Climax: Volume 1

by Ella Ford

  I digress.

  So, I’m twenty four, five seven, nice tits and unruly brown hair that has been my curse since I was thirteen. I guess I should mention that I have good legs and take care of my feet, though I was never sure why I bothered. As luck would have it, on that particular day I had a day old pedicure on my toes and the skin of my shins still burned from the waxing that the Groupon offer had included. I’m telling you this to stay in genre, you guys appreciate that right? Sexy foot fetish scene setting.

  I wish I could tell you that I cut quite the pornstar figure for my steamy encounter at the coffee shop, but in reality it was my day off work and I was on my way downtown to collect some dry cleaning. My hair was pulled back in a slouchy ponytail, the result of about, oh, fifteen seconds of effort an hour before. I hadn’t bothered with makeup and the seductive outfit I chose to wear that day was my favourite pair of skinny jeans and a tight black t-shirt that hugged my breasts and informed anyone who wanted to know that I was a fan of Nickelback. Hey, no shame right?

  I was not exactly the sultry, sapphic seductress that you might expect. To this day, I have no idea what it was that attracted Samantha to me.

  Enough scene setting.

  On my way to the dry cleaner, I decided to stop off at Paolo’s, a tiny coffee shop off 34th that hadn’t yet succumbed to the relentless encroachment of Big Coffee and had somehow stayed off the radar of hipster culture. It was just a normal place, you know? Good coffee, friendly staff, no bullshit. I found myself dropping in for an hour of quiet contemplation a few times a week, ordering my usual skinny latte and sinking into one of the battered old chairs in the corner to watch the world go by. I guess next time I go in I’ll take my laptop and work on my book, The Great American Foot Fetish Novel. Ha-ha, right?

  I ordered my coffee and paid Josh, my server. The handsome barista had earned a decent tip by telling me “you’re looking great today Miss Fisher,” with what passed for genuine sincerity. I wished him a pleasant day and set up in my usual spot for some good old fashioned people watching.

  I spotted her instantly. Hard not to, since we were the only customers in Paolo’s that lunchtime, but I genuinely think that Samantha would have stood out in any room, no matter how crowded. Her presence shone like a beacon, drawing the eye and firing the senses. I want to use the word “breathtaking”, but I’m afraid she might one day read this and I’ll never hear the end of it.

  She was sitting across the room on one of the tables by the door, head bowed and lost in the important task of stirring her coffee. I guess I would describe her as elegant. Her hair had way more than fifteen seconds of effort invested in it. Honey blonde and wavy, it fell over her shoulders and down her back, resting on the chair back like spun gold. Too much hyperbole? Okay, I’ll reign it in a little.

  She wore a fuschia business suit, tailored jacket and tight pencil skirt cut above her knees. Her white blouse was crisp and provocative, with perhaps one too many buttons open over her perky chest.

  My eyes fell to her legs, crossed under the table and clearly visible to passersby. They were long and perfectly shaped. Not too thick, and not the kind of skinny that you see on some girls in New York that make you wonder how gravity hasn’t crippled them yet. She wore tan pantyhose, or stockings. I’m not sure which, though I could spend whole afternoons pondering this important issue. They softened the toned muscles of her calves and swished together in an infuriatingly compelling way when she crossed and uncrossed her legs. On her feet, she wore delicate, black high heeled pumps. The heel was high and thin and very precarious, lengthening her already endless legs and pulling the muscles of her calves into perfect definition. I felt my eyes drawn here, unable to look away as she lightly tapped her foot up and down.

  I should ask Josh to dig out the security camera from Paolo’s that day. I would pay cash money to see the look on my face as I stared at Samantha for the first time. I would imagine it was a cross between dumbstruck awe and mild incomprehension. How could someone so beautiful be allowed to roam the streets of the city alone? I felt about two strokes away from pulling off my sneaker and hitting myself over the head like Bugs Bunny in those old cartoons. Homina homina, right?

  I’m not sure I would say that I was immediately dripping wet with lesbian desire. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, but at first my interest was driven by her immaculate aesthetic rather than animal lust. At first, that is. Something about the gentle swell of her breasts as she breathed, pushing at the tight material of her blouse and straining for release. Her delicate features, demure and refined, full red lips and high cheekbones. And, of course, the long, soft line of her coltish legs.

  As I watched, she slowly rotated the foot of her crossed leg, pointing her toes in a lazy circle. I gasped, not really sure why. It was hypnotic, compelling.

  She looked up from her coffee, glancing over in my direction and catching my eye as I stared at her legs. She smiled. Not a wide grin, but a knowing smirk that set my heart beating. I blushed and turned back to my own coffee, suddenly wishing that the cup was large enough for me to climb into and hide from the blinding radiance of her gaze.

  I glanced up, daring to risk a fleeting glimpse across the room. She had returned to stirring her coffee, that mischievous smirk still on her face. My fleeting glimpse turned into a stare, unable to take my eyes off her for reasons I couldn’t fully articulate. I tried giving my best shot at subtlety, flicking my eyes around the room seemingly at random, attempting to appear distracted by my thoughts but landing back on her every fifty milliseconds or so.

  She wasn’t fooled by my discreet surveillance, continuing to wear that knowing smirk and occasionally lifting her gaze from her coffee to glance in my direction.

  As I half-watched, she lowered a manicured hand to her knee and leaned forwards slightly, stroking her hand down her lower leg as if checking the material of her stockings. Her foot pointed in my direction. She looked up at me as she reached her delicate ankle and winked.

  Oh. My. God. I suddenly realised that she was flirting with me. My mind raced and my heart pounded. I felt my face flush with excitement and something else. Something deeper and unfamiliar. A warm feeling in the pit of my stomach that radiated pleasantly through my body. Quickly Sarah, do something cool and irresistable, my mind demanded. My body responded by hunching my shoulders and lowering my head to stare intently at my cooling coffee. Smooth.

  After about a million years of wishing that I was continents away from this temptress, I risked another look in her direction. She’d taken a pad and paper from her purse and was scribbling something with an old fashioned pencil, the kind they gave you in middle school when you were old enough for pointy things but not old enough for ink.

  A movement caught my eye below her table and I glanced down. Her legs were still crossed, but the shoe on her raised foot was now dangling from her toes. As I watched, she rhythmically flexed her toes and caused the shoe to bounce languidly up and down.

  Now, I’m going to attempt to describe how this seemingly innocent scene affected me. You’ll have to understand that all of this is new to me and I’m describing raw feelings that I have no context for. I suppose other foot lovers will get what I mean, but the rest of you reading this will just have to accept that while you might not get it, I am at least attempting to be honest.

  My first glimpse of Samantha’s “naked” foot thrilled me! I was mesmerised by it, captivated by the delicate curve of her arch, the soft skin of the sole through the thin material of her stocking. I longed to see her toes, willing the shoe to fall to the floor and reveal them to me. I craved the touch of that perfect foot on my face, to plunge my nose and mouth to the gap behind her toes, to breath her in and taste her. I wanted to knead her warm flesh with my thumbs, stroke my fingers up her ankle to her shapely calves. I wanted my world to be consumed by that damnably perplexing thing.

  I realised that I was staring again and suddenly didn’t care. I just wanted to preserve this odd moment in my mind foreve
rmore.

  My trance was suddenly interrupted as my quarry misjudged her lazy dance and the dangling shoe slid off her toes and dropped to the floor. I caught a glimpse of the muted red of her painted nails before she put her foot on the floor behind her bag. I quickly looked away, but stole another glance at her when I sensed her moving.

  She was staring at me, her head cocked to one side endearingly as she bent to retrieve her shoe. Her gaze never left mine and I was unable to look away as she slipped the shoe on her foot with glacial grace. She winked again and turned back to her notepad, tearing off a sheet of paper and slipping the pad back into her purse. She stood, straightening her skirt and jacket and slung her bag over her shoulder.

  Too late, I realised that she was walking in my direction. My heart raced and I considered making a break for it or throwing myself through the window or something else to avoid this seemingly inevitable confrontation. My treacherous body failed me once more and left me frozen to the spot and watching this valkyrie approach. I did my best to appear nonchalant, but succeeded only in misjudging my elbow position on the table and slipping off the side.

  She reached my corner, seemingly floating across the room on a billowing cloud of perfume and rose petals. She looked at me quizzically, cocking her head to the side in that enchanting way. She raised a hand and dropped something on the table before me, then turned on her heel and marched out of the door to Paolo’s, not pausing once to look back.

  I watched her leave, mouth agape and pulse pounding in my ears. When I was sure she was gone, I looked down at the table in front of me and saw a folded piece of paper. I eyed it warily, as one might stare down a spitting cobra, then gingerly reached out to pick it up. I unfolded it, expecting something awful and inexplicable to happen, but found only a note scrawled in dainty handwriting.

  Hi,

  My name is Samantha.

  I’m staying at the Grand Plaza on 28th. Room 421. Stop by at 8pm, I’ll leave a key with reception for you.

  S x

  Oh boy.

  Chapter 2

  I sat and stared at the note for half an hour, poring over the delicate handwriting for hidden meaning or secret messages. I studied the front and the back, held it up to the light of the window and read those thirty words a hundred times before giving up on discerning any more information. It seemed clear, she wanted me to visit her hotel room and … and what? I had no idea.

  Why would one woman invite another to a hotel room after dark? My mind raced as I considered the possibilities. I ran through scenarios in my head. In one scenario, “Samantha” is a spy, sent to make contact with a representative of a foreign power. In another, she is a maniac, on the run from the state penitentiary and eager to taste human flesh once more. As I concocted and discarded unlikely scenario after unlikely scenario I gradually came to realise that there was one possibility I couldn’t dismiss, but also couldn’t face. The possibility that she wanted me for more than state secrets or the sweet thrill of cannibalism.

  Our encounter across the coffee shop, her fuck-me-eyes and elaborate foot dance, it all pointed to one thing. She wanted… me.

  I gasped, the realisation both sudden and obvious. My feverish mind took off in yet another direction, building on the shaky foundation of this thought. Fertile imagination took over, concocting a sequence of events that charted a possible future from this one chance meeting: I go to the hotel. I’m thrown down on the bed and ravished by Samantha, doing whatever it is that women do to each other. We move in together. We get married, blessing the liberal age in which we both live. We buy matching pairs of dungarees and get a bulldog named Spike. We visit San Francisco a lot and shave our heads.

  Wait! Wait! I stop myself and take a deep breath. That’s not me! I’m not a lesbian. I don’t have the right shaped head to be completely shaved and I hate bulldogs! True, I would look super cute in a pair of dungarees, but that’s beside the point.

  I scold myself for being silly. Samantha didn’t seem like that anyway. When I got to the hotel, I’d probably just find she wanted to get to know me, to chat like teens on a sleepover and drink red wine. She’s probably just lonely in a strange city and wants some company. Nothing sordid or anything. Yes, that’s probably it. It’ll be fine.

  I stop in mid-thought, catching myself as I realise something that shocks me. In all of my tortured deliberations over the tantalising note, I never for one moment considered not going to the hotel.

  ---

  The taxi pulled up beside the curb outside the Grand Plaza on 28th Street and I stepped out onto the pavement. I looked up at the imposing building before me and sighed. My heart was racing and my stomach churning, every instinct I had was telling me to get back in the taxi and go somewhere far from here.

  “Hey lady, you wanna pay me or what?” a voice spoke behind me. In my nervous state, I forgotten to pay the taxi driver. I blushed and reached into my purse and pulled out a fifty dollar bill. With shaking hands, I handed the driver the money and meekly asked him to keep the change, realising instantly that I’d just tipped him the price of the ride.

  “Gee lady, much obliged! Have a good night won’t ya?” and with that, the taxi lurched off from the pavement and into the night before I could change my mind. I cursed and turned back to the hotel.

  Not too late to back out, I told myself, at the same time willing my foot to step forward and take me up the steps to the entrance. A doorman hurried from inside to hold the door for me as I approached. He tipped his cap and looked me up and down, barely managing to conceal the sordid look in his eyes as he passed over my legs and cleavage.

  Now, as a first time lesbian, I had no idea what my new people wore to meetings like this one. I’d spent most of the afternoon flinging clothes around my apartment in a desperate attempt to pick just the right outfit, but couldn’t find anything that fitted the description of “clothes you might wear for an illicit rendezvous with foot crazy lesbian in a hotel downtown”.

  In the end, I’d decided to play it cool. Dress up as though I was heading to meet a date at a swanky restaurant and had just happened to drop into the hotel on my way past. Then, if the meeting with Samantha became too weird, I would make my excuses and say I had to be somewhere else. The perfect plan.

  I ended up wearing a figure hugging tight black dress, cut low over my chest and high on my thighs. My legs were clad in black thigh highs, smooth and sheer, with tall black heeled pumps. Even my hair would pass for socially acceptable that night, swept up and off my shoulders and gathered behind my head in a style that I thought screamed “kiss my neck!” I looked like dynamite, if I do say so myself.

  In retrospect, it’s obvious that I didn’t dress that way to legitimise some elaborate escape plan. No. The bare truth of it was that I wanted to look my very best for Samantha, regardless of what she wanted. I’d spent most of the afternoon thinking about her, about her gentle smile and her warm eyes. I thought about her body and her toned legs. I thought about the kissing her red lips and losing myself in her slender neck, feeling her soft skin against mine. Most surprisingly of all, I thought about her feet. I thought about what it would be like to take them in my mouth, to kiss her sole, to suck her toes. I was confused and thrilled by how much these thoughts aroused me, how much I wanted to make them real.

  I didn’t want Samantha to think I was dressed like that for anyone else but her. But I still had no idea why I was at the hotel that night, and continued to tell myself that I could leave at any time.

  I stepped across the lobby, heels clicking against the polished marble floor and feeling distinctly out of place in such a stately establishment. As I approached the desk, a kindly looking gentleman caught my eye and smiled at me. He was middle aged and refined, the perfect cut of his suit matching his thin moustache and slicked back hair.

  “How may I help you tonight ma’am?” he asked, the slightest trace of an accent coloring his words.

  “Hi. I’m, erm, Sarah Fisher,” I stuttered, immediately scolding
myself for using my real name, “I was told to ask at the desk for the key to room 421, Samantha…” I stopped, realising that I didn’t know her surname and slammed my mouth shut before I got myself into trouble.

  The clerk riffled through a pile of notes, pulling out an envelope and smiled broadly. “Ah yes, room 421.” He handed me the envelope and added, “Have a lovely evening ma’am.” I was convinced I could detect a sarcastic undertone in his tone, the way his eyebrows raised slightly as he pronounced the word “lovely”.

  I mumbled my thanks, and hurried away from the desk, not sure which way the elevators were but keen to get away from his obvious judgement. I eventually found my way to the back of the lobby and followed a sign for the guest rooms.

  I stopped in front of the elevators and pressed the call button, finally looking at the envelope that I'd snatched off the desk clerk. It was pink and smelled vaguely of perfume. The same dainty handwriting used on the note she’d left in the coffee shop was written on the front of the envelope:

  For the nervous looking brunette with the cute smile. Room 421.

  My heart skipped a beat as I realised it referred to me. What on earth was I getting myself into?

  A gentle ping from the elevator finally dragged me away from the envelope and I stepped inside, pushing the button to take me upwards. The ascent seemed endless, yet was over in seconds and I found myself stepping out and into the plush corridor of the fourth floor. My body was on autopilot at that moment. It felt like I was making no conscious effort to propel myself along, no sentient decision to turn left at the corner towards Rooms 420-439. My every instinct cried out for me to stop and turn around, maybe find a nice bar with a cute bartender. What did I think I was doing, coming to this hotel to meet someone I’d never even met, for reasons I didn’t even know? And yet, my legs continued carrying me forward until finally they stopped and parked me outside room 421.