Foot Tease Story
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Foot Tease Story
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The other night, after I detached myself from the computer downstairs, Jeff and I retired to the bedroom. We were lying in bed, recounting funny Lily, Ben and Evan stories from the day. I was trying to manipulate a foot rub out of him by pathetically caressing his leg with my toes. My feet were still sore from the three hour stint in heels and I was desperate. Jeff blatantly ignored my efforts. Finally, I resorted to begging. Can you please just rub me? Puh – leeeease, Jeff?
Ugh. I am not rubbing your feet , he responded disdainfully.
Why not, I whined? You think my feet are cute. And they really hurt. Pretty please?
Your feet used to be cute, he answered. They used to be, um…uh…painted.
Well, he continued, they used to be cuter. Just, um… different… uh, just…
What? He defensively asked, after I shot him a look cluing him in that he’d said something really, really wrong. You’re, like, thirteen years older than when we met, he continued. Of course your feet look older. Do you think your mother’s feet are “cute?” As you get older your feet become less cute. That’s life. You know?
He could have said anything: Your feet are dry, Jill. They’re veiny. They’re rough. They’re scaley. Fat, even. But old? OLD??? They are none of those things, for the record. They could certainly benefit from a good foot rub with some moisturizing lotion, but are fine, and a mere thirty one years young.
This article was originally published on 12.27.2008
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So when we meet up, we usually hang out in the computer lab, chat, and joke around. It was always just harmless friendship- up until about a month and a half ago. I think she has just entered the stage of her life where she starts to like guys. I say this because of some of her recent actions which involve me and her.A few weeks ago, she began to interact more with me. It began with simple gestures, like touching my hand for a brief second. That began about six weeks ago, and had continued for about three days. After those three days, she moved on to more complex gestures. I remember one time when we were sitting in the computer lab next to each other, she was sitting on the seat to the right of me. She moved her hand over and put her thumb beneath my hand and above the mouse, separating my hand from it. She then placed her other fingers on top. I then realized what she was doing.
Because we were alone, I had no escape and I just sat there and grinned as she delicately held my hand. She did this for about twenty seconds, and then moved her hand away, giggled, and blushed. She kept doing this for about two more days, and to be honest, I kinda liked it. I didn't want to do anything with her, but the fact that she wanted to hold my hand made me happy. So I let it continue. Then, as time progressed, it began to get even more complex. We have bean bags in our small school library, which is vacant in the mornings. On one particular morning, I was resting in one of the bean bags and waiting for school to start. I smiled when Melainey arrived, and noticed something was different about her today...
She was wearing really short jean shorts that went up to about her thighs. I tried not to notice, but it was hard not to. She closed the door behind her and began to walk towards me with a smile. Melainey dropped her backpack and pretended to stumble forward. I could tell it was fake because of the way she did it (she purposely dropped her book bag in front of her). With that, she fell on top of me and "happened" to slide her hands up my shirt. She pretended to be embarrassed, and slid her hands out of my shirt. She did this suspiciously slow, however.
Then the morning followed as normal, with my hand held once before school. The next day, she walked in again and sat in the bean bag next to me. We chatted and joked around as we used to, and then she slowly slid her arm around me. I decided to mess with her mind, so I asked, "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," she mumbled, "just uh..."
"I'm just messin' with you," I declared, "to be honest, I kinda like it." I said with a grin.
She giggled and kept her arm there. I had her trapped now. Once again, she held my hand once and walked off to class, as did I.
The following morning, a Friday, I fell asleep in one of the bean bags. When I awoke, I was surprised to see that Melainey was sitting on my lap, sleeping. She adjusted in her sleep, and moved her cute little legs around mine, still asleep. I let her stay there and pretended to sleep, because honestly, I didn't want to ruin her fun...she was enjoying it and I could tell, so I just let her stay there. I woke her up five minutes before school began, and the embarrassment displayed on her face amused me.
After school that same day, we met up again. We were doing homework together, and we sat next to each other in the lounge, which has a table surrounded by twelve soft, comfy chairs. I helped her with her math and she found it to be a very frustrating concept. This is where my foot fetish slightly kicks in, so please, just read on. When Melainey gets frustrated, she takes off her shoes and dangles them from her feet as she shakes them around. I couldn't help but slow down my speech and stare at her feet. She noticed and looked at me with a grin. She took one of her feet and rubbed it up and down my leg as I continued to help her with her homework.
The next day, I confronted her about my foot fetish. She said if I paid her five dollars, I could do whatever I want with her feet on Wednesdays.
For you readers out there, I have two questions.
1) First off, I think I might love her. I don't know though. What's the next move?
2) What should I do about my foot fetish?
Email me your answers! Also, if you found this via Yahoo Answers, just leave your answers there. Thanks!
ajsiemonfla@yahoo.com
or
isafspecom@gmail.com
or
edenryder@yahoo.com
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I Went To A Foot Fetish Party, And This Is What It Was Like
Tags:
BUST True Story
, personal essay
, foot fetish
, feet
, sexuality
, sex
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At first no one talked to each other. We all stared nervously at our phones. Jerick, the guy who ran the show, descended a shadowy staircase in the basement of this Financial District club, sporting his muscle shirt, and began explaining how the night would proceed. Jerick, without a doubt a Jersey Shore native, would later strut around shirtless, exposing a topography of tribal tattoos. His eyes panned left to right; he was obviously hopped on uppers, clocking every girl. It was clear this was the initial "weeding out" part. “Look, there is going to be a process before the clientele enters," he barked. My face winced involuntarily at the word “clientele." He pointed both thumbs towards his chest. “I’m gonna be sitting over there,” he pointed to an isolated piece of velvet couch, “and one by one you will come and have a little session with me.” A collective breath was held. “Now, what does that mean? That means I’ll have a flashlight, some rubbing alcohol, and paper towel, and I will be inspecting and sanitizing your feet. Okay? Not every girl is going to make it, but I appreciate you coming down anyways. This is still a business, though."
Great. Ladies who put themselves in this position had obviously exhausted a multitude of options and now they stood to be disqualified from even this. Jerick continued with one last note. “The other girls, the uh, veterans, we may say, will trickle in in a bit and you can follow their lead. They will be sitting on the barstools and I want you to observe them, okay? Follow their lead. These are girls who’ve made decent money doing this. Now, the only downside to that is...they have their regulars, okay, which means, what does that mean? It means that they already have guaranteed clients and you don’t. The point is to meet someone who you know will keep coming back week after week.” I laughed at the thought of me developing any sort of kinship with these men that would compel them to return for my company. I would provide perhaps neat feet, but not much else. I was drawing lines in my head.
Jerick started turning to leave to his “booth” when a petite girl with a Russian accent and freckles popped her hand softly up in the air and asked, “But what happens with the men, and how do we collect the money?” She asked for everyone. It was understood that we were confused and now scared. “Oh, right,” he said, feigning coyness. “So the girls that get selected will sit around casually and men will come to you. Don’t worry, they will. Now, some of them are shy, so if you see a man looking at you, or standing alone, you should go up to him, okay? You don’t wanna be wasting money because some guy is shy, right? And speaking of money, you get twenty bucks for every twenty minutes you’re with a client. Usually the minimum amount of time for a session is twenty minutes. Now...” he looked directly at the petite Russian girl, “It is up to you what you do. Obviously this isn’t a prostitution gig, we would all get in a lot of trouble if it was.” He laughed out loud. “But they might want to touch, or kiss, or lick your feet."
He paused and looked around. "I might want to—I’ll walk around and sample some of you to see how we gel, okay?” His hands rubbed together as he said "gel." “I mean, I started these parties because I know what it’s like to dig feet.” That evoked an image of Jerick literally digging separate severed pairs of feet into the sand somewhere in South Jersey. “Okay,” he clapped, than left to his booth, sweeping up girls hands as he went.
The girls in waiting began to slowly form a camaraderie, trepidatious as it was. To my left, a Puerto Rican lady who looked like a real version of JLo initiated conversation by telling me about how she lost her law firm job and was now grabbing at any string in order to make ends meet. Everyone was wearing something black, but she decided upon a white sateen summer dress that suited her so well I wanted to grab her hand and leave. Next to the small Russian girl, who was to my right, was another Russian girl. This one was goth and voluptuous. Next to her was an aging and raging actress from L.A who had made the great move east for her boyfriend, who had left her upon arrival. The other girls kept their heads down and pretended to interact with their phones, which most certainly had no signal.
The actress asked, “Did any of you get a pedicure? 'Cause god fucking knows I didn’t get a motherfucking pedicure for these fucks. What guarantee do I have that I’d make enough money to pay for it? They said we’d make an average of $400 tonight but, come the fuck on, $20 for twenty minutes and a million of us girls here, I don’t think we’re gonna make anything.” Distracted by the impending humiliation, I had forgotten to do the math and suddenly realized we were being swindled. It did not add up, 20 minutes equaled $20, and the whole "party" was only supposed to be three hours long. After all, if we were going to submit ourselves to this, we’d better have something to fall back on. Though I hadn’t splurged on a pedicure, I had purchased heels for the occasion, $40 I was now deeply regretting. After a few minutes, the Russian goth girl emerged from the back. "He said I was too fat! That doesn’t even have anything to do with my feet!” she said. I couldn’t imagine the embarrassment of being judged unfit for such a nefarious gig. The Puerto Rican lady and I assured her that it was a sham and that she would be better off. “Oh, that’s it!” said the actress as she stood up. “I’m not gonna sit there and have some good for nothing, greasy-ass-dick tell me how I look and shit. I’m outta here. I’m leaving with you, girl," she said while grabbing her purse aggressively and pulling out a pair of flip-flops she expertly exchanged for her heels. “See y’all." We could have all stampeded out of there right then, but f
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