by Ella Ford
There were beacons of hope though, the secretarial pool down on the fourth floor was a writhing harem of sexual beings; hot, young twenty-somethings with perfect hair and nails and long, long legs, more concerned with the latest shoes than the rearing of children. But these girls were all focused on cock, constantly wittering about the newest executive salesman up on the seventh floor, how shiny his car was, how perfect his groomed hair. In the early days, I tried to ingratiate myself into this horny herd, but found no responses to my overt signals of lesbian sexuality, found no-one glancing at my feet or legs. All of the weapons in my formidable arsenal seemed to have no effect and mostly went unnoticed. The kind of ordinance that would have had college girls dripping wet and begging for a taste of my toes - ludicrously unfashionable strappy sandals with nylon hose; dangling my shoe off the end of my toes until it fell to the floor, inviting some horny young girl to come and offer to pick it up - all frantic shots in the dark that fell wide of the mark by so far it wasn’t even funny. So I gave up.
For the first six months of my employment at Drake and Chesterton, I immersed myself in my work, trying not to think about my needs and desires while at the office. Outside of work hours, I dipped into the local lesbian bar scene, making fleeting acquaintances with lonely girls in the same position as me, never really connecting on a level deeper than the need to taste pussy or feel the hot warmth of female flesh beside you as you slept. And I never once found a single girl who loved feet as much as I did.
I began to fear that college was a mirage, a misleading notion of what life really was. Maybe everyone didn’t like feet?
Or maybe I was just looking in the wrong places…?
Performance Review
March, 2015
“So, Rebecca - Becky - how are you settling in at Drake and Chesterton?” the older woman said with a warm smile. Jamie Danvers was director of HR at D&C, a powerful, intimidating woman who I’d barely seen anything of in my time at the company. And now she was giving me my six month performance review. I was terrified!
“Well, uh, I guess that I’m enjoying my job,” I said. About the least meaningful thing you could say in a performance review.
“Good, that’s good Becky,” said Ms. Danvers, and then sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. We were sitting in her office, on a pair of comfortable seats around a coffee table. Minutes earlier, Ms. Danvers had snorted and shook her head as I started to sit down at her desk, then muttered something about wanting this to be a relaxed chat, directing me to these chairs, then stood up to join me.
I waited for her next question and studied the woman.
She was in her thirties, quite young for someone with so much authority and power, and still possessed the vitality of her youth. Her skin was pale and unblemished, not yet creased by the wrinkles of her age, her large, green eyes peering over thin, fashionable glasses at the open file on her lap. Her hair was jet black and perfectly arranged in a wide braid that fell down her spine and she was wearing a stylish black pantsuit with a crisp white blouse. But it was her feet that my eye kept being drawn to.
Underneath the pants of her business suit, she was wearing sheer black pantyhose with open-toed stiletto pumps. A thin, leather strap wrapped around her dainty ankle, held in place with a delicate silver buckle. I chanced a glance at her raised foot as she was rotating her ankle, admiring the muted red of her toenails through the thin gauze of her nylon hosiery. Without even thinking about it, I let out a soft sigh.
“Is everything okay Becky?” the older woman said suddenly, leaning her head to one side and touching the end of her pen to her lips. “Can I get you a glass of water?”
“N-no Ms. Danvers,” I replied, blushing furiously and gazing at the floor, hoping against hope that it would open up and swallow me whole.
“Good. Then let’s talk about your first six months.” She rummaged in her file and pulled out a piece of paper. “Ah, here we are,” she began, pushing her glasses up her pretty nose. “I asked your supervisors, Lisa and Elaine, to provide feedback on your progress. Let me see now… ‘diligent, hard-working, professional, excellent appearance’...” She paused and glanced at me over the top of her glasses, then continued, “‘keeps herself to herself, very quiet’.”
I sensed that she was waiting for me to say something, her final words hanging in the air between us like an accusation. “I’ve enjoyed working for them,” I finally said with what I thought was a warm smile, but which probably came out looking like a tortured grimace. I glanced down and my eyes landed on Ms. Danvers’ raised foot, lingering there for an awkward amount of time. She was still rotating her ankle, pointing her toes perfectly forwards then lifting them in a perplexing arc until the thin material of her pantyhose bunched in the crease of her ankle, forming delicate lines of darker material. From somewhere far away, I heard a voice.
“I’m a little concerned about that,” said the older woman, gazing down at her papers.
I blinked and tried to recall what she’d just said. “I’m sorry?”
She looked up and slid her glasses down her nose, then peered at me. “I’m a little concerned,” she said sternly. “In the PR business, we need energetic go-getters, team players who are gregarious and extroverted. I’m not sure you’d be happy in this industry.”
My heart sank. For all the lack of lesbian intrigue in this company, I actually really did like my job. The people were nice, the work was interesting and I’d genuinely thought I was doing a well. “I guess… I guess I was just finding my feet, you know,” I said and my eyes flicked back to her feet like a Pavlovian response. This time I found the seam of her hose, a bold line of stitching that lay across the top of her toes in a perfectly aligned line. Some women didn’t take the time to ensure this stitching was straight, having the seam vanish underneath their feet at skewed angles and ruining the effect of having their toes on display. But Ms. Danvers seemed to care, since hers was perfectly straight and millimeter perfect, outlining the perfect hills and valleys of her painted toenails. I felt a shudder of warmth ripple through my body, quite at odds with the possible end of my short career at Drake and Chesterton.
“Are you okay Rebecca?” said Ms. Danvers suddenly, cocking her head to one side and furrowing her brow.
“Y-yes, thank you,” I stammered and forced my eyes upwards to look her in the face. “I’m just a little nervous,” I added.
“Yes, right, okay,” she said, and looked down at her file once more. “There’s no need to worry Becky, I’m just trying to determine where in the organization your talents would be best suited.”
“Yes, Ms. Danvers,” I nodded.
There was a momentary pause in the conversation while the older woman leafed through my papers. “Ah yes, here we are,” she finally spoke, “your psychometric evaluation. You evaluate down to an INTJ, which fits in with feedback from your supervisors. Calm, methodical, leads from behind. And your client interaction scores were very impressive, especially with female subjects.”
She continued talking and I felt my mind wandering again. As Ms. Danvers read from the long passages of text that attempted to boil my personality down to easily digested chunks, she leaned back in the chair and uncrossed her legs, then lifted her other leg up over her right knee. As she did so, her pant leg bunched up her calf, revealing more of her nylon covered limb, confirming that she was wearing stockings or pantyhose for definite and not those misleading short nylon socks that I hated so much!
A sudden fantasy flashed through my mind. Jamie Danvers, naked but for her sheer black pantyhose; no panties, the complex folds of her pussy lips smeared against the tight, thin fabric that it was imprisoned in. In the fantasy, she beckons me forwards, then turns around and bends over her desk, resting her bare breasts against the cold, mahogany surface. She lets out a soft sigh, then reaches back and caresses her pantyhose covered ass. I drift along on ethereal, dreamlike limbs, then lower myself behind her, feeling the warmth of her body before me, touching my trembling hands t
o her firm, toned thighs. Then I lean in and bury myself in the softness of her ass and the moist cleft of her pussy and…
“Is something the matter Rebecca?” a sudden voice yanked me back to reality and I gasped.
“I-I…”
“Is something wrong with my feet? You were staring at them like a gawping yokel!” she snapped, lifting her foot up and pointing her toes to inspect her shoe.
“I-It’s nothing,” I stammered, wondering how on earth I was going to get out of this one. “I just… I just really like you shoes,” I managed to utter, resorting to the kind of secretarial banter that the girls on the lower floors engaged in.
Ms. Danvers smiled and glanced down, rotating her shoe admiringly. “Thank you, they’re lovely aren’t they? Italian leather, very expensive.” She paused and frowned. “But, oh boy, they hurt my feet after a full day of standing on them.”
I nodded sympathetically, staring at her raised foot like a medical professional. It seemed that in the working world, complimenting a woman’s shoes was a licence to examine her foot without the need for furtive secrecy! A sudden rush of sexual excitement rippled outwards from my pussy, and a bold thought occurred to me.
“I could - uh - help you with that?” I said, sounding timid and meek.
Ms. Danvers turned to me and peered over her glasses. “What do you mean Becky?”
“I - uh - took a massage course in college, I’m really quite good,” I lied. While it was true that I’d majored in female foot worship at college, it was a qualification that came with no certificate to put on my wall. Nevertheless, I was suddenly desperate to touch her pretty, nylon feet and a little white lie didn’t seem too reprehensible.
She looked startled, and a light blush crept up her cheeks, framing an impish grin. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” she said, furrowing her brow. “I’ve been in these shoes all day!” I got the sudden sense that her reluctance was less to do with having an underling massage her feet and more to do with her self-consciousness.
“It’s fine, I want to,” I said, trying not to sound like I was begging her - which I was - then I added, “and it would be good for my personal development to connect with someone on such an intimate level. To be more extroverted.”
She frowned, then looked down at her foot once more. “Well, maybe,” she relented, not entirely reluctantly. She looked up at me, wide-eyed and slightly flushed. I sensed a sudden shift in the power dynamic. “Wh-what do I do?” Her words were stammered and meek, but I got the sense that there was an element of facade there. She seemed almost too nervous.
I smiled and shuffled my seat forwards until the arms of the two chairs were nearly touching. Then I patted my lap and looked at her. “Put your foot here,” I said, suddenly struck by how commanding and in control I felt. Just a few minutes ago, I’d been wilting under this powerful woman’s assessment of my professional competence. Now I was giving her instructions.
Jamie Danvers sighed and sat back in her seat, then lifted her right leg. She swung her body around and lay her calf on my left thigh, positioning her foot directly beneath my head. I smiled at her, trying to calm myself as much as her. My heart was hammering now, the exquisite thrill of first touch powering my body with raw adrenaline and pure desire.
With trembling hands, I reached down and touched her ankle, lightly sweeping my hand along her nylon covered legs, pushing her pant leg up until it gathered around her knee. Not strictly necessary for a foot massage, but I wanted to see her pantyhosed leg so very badly. She didn’t seem to mind the exposure, and sighed lightly at my caress, an unconscious expression that she probably didn’t even notice.
I turned my attention to her foot and hooked my hand under her sharp heel, lifting her shoe. Then I began to unfasten the delicate silver buckle that held the shoe around her ankle. As my shaking digits worked, I brushed up against her, feeling the soft warmth of her foot beneath my fingertips, causing light sighs with every accidental caress. Eventually, the fiddly buckle slipped open, allowing the strap to slide free. I turned to her and smiled. She smiled back, but it was forced and distracted, barely taking her eyes off her foot in my hands.
Lowering her foot to my lap, I gripped the heel of her shoe and slowly dragged it forwards, sliding her toes out of their tight prison with glacial slowness. I loved this bit, dreamed of it endlessly - it was the unwrapping of a Christmas gift, the unveiling of a perfect statue, the slow reveal of feminine perfection. I glanced down as her foot emerged from the shoe, admiring the defined curve of her arch and the soft flesh of her wrinkled sole, visible through the sheer material of her hose. Feeling their restraint slip away, her toes wiggled unconsciously back and forth, a crimson ripple that spread down from her biggest to her littlest digit, stretching the nylon that encased them still.
I breathed in, barely able to contain my utter excitement. My nose was filled with the sensual scent of her, hot Italian leather and the vague insinuation of sweat, a heady cocktail that caused my mind to spin and my pussy to ache.
“Is it okay?” said Jamie Danvers from a million miles away. “If it’s too… you know… then just tell me and we can stop.”
I nodded mutely, then shook my head, unable to take my eyes off the perfect foot that rested in my lap. “I… put the other one up here as well,” I said, patting my lap beside her stockinged foot.
Obediently, she raised her left leg and lay it parallel to her right. I reached over and repeated the slow ritual on this new offering - lifting the leg of her pant, slowly unbuckling her expensive shoe before sliding it over her toes and placing it beside the other one on the floor beside me.
“You have beautiful feet,” I said with genuine sincerity, admiring the pair as they lay in my lap, toes barely twitching.
“I… thank you,” she replied, leaning back in the chair, her tone one of shocked bewilderment. “Nobody has ever complimented my feet before,” she added with a distant hint of regret.
I reached down and gripped her soles, wrapping my slender fingers around her arches. I suppressed a slight shudder as I touched the silky material of her pantyhose properly for the first time, attempting to experience every heightened sensation to it fullest. “Not even your husband?” I asked, attempting to make conversation with the sexy business woman.
She closed her eyes and sank back in the comfortable chair, sighing as my hand touched her feet. “Oh, that feels good,” she sighed. “Ex-husband,” she corrected after a several seconds of contented silence. “Eric wasn’t really into women, I don’t think. Nor men for that matter. He just seemed to hate any kind of physical contact, and he really hated feet.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I purred, “having your feet touched is one of the nicest sensations you can experience,” I added and lifted her left foot, enveloping it in my hands and gently kneading my thumbs into her sole.
She moaned, then sighed, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Oh god, that feels good,” she said under her breath, then lifted her hand to her mouth and idly pressed her finger against her lower lip.
I began to pass her foot through my hands, running my fingers over the smooth pantyhose, pulling at her toes. It was mesmerizing, watching her silky foot flow through my hands like dark water, captivated by the wiggling motion of her toes as she struggled to absorb these new sensations that she was experiencing. I felt a rush of warmth in my pussy, a sudden heat rising up through my body and causing my arms and legs to tingle with bold anticipation. What was happening here? Was I really seducing my boss? How far would she let me go?
Holding her foot up before my face, I slowly slid my hand down her leg, caressing the firm bulge of her calf, reaching the exquisite softness at the back of her knee. She moaned and shuddered as my hand explored her, lifting her other hand to her chest, laying her palm above her breasts. I watched as she breathed, following the lazy motion of her hand as it rose and fell in time with her deep inhales and long exhales. Still nibbling on her fingertip, she opened her eyes slightly and gazed at me t
hrough narrowed slits.
I leaned forward until her foot was an inch from my cheek. I could feel the hot warmth of her, could feel her sensual aroma filling my nose and throat until it it seemed like the only sensation in the universe. Then I touched my lips to her sole - not a kiss, more the hint of a caress. She shuddered and writhed in her chair, but didn’t attempt to pull away.
“If you’d like,” I purred, falling into the sultry sex kitten persona that I’d cultivated in college but which had lain sadly dormant for half a year, “I could use my mouth,” I added, peering at her over the nylon-covered ripple of her toes, my lips nearly touching her soft flesh.
She gasped, inhaling sharply, her eyes widening. “I’m… I’m not sure,” she breathed, chest rising and falling quicker now, “no-one’s ever…” Again, there was a hint of an act, a subtle insinuation that of a false persona. Was I as in control as I thought I was?
In my lap, her other foot slid back and forth, seemingly with a mind of its own. I felt it brush against my thigh, pantyhose sliding against pantyhose, pushing up against the hemline of my skirt to reveal more of my leg. My pussy ached, energized by the forbidden nature of this sordid encounter.
Without thinking, I leaned forward and plunged her toes into my mouth, wrapping my lips around her wiggling digits, tasting the salty damp of her pantyhose on my tongue. My brain exploded as hot jolts of electricity leaped around my body, overloaded sensations blanking my consciousness until my entire universe seemed to consist of Jamie Danvers’ perfect nylon-covered foot and my hungry mouth, both set against the constant, looming backdrop of my throbbing pussy.
I regained my focus, sucking hard on her toes, lapping at them and nibbling them with my teeth. I glanced up, following the long line of her leg, pants now gathered on her slender thigh. I forced myself to look beyond that sheer black feast to her face, studying her reaction. She was lost in her own private world of utter ecstasy, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open and moaning softly, full lips glistening hot pink in the last light of day. As I watched, her hand slid down her chest to her breast, finding the firm rise of her bosom and roughly kneading it.