by D. L. King
“I’m sorry,” Reena repeated. “I really am—”
“Not with words.” Elin stopped her as she placed her big toe against Reena’s quivering lips. With a smile, she tucked her toe between Reena’s parted lips. “It’ll take a little more than that to convince me now.”
Reena blinked. Was she saying what she thought she was saying? Her lips frowned in confusion, letting the other woman’s toe slide a bit farther.
Elin pointed her toes, touching the tip of her big toe against Reena’s teeth. “What are you waiting for?” she asked, eying her daringly. “I thought you said you were sorry.”
“I am,” Reena said as Elin traced the curve of her mouth with her toe, “it’s just—”
“Then show me.” She toyed with her bottom lip. “Convince me.”
Reena swallowed hard before opening her mouth to gingerly—tentatively—lick Elin’s big toe. The tip of her tongue slicked up the tough but soft skin. Reena closed her eyes and moaned as Elin’s taste, salty but so sweet, filled her senses.
“More,” Elin ordered, her dark eyes glittering as she gazed down at Reena.
Loving the slight growl in the other woman’s tone, Reena wrapped her lips around her big toe, sucking it deep into her mouth. She listened to Elin moan. Reena reached up to grab her with both hands, holding the writhing foot still as she moved from one toe to the next and the next. She gave each toe exquisite attention as she massaged Elin’s foot with her eager fingers.
“Mmm,” Elin purred, her eyes widening as she watched Reena. “More.” Reena saw the flush of her cheeks and heat spark in her eyes as Elin stared down at her. “I want you to worship my feet.” With a sharply sweet tone, she forced her foot farther against Reena’s face. “Don’t you want to?” she teased, obviously loving Reena’s brand of service.
Yes.
God help her, in that moment, it was all Reena wanted. She wanted to make love to this woman’s feet. Wanted to bow and grovel and beg at their anointed altar. Reena looked up from the woman’s foot and stared into Elin’s hot gaze and felt weak beneath this strong, demanding woman. The power she wielded—that she wrapped around her as sure as the clothes she wore—made the traditionally plain woman impossibly beautiful.
“Then do it,” Elin urged, her voice a coaxing command.
So Reena did. She gave the woman’s baby toe a final suck before nibbling down the side of her foot, making Elin squeal as she tried to jerk it away. But Reena kept her grip, soothing her skin with soft, wet kisses. She trailed her tongue down the center of her sole smoothly before closing her teeth around her heel, biting down, while she pressed her thumbs into the heart of her foot.
Reena smiled as the other woman’s knees buckled. She bit back a chuckle at the woman’s frown before she freed her foot. “The other one now,” Elin said firmly, brooking no argument as she lifted her other foot to Reena’s waiting mouth.
Without hesitation, Reena grabbed the proffered part and brought it to her lips.
“Excited,” Elin laughed throatily, “aren’t we?”
Reena moaned her assent around Elin’s slick toe as she let the toughened pad scrape gently against her teeth before she laved it with her tongue.
“Yeah,” Elin murmured, “you just love my feet, don’t you?”
Reena trailed kisses from one toe to the next before sighing contentedly around the other woman’s tender flesh.
Elin frowned again and flexed her foot, wrenching her toe from Reena’s mouth. “Say it,” she demanded.
Reena’s brow furrowed as she looked up at her. “I, uh,” she said before clearing her throat. “I,” she began again, realizing that she’d never really said something like that—never said those words, that felt so embarrassing, aloud—before, “think you have nice feet.” She’d said the words so quickly and so quietly she wasn’t sure she’d really said them. Biting her traitorous lip, she tightened her grip on Elin’s foot, trying to bring it close again, so she could fill her mouth with it rather than the words she’d been hiding for so long.
“Uh-uh,” Elin said, pulling her foot back. “Those weren’t the words I wanted.” Narrowing her gaze shrewdly, she pursed her lips and repeated, “Say it.”
“I,” Reena said tensely, “really like your feet.”
Reena winced as Elin swatted her cheek with her toes. “You like them?” she scolded. “Is that all?”
“I love them,” Reena said quickly, the admission slipping out automatically. Almost without thought as her mind swam with the sting of the other woman’s foot against her face.
It wasn’t until the words were already out there that Reena realized what she’d said. They echoed loud and shameful in her head. She peeked up at Elin.
She expected to see the other woman scowl with disgust, laugh at her, or at least have all that hot desire she’d seen in her black eyes cool and dim. But, instead, if anything, that fire flared as a satisfied smile curved her pale, thin lips. “How much?” Elin challenged as she pointed her toe again to gently stroke Reena’s abused cheek.
Reena felt something tight inside her—deep in the secret places she kept safe from everyone—let loose, freeing a lightness in her that she’d never felt before. She leaned her face into the Asian woman’s foot while it petted her, cuddling close like a kitten. “I love them so much,” she admitted as she closed her eyes and just let the sensation of the smooth skin soothe her.
“Tell me why,” Elin said, her voice soft but compelling.
“They’re so beautiful,” Reena said as she felt them run down one side of her face and up the other. “Soft and smooth yet strong and sure. They move with such grace and poise.” Reena inhaled, letting their scent, mixed with her oil and saliva, intoxicate her. “And they smell fantastic.” She turned her head slightly to lick the foot’s length. “And taste even better.” She couldn’t imagine anyone not falling for such beauty. “I just love touching and tasting them.” She reached for Elin’s foot again. She wanted to stroke and love them all night long.
Elin laughed, the sound rumbling sweetly with such satisfaction even as she pulled her foot back out of Reena’s grasp. She turned around and stepped away, letting her weight settle—just for a second—on Reena’s stomach, the pressure of her foot pushing the breath from Reena’s lungs. “That’ll do for now,” she said as she walked away.
“What?” Reena sat up, shocked and more than a little aroused, only to see Elin seated on the bed again, reaching over for her discarded stockings.
Calmly, Elin pulled the sheer black socks back on over her toes and up her feet and legs. She stood up, grabbing her pants before digging out her phone. “Oh, wow,” she said, glancing at the screen, “it’s later than I thought, but at least we’ll have missed any kind of traffic. The volunteer sheet said that you take the bus; I doubt there’s one coming soon at this time of night.” She zipped up the side of her pants and straightened her outfit, looking at Reena pointedly. “And you must be tired after working so hard tonight; I imagine you’d like to get to bed soon. Yours or mine,” Elin told her as she slipped her feet once again into her sturdy loafers, “I’ll let you decide.” She bent down and made quick work of Reena’s supplies, tucking them under her arm, and began to head toward the exit. “If you’re interested, that is.”
Reena’s blush deepened as she nodded and quickened her steps to keep up with the completely compelling woman. Reena grinned and looked Elin up and down, letting her eyes stay a bit longer on those steadily stepping feet. “Yes,” Reena said with a blush as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I’d like that very much; thank you.”
BLUE PLATE SPECIAL: YOUR BOOT ON MY CUNT
Avery Cassell
My fingers surreptitiously part the Kelly-green knit-cotton opening of my jockeys, and move quietly down over my soft belly bit by bit. I’m diligently working my way toward my cunt. It is Thursday, and so tonight’s Blue Plate special is Rose’s old-fashioned spaghetti with meatballs. I have a weakness for round food, so we br
ave the approaching dank fog to go to the comforting and ubiquitous Chow for dinner.
It is the fourth day of your two-week visit, and we’ve been living on chocolate kept in the nightstand by the bed, strong sweetened coffee, sharp mouse cheese, and rye crackers. The nightstand’s top drawer is crammed with chocolate, and the bottom drawer with extralarge condoms and evil little binder clips. The black metal wastebasket is overflowing with used black nitrile gloves, spent condoms, and gold-foil candy wrappers. We’ve already gone through two bottles of lube, beating our personal best from last April. We’ve broken one purple silicone dick clean at the base, and the bed has started to creak and shift in the lower right corner. My chest, the back of my thighs, and the crease of my ass are covered in crop marks, bruises, and bites, while you have a dazed smile on your face, along with several bruises on your left wrist and the top of your hand. We’re ready to leave the apartment in search of protein. We want sexy waitpersons serving us hot food and a meander through the streets of San Francisco.
As we venture out, we run into my neighbor, the elderly, bearded leatherman walking his slinky red dachshund, and he winks at us in the hallway. There is a George Jones song about what we are doing called “Leaving Love All Over the Place,” and I hum it as we saunter toward Church and Market. Down Octavia Street to Market, then turn left right past the cruisin’ Safeway to Chow.
But it had been what . . . an hour and a half? ninety minutes with our clothing on. Ninety minutes of walking side by side through the cool night air and then sitting at a table in a restaurant. Ninety minutes where I wasn’t coming, screaming as your hand slid sideways inside of my cunt. Ninety minutes where you weren’t slapping my face, causing me to gasp and sending hot sparks throughout my body. Ninety minutes where you weren’t saying impatiently, “Spread your legs. How can I fuck you if you don’t spread your legs?” as my legs trembled. Ninety minutes without resting my head on your breasts, while nestling my nose in your armpit to greedily inhale your musky scent. Ninety minutes without you murmuring “Dude, sweet,” as I came while squirting on our boots, the air filled with the scent of come and chocolate.
So, here we are at Chow. You are wearing tan Carhartts, your bright blue T-shirt, a gray hoodie, and a pair of big black boots. Blue is your favorite color. I’m in a tattered leather jacket, a long-sleeved red-striped shirt, my paint-splattered work overalls, green socks, and silver glitter Converse high-tops. After having spent four days fucking, we can’t bear to not touch at all. So instead of sitting across from each other at the tiny restaurant table, we’re sitting side by side on the long, worn wooden bench against the leaf-green wall. You’re fingering your hand absentmindedly, realizing that you have forgotten to put your rings back on after our last bout. My ass is sore, so I perch delicately on the edge of the hard bench. Our paper napkins are neatly placed on our laps, Mott the Hoople’s “All the Young Dudes” is playing, the warm air is filled with the spicy smells of cooking food, and we’re over-flowing with love and happiness.
We luck out and get the super-cute waitress, the voluptuous brunette burlesque one with the unfinished tattoo and dimples that we chatted up a few months ago, both of us flirting with her, passing her back and forth between us like a piece of red velvet cake. She brings us glasses of cold water, and then takes our order, winking at us as she walks away, her ass swaying in time to the music. We smile at each other contentedly. You’re looking at me, and it happens. You know. I’m staring at your lips, and all I can think about is kissing you; the way your tongue slyly snakes into my mouth and the prickliness of the hair over your upper lip. Your pale breasts, your flesh so round and soft. Your strong hands as they inch their way inside of me. You’re looking at me, and I’m looking at you, and suddenly we need to fuck. It has now been 105 minutes since we’ve been naked and sweating and yelling, with the cat hiding in the next room and the antique bed listing to one side like a sinking ship.
And that is when my hand starts sliding down, unzipping my work overall’s brass zipper, wiggling through the fly in my green knit jockeys, and finding my way to my hard clit. I smile knowingly at you, cutting my eyes downward to make sure you notice what I’m doing. You notice all right. The tiny pointed tip of your pink tongue pokes out for a second, you take a drink of ice water and whisper that when we get home you are going to tie me up with strips of rubber inner-tube and beat me until my face is covered in tears and snot, and then bend me over the bed and fuck my ass from behind until I’m yelling unintelligibly. My cunt throbs at your promises. I smile at you lasciviously, ease my thumb into my mouth and slowly fuck my mouth with it without breaking our gaze. I want to be on my knees sucking your cock. One hundred and five minutes is a long time to wait. Too long.
Just then our favorite waitress returns with our food; I pop my thumb from my mouth, look at the wonderful cylindrical meatballs and the tangled pasta covered in marinara sauce, and dig in. The food is fabulous and smashing. I’d forgotten that food could even taste like anything at all; all of my senses have been concentrated on fucking. All of a sudden I notice you’re looking at me with a strange expression and that you haven’t taken a bite of your roasted chicken or mashed potatoes. I manage a pasta-muffled, “Humph?”, as you abruptly stand up, walk around the table, and sit on the straight-backed chair opposite me. You then reach across the table to grab your plate, slide it over, and start eating. Your distance feels horrible, and I can’t figure out what happened. Why did you move away from me? I don’t want to say anything, but my feelings are hurt and I’m trying not to cry. I blink, tears misting my vision. I look down at my dinner to avoid meeting your eyes, and then I feel it. You’ve lifted your leg, stretched it out under the table, and your big black Wesco boot is now pushing up flat against my cunt. My mouth opens and a relieved sigh escapes.
Your big black boot is on my cunt. I say that sentence over and over in my head. Your big black boot is on my cunt. The toe of your boot is pressing against my clit and the heel against the rest of my cunt. Your boot is sitting there and not moving much, just a gentle rocking . . . barely enough to make sure that I know your boot is on my cunt. I take another bite of spaghetti and you lift your boot off of me, and then bring it down again slowly and gently. You exert just enough pressure to cause me to remember how two days ago you kicked my cunt over and over until I was sliding across the Persian rug in the living room groaning with how much it hurt and how much I didn’t want you to stop. In remembering, I gasp. We are staring at each other across the table and you are increasing the force of your boot on my cunt. I love those words, “Your boot is on my cunt.” You’re starting to kick my cunt in earnest under the wooden table, and I’m thankful for the tablecloth because it hides the fact that you’re viciously kicking me backward with your boot. I want to finish my dinner, because I truly do have a fondness for round food, and really can’t live on fucking and chocolate. Even fancy chocolate. I take another bite of meatball and you kick my cunt.
My cunt is already sore from the kicking two days ago, and you kick it hard just now. It is difficult to swallow when I’m on the rebound from your boot, but having a mouthful of spaghetti and meatballs helps disguise my grunts. Six of one and half a dozen of the other; which is better, getting kicked with a mouthful of spaghetti or getting kicked without one? You’re eating your garlic mashed potatoes and chicken dinner steadily as you pound at my cunt. Smiling as you cut the chicken. Smiling as you add extra butter to your mashed potatoes. Smiling as you stab your string beans with your fork. It is a hearty dinner for a hearty pounding. The force of your kicks drives my ass farther back onto the hard wood bench, and the pain of your boot on my cunt compounds with the soreness of the bruises on my ass. I’m breathing out soft puffy noises between bites of pasta, and deeper groans when my mouth is full. My nipples are hard and throb with the need to be twisted, but I can’t touch them while in the restaurant. This pounding isn’t going to make me come, but I’m not sure how we are going to walk a half a mile home without finding an
alley to fuck in. My cunt is swollen and dripping through my shorts. I’m done in so many ways; I’ve eaten the last bite of pasta, and wiped up the stray puddles of marinara sauce with a crust of garlic bread. I pop the final bite into my mouth just as you land a particularly sadistic kick. I groan, placing both of my hands palm down and flat upon the table. You put your boot and your fork down, smirk at my obvious discomfort from holding back, and you’re done too.
A few minutes later, our waitress leans over the table to ask if we want some gingerbread with pumpkin ice cream for dessert. She knows. I can tell. We quickly say “No” in unison, throw a handful of bills on the table, and thank her. She winks at the two of us as we fumble for cash to pay her, blessing us with her dimples. We need to get back home now, where we can fuck. I put on my worn leather jacket, you put on your plaid wool cap, and we walk out into the chilly San Francisco night. I’m walking a little funny, but so would you if you’d gone through two bottles of lube in four days and then had your cunt kicked over and over during dinner. You’re smoking one of your fancy Cuban cigars and keep worrying your fingers for your missing rings. You hold your arm out for me, and we link arms. We are walking down Market Street, the moon is a silvery sliver and the air is heavy with possibilities. The woodsy smoke of your cigar combines with the evening fog to make the air sweetly mysterious. We talk in low voices about food, fucking, and fashion. We’re both working on sewing projects, and discuss bound buttonholes, rubber gaiters, and interfacing. I adore bound buttonholes, and am attempting to make them on a plaid wool waistcoat. You’re fretting that you should use black instead of white interfacing for your tiger-skin lounge jacket. It is the kind of light mummery chatter that occupies us, binds us, and fills our time.