Incest Foot Fetish Stories

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Incest Foot Fetish Stories
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2207622-My-9-Year-Old-Cousins-Feet
Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Other · # 2207622
Created: December 12th, 2019 at 12:31 am
Modified: December 12th, 2019 at 12:31 am

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One day I was lying in bed waking up from a dream that I got turned on by. I checked my phone and realized it was a quarter passed 10. I got up and made myself some breakfast and continued down into my “man cave” or should I say basement. I was 12 around this time so I called the rooms in my house different names. Anyway I had my video games in the basement so I went to play Black Ops 2 on my XBOX 360. After about an hour of playing I got bored so I decided to go upstairs and go on my phone, but right before I made it to my room my mom came outside her bedroom telling me that my cousin, Bella is going to come over. Bella is 4”6 and has beautiful blonde hair. Her face is perfect and she wears size 5 or 6 shoes. My mom told me that she had to go to out of town for something so I have to take care of her, which I didn’t mind because I thought this could be a good opportunity to get some feet in my face. About half an hour later there was a knock at the door. I went over to open the door and saw my 9 year old cousin standing there. I invited her in and my mom left the house saying her usual goodbyes. After that Bella and I were standing there thinking about what we can do until I suggested we can play with some toys that I still had from when I was younger. Bella said ok and we went to my room. My mom wasn’t going to be back until the next day so we had a lot of time by ourselves. Bella took off her shoes while we were playing and I caught a small whiff of her smelly socks. I, of course didn’t say anything about it and I kept playing with tiny army soldiers while still smelling the faint smell of smelly socks. Bella got bored pretty quick because the toys I had were not really her type so we decided to go downstairs to see if she liked any of the video games that I play. She tried out a few and didn’t enjoy them so she said that we should play cops and robbers. I agreed and we started playing. I pretty much only played as a robber and when I stole something we made a deal that I can only crawl away. Well turns out I was at a severe disadvantage because whenever I crawled away she would always catch up to me and tackle me on the ground. She was enjoying tackling me and I was enjoying being dominated. One one of the rounds she decided to step it up a notch and play with me. When she tackled me she sat on my stomach and put her smelly socks on my face. She put her toes on my eyes and all I saw were her small pink socks. Her socks smelled so vinegary and had a sweet pure smell at the same time. I was pretending to struggle but I started to get hard, but luckily she didn’t notice. She smothered me for about 10 minutes then she took off her socks. She placed her socks on my nose and giggled that little girl laugh. She started slapping my face with her feet saying, “Smell my stinky feet” I was in heaven but she kept slapping my face with her feet making my cheeks red. I started to eventually cry because it was really hurting. She stopped slapping me and wiped my tears with her toe and put her pink pure toe in my mouth. I got so hard that I curved my body. She smothered me under her toes for another 30 minutes until she went upstairs and grabbed her shoes. She found some tape and taped her shoe to my nose while she laughed and giggled hysterically as she watched me suffer and cry for help. After a while she decided she has had enough so she took the shoe away and forced me to lick and suck on her feet which tasted so good. About 45 minutes later she told me that, “You have to do whatever I want, is that clear older cousin”? I felt like the luckiest 12 year old in the world. Later on in the evening we were watching some cartoons and she told me she was hungry. So I went and made us both a meal. Bella told me not to eat my food yet because she wanted to try something. I said ok because I was forced to listen to her. She then without saying anything stomped and squished my food with her feet and she put my food inside her socks and told me eat my food like a dog while she makes me smell her feet. The food tasted almost the same but smelled different. As I was eating I was thinking how does she knew about this stuff at 9 years old. Later on in the night we were about to go to sleep but Bella told me to sleep on the same bed, head to toe. “You can already see where this is going”. She told me to try to stick all 5 of her small toes in her mouth. I agreed so I went along. I was just barley able to do it. Bella said you have to sleep with your nose in between my toes. That was easily the best night I have ever had in my entire life. The next morning I told Bella that we should visit our cousin Hiedy. We live in a really small town so it’s only a 5 minute walk away. While we were walking I couldn’t help but think how attractive my 9 year old cousin was. I knew it was wrong to get any ideas so I just continued on the walk without thinking to much about it. We finally arrived at our cousin Hiedy’s house. Hiedy is 11 years old and is 5”2. She also has blonde hair and she has size 7 shoes. When we walked in we told her that we are bored and we wanted to know if there was anywhere fun to go to. She said we should all go to the park so we decided to go to the park. All we did was play tag and normal kid games. When we came back we were extremely tired and my two cousins took a nap. I waited 15 minutes to make sure that they were sleeping until I went and started to smell their feet. I first went to smell Bella’s socks and they smelled so sweaty and dirty. They were so hard to resist, I Immediately got hard and I rubbed my hard on her small socked feet. After around 15 minutes I took off her socks and sucked on her socks.. I didn’t even care if she found out anymore. Her feet smelled So strong my nose was tingling. I started to lick her feet, then all of a sudden she started moving, I got scared and ducked under the side of the couch. She woke up and sat there for a minute trying to figure out what happened to her socks. I chose a really dumb place to hide because when she got up she stepped on my face. When she looked down she smiled and started jumping on my body. She was laughing the whole time while making fun of me for liking her feet. Apparently all this noise was enough to wake up Hiedy. She barged in through the door wondering what was going on, when she saw Bella standing on my face. She first looked at us weirdly then decided she was going to join Bella. Her feet were larger, not by much but still enough to give an instant boner. As they both made me sniff their young pure feet, they giggled and said, “Smell our feet, Smell our feet”. They were moving my face around with their toes. They moved my lips around and made it sound like I said, “ I love Hiedy and Bella’s feet. Hiedy’s feet wasn’t as strong as bell’s feet. Hiedy put her socks in my mouth and put her toe in my mouth to to make sure that it stays. While Bella is rubbing her feet all over my face and acting like a 4th grader saying, “I am your ruler bow down”. This continued for two hours until Bella looked at the clock and asked me, “ Doesn’t your mom get home at 5:00 PM. I said oh yeah. My face smelled like smelly sweaty socks and feet for the rest of the day. (Hope you guys enjoyed this story is purely fiction and it is my first time doing this so feedback would be great)

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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


What I Learned When My Mom Nearly Trampled Me
On camp kickball and family dynasties
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Living with my boyfriend’s kids sucks
This isn’t my mother’s favorite story, because she thinks I’m still embarrassed, 18 years later, that a desperate kickball play ended with her literally crushing me, in front of a bunch of people at my grandfather’s church camp, people who had known her (and, by extension, me) forever.
On the contrary, that moment—the moment when I thought, “I’m only eight but my life is over”—encapsulates the best of my childhood. It happened on a cool summer evening, in the one place we always returned during my nomadic upbringing, the one place where everyone knew my name. Well, they did call me “Little [Mom’s name]” as often as not, but still, they knew what my real name was.
At my grandfather’s camp, I wasn’t “the new kid” or “the kid with nine siblings.” I was the beloved pastor’s granddaughter.
And, at eight, I was still young enough to think that all good things existed in perpetuity, suspended in amber that protected them from aging or, as happened to my utopia, growing ever-more-complicated before disappearing.
My maternal grandfather and grandmother emigrated from Chicago in the late 1940s, after my grandfather finished a WWII stint as a Marine. They moved to Texas so my grandfather could attend Baylor and Dallas Theological Seminary, and they established a nondenominational Protestant church in Irving, a Dallas suburb, in 1951. According to the city’s Visitors Bureau, Irving then had a population of about 2,615 and “stood on the threshold of unprecedented growth.” I imagine my grandparents chose Irving in part to harness that promise.
During my mother’s childhood, in the late 60s and early 70s, church attendance climbed into the 200s, small enough to breed a sense of family but large enough to fund and maintain ministries. My grandfather established a summer camp program along with a private school, which was maintained on a mini-campus consisting of my grandparents’ one-story bungalow, a two-story academy building, and a well-equipped gymnasium (electronic scoreboard, raised stage) doubling as the sanctuary.
The church’s success hinged on Irving’s new growth, but also on my grandfather’s remarkable charisma. He had a sonorous voice, a kind manner, a tireless work ethic and a penchant for scholarly theological explication with special attention to Hebrew and Greek translations. I think this made his congregation feel taken seriously, like students whose teacher decides to go off-syllabus, because they can handle it. Every sermon was taped and distributed nationally and internationally, and at least one couple heard the tapes somewhere in the Midwest, packed up their lives, and moved to Irving.
By 1996, the year I turned eight, the sheen of newness was gone and the church facilities, as well as people, were growing perilously old.
Irving had grown 64-fold to a population of about 170,000, with moneyed residents migrating away from the original suburban center. White flight in the face of a developing Latino community was the primary cause.
The church’s neighborhood was particularly stagnant, populated by gas stations, a dollar store, and a jewelry store that was never open. In time it also became increasingly crime-ridden, a problem best illustrated by the time the coin-operated laundromat next door started running a prostitution ring out of its tool shed.
Academy attendance was on the wane—most neighborhood kids couldn’t afford to attend, so many were on scholarships—and the school was constantly in danger of closing. The church could barely afford to pay the teachers, many of whom were loyal church members working for pennies. The academy building itself had an ancient dusty smell, and was decorated with a vintage Coke machine that rarely worked and stairs coated in dimpled plastic pulling away from the flooring.
When my family visited the summer Sunday services, there were maybe 30 other people there, most of them elderly. The scoreboard suspended at the back of the gym/sanctuary probably hadn’t been turned on in years.
Why things unraveled, I can’t say for sure.
Shifting demographics were certainly one reason, and efforts to recruit Latino neighbors into the overwhelmingly older, white church were largely unsuccessful – probably a case of being out of touch and attempting too little, too late. And as the church population aged, their children drifted to more modern churches or no church at all, reflecting a country-wide, cultural shift away from organized religion.
I could feel all of this, even as a child. There was always a sense that things had been better, that everyone was waiting for something to jolt the church back to its prime.
But back to the kickball smashing. When I was eight, I still thought the church would return to its former glory again one day. My main concern was that I was finally old enough to go to camp, a moment I had been anticipating for years.
Camp was the jewel in the church’s crown, and it remained robust while everything else shrank. It attracted people who weren’t regular members and even people who had left the church, with a dynastic set of families sending children and grandchildren over the decades. Held over two weeks in June (first boys’ week, then girls’ week, because this was a conservative Christian outfit and gender-mixing was not a thing) at Lake Murray in Oklahoma, camp began with a two-hour ride in a rickety yellow school bus with cracking green pleather seats, a ride that felt transformative.
I don’t think I made it more than a few steps off the bus before being swarmed by some of the staff, mostly church members and some ex-members, who made a fuss over my long hair and how much I looked like my mother.
My mother is my grandparents’ only daughter, the youngest of their four children, a blond beauty with a talent for art and pranks and generally enlivening everything around her. My favorite childhood story about her is how she tricked some boys into climbing onto the roof of the academy and then took away the ladder. The entire church adored her—even Mrs. G, a flinty woman we composed blasphemous hymns about [3] , who once threatened to send a sobbing girl home from camp for shaving her legs during prayer time.
Every summer, my mother brought us kids to Irving and made thing
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