what I know you want to do, then you're going to have to work for it."
I closed my eyes and chewed on my lower lip. I was dizzy and warm, a product of the wine we'd drunk and the peculiar way that my best friend was behaving. It was silly, humiliating, more than likely her idea of a joke. I knew, deep down, that she was mocking me, mocking my fetish. It had always amused her, but she'd been respectful before. But now... I sighed, feeling my shoulders slump and my resistance fade. Even though I knew that it was likely a trap, I couldn't take the risk that it wasn't...
"Please, I beg you," I said, eyes still closed, barely able to look at her. "May I worship your feet?"
I braced myself for her mocking laughter and the belittling feeling of being used for her amusement. But, instead, there was only silence.
Finally, she spoke. "Yes, you may worship my feet."
"What are you doing?" I asked, feeling dizzy.
"I thought you'd like it," she replied, purring.
"You know I do."
"Well then."
She reached down and gripped her foot, curving slender fingers around that impossibly inviting softness. I watched as her painted toes rippled, five muted magenta jewels, a parade of perfection.
"Mmm," she sighed. "That feels so good. My feet are so sore..."
Her hand began to slide over her sole, fingers kneading soft flesh. I licked my lips and sighed. My cheeks were on fire.
"Can..." I started, but couldn't finish, paralyzed with doubt. She was my best friend.
"Can you what?" she said, smirking.
"You know what..." I whispered, barely able to speak, barely able to breathe. All I could think about was the what they must feel like... what they must taste like. It wasn't a new thought, but a resolution to my feverish wonder seemed unspeakably close.
She sat back on the stairs, resting her elbows on the next step up. Then she smiled. It was a look I knew. An expression I'd seen a thousand times in the years I'd know her. Determination, expectation... desire.
She lifted her stockinged foot and held out her leg, extending her toes so that they were pointing directly at me.
"Beg me."
I gasped in surprise. "What?"
"I said, beg me. If you want to do what I know you want to do, then you're going to have to work for it."
I closed my eyes and chewed on my lower lip. I was dizzy and warm, a product of the wine we'd drunk and the peculiar way that my best friend was behaving. It was silly, humiliating, more than likely her idea of a joke. I knew, deep down, that she was mocking me, mocking my fetish. It had always amused her, but she'd been respectful before. But now... I sighed, feeling my shoulders slump and my resistance fade. Even though I knew that it was likely a trap, I couldn't take the risk that it wasn't...
"Please, I beg you," I said, eyes still closed, barely able to look at her. "May I worship your feet?"
I braced myself for her mocking laughter and the belittling feeling of being used for her amusement. But, instead, there was only silence.
Finally, she spoke. "Yes, you may worship my feet."
