Nylon Feet Mega Bundle

by Ella Ford

  The fantasy scene shifted slightly, adapting to my evolving desires. I realized that the girl was blindfolded and that her hands were held behind her back with an intricately tied harness of pristine white rope around her chest. The rope lay above and below her chest, framing her breasts like miniature works of art. She shuffled forward on her knees, craning her neck forward, swinging her head back and forth to find my foot. I moved to her, tapping my shoe against her cheek. She sighed and turned to it, feeling her way around the expensive leather pump to the stiletto heel which she gripped with her lips and began to slide the shoe from my toes.

  I felt my body tense, both in the fantasy and in reality. My hand was a quick blur now, pushing and sliding around my clit in tight circles. My pussy felt as though it was on fire, a pulsing ball of pure heat, radiating warmth into my body. I wanted to embrace this growing sensation, wanted to follow it where it led. But another part of me wanted to play out the fantasy, to savor this sordid journey of self-discovery.

  The fantasy girl peered up at me, blinded by the satin mask over her eyes, but finding me nonetheless. Her features were still not clear to me, fuzzy and indistinct, as though glimpsed through misted glass. My shoe hung from her mouth. I nodded and she turned to the side, allowing the shoe to fall to the floor, then she turned back to my foot. I moved my toes to her mouth, idly playing with her painted lips. She allowed my every whim, breathing quickly, deep sighs that seemed urgent and frantic.

  Her tongue flicked out of her mouth and glanced my toes, wet flesh on soft nylon. I could almost feel the sensation of her warmth on me, the fantasy was so vivid. Then she kissed me, pushing her face against the sole of my foot, manipulating me without hands.

  Between my legs, my sex ached, craving more, unsatisfied with the muted sensation of fantasy, demanding progression. My fingers slid through my dripping pussy ever faster, pushing harder, pressing, tugging. Climax was close, I could feel it, I wanted nothing more than to turn to face it and embrace this guilty, sinful release.

  The girl licked me, lapped at me, soaked my pantyhose with her mouth. Her lips wrapped around my toes, sucking at them, tugging at my nylons with her teeth. She nibbled her way along my arch, lovingly covering every aching inch of me.

  Suddenly, with an instinct that I couldn’t identify, I knew where I wanted her to go, what I wanted her to do. I knew that the journey that had begun with the worship of my feet was just the first step on a longer road, a road that followed the path of my legs to the sacred place above, a path that this unseen girl would willingly follow, and more besides. The fantasy expanded then, blossoming out to encompass the world of possibility contained in this forbidden pairing, in this uneven partnership of mistress and slave. A world of pain and pleasure, of exploration and exploitation, of restraint and tease, of torture and release, of possession and submission.

  And then, without warning, the fantasy girl that kneeled before me turned and lifted her head, my foot still touched against her chin, damp nylon dark from her ministrations. She spoke once, three words in a familiar voice. “May I, Mistress?” and I knew instantly what she meant and who she was. In a heartbeat, her face resolved, crystallizing into pristine clarity as she spoke the words.

  It was Kelly Connor.

  The orgasm exploded inside me without warning, sweeping away the fantasy like a titanic storm, blanking my senses, filling my mind with a sensation of white light. My body curled up on the sofa, knees drawn to my chest, hand trapped between my legs, fingers still pressed on my throbbing pussy. My entire body became gripped by an intolerable tension, limbs turned to granite. “Ah, ah,” I said out loud, squeezing my eyes shut, feeling sensations that I’d never felt before.

  Then, without warning, it ended, leaving me prone and limp, muscles twitching with the memory of animation. I lay there for several minutes, twitching, breathing hard, skin slick with perspiration, unable to focus.

  Slowly, like returning glaciers, my thoughts coalesced, focusing on one point. It had been Kelly. The girl in my fantasy had been Kelly Connor. My patient, my charge, my responsibility. Even as the echoes of pleasure faded, a new sensation rose to take their place. Guilt. The guilt of a trust betrayed.

  But there was something else, something different, another feeling that I almost dared not face, but ultimately couldn’t resist. Excitement.

  Session 2

  The week after Kelly’s session and my guilty evening of private pleasure passed in a blur. I had a hefty caseload of other patients to see, papers to prepare, the mundane administration of office life to oversea and action. In truth, I barely thought about Kelly Connor or the sordid fantasy that had thrilled me so much. Did you expect me to say that I was wracked with guilt, crippled by the subtle betrayal of the patient by the doctor? I could pretend, I could say that I spend hours lying awake, tossing and turning, struggling with the implications of what I’d done, searching for ways to make this unseen breach of trust right. I could tell you that I considered handing over Kelly’s case to a colleague, relinquishing the burden of temptation with some fabricated reason that would safeguard the girl. Perhaps my reputation would benefit from such a lie.

  But, if truth be told, I barely thought about it. There was no bitter recrimination, no soul searching, no ethical quandary. It was simply something that happened, something that was soon forgotten. I got off thinking about a patient. It didn’t seem like such a big deal at the time. Of course, I had no idea then what would happen next. Perhaps if I had…

  Kelly’s next session came without fanfare the following week. Another crisp afternoon, colder than the last, the leaves on the trees a minute shade closer to the regal gold that they would become.

  I don’t remember feeling much of anything at all when she entered my office, I don’t remember having a plan for the session or an expectation of how it would turn out. This wasn’t unusual. With patients like Kelly, I often preferred to improvise, dealing with each revelation or roadblock in turn.

  Without prompting, Kelly greeted me and stepped over to the couch, lowering herself down and back with familiar ease. I watched her cross the room, subconsciously taking in the gentle sway of her loose cream skirt, the tight lines of her body beneath her white vest top, the length of her legs.

  “Is something wrong, Dr. Vickers?” she said, gazing at me quizzically.

  “Please Kelly, call me Marie,” I said, for the thousandth time. “What do you mean?”

  “You were staring at me, you looked spaced out.”

  I smiled, inwardly shocked that she’d noticed. “I’m sorry,” I offered, “it’s been a long day.”

  She nodded uncertainly.

  “Shall we begin?” I said, changing the subject.

  “Okay.”

  “Last time, you were telling me about your dream, the one with the older woman...” I began, leading her.

  “Yes. I had it again since the last time,” she replied, closing her eyes. “It was different this time.”

  “How so?”

  “We went further. She made me go further.”

  “What did she make you do?”

  Kelly paused and furrowed her brow, then slowly began to recount the details of her evolving dream. “She made me take off her shoe.”

  “Go on,” I said, repressing a sudden flush of excitement. “How did that make you feel?”

  Another pause. “Excited,” she breathed. “It was like unwrapping a present. I wanted to see…”

  “Her foot?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “It was… there.”

  “What was?” I asked, but I already knew.

  “Her foot. It was so close, I could have reached out and touched it. I could have… kissed it.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Kelly opened her eyes and turned her head to look at me, blinking. She looked confused. “Because she didn’t want me to,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  It seemed re
markable that Kelly’s fantasy and my own had followed the same trajectory. I felt a familiar sense of excitement building in me once more.

  “Why didn’t she want you to, Kelly?”

  “She wanted me to be a good girl.” She said the words “good girl” as though they were a label rather than a description.

  “And what do you want?”

  “I want to be a good girl for her,” she whispered, then added. “But I also want to reach out and touch her. I want to kiss her. I want to know what she tastes like, what she smells like. I want to put her foot in my mouth, I want to know what her pantyhose feel like under my fingers. I want to worship her and make her feel good with my tongue…” She trailed off to nothing, as though suddenly embarrassed. Her cheeks lit up with a red glow. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I smiled at her, trying to ignore how her description made me feel.

  “Foot fetishes are not uncommon,” I said in a reassuring tone. “There are some theories that the foot is connected to the brain in the same way that genitalia are, so the foot is a kind of erogenous zone.”

  She looked at me, unconvinced, almost disinterested.

  “And fantasies of domination by women are more common than you’d think. Lots of girls your age fantasize about being with an older woman, being taken in hand, being submissive, obedient.” I stopped, realizing that I was getting carried away. I changed course. “Tell me, Kelly, have you ever thought about living out your fantasy?”

  She shook her head, sighing nervously. “Oh no, Dr. Vickers… Marie. I couldn’t I…”

  “I think there might be some merit in considering it. What you have, Kelly, is a paraphilia, an obsession with pantyhose and feet. While it exists in your mind, unfulfilled, it is causing a kind of paralysis, preventing you from moving on. Your brain is stuck in a loop, a loop caused by the fantasy. It is my feeling that only by confronting your obsession can you begin to move on. It won’t go away, not completely, it will always be a part of your sexual persona. But it will become a healthy background interest. Do you understand?”

  She looked at me with wide eyes, then nodded. “I think so,” she said uncertainly. She fell silent and gazed off across the room to the window beyond. A tall sycamore tree was swaying in the fall wind, an almost bare branch tapping lightly on the glass. “Dr. Vickers,” she began after a moment of silence, “can I ask you something?”

  I placed my notebook down beside me and crossed my legs. “Of course you can, Kelly,” I replied.

  “Can I try with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What you said… I mean, playing out my fantasy. Nothing disgusting, I mean. Just, you know, touching your feet. Getting it out of my system.” She spoke in halting words, broken phrases. She was nervous, uncertain, making it up as she went along. I felt my heartbeat quicken as she outlined her plan, my thoughts flashing back to the private fantasy I’d enjoyed the week before. Could I…?

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate, Kelly,” I said, keeping an even tone, trying not to let my excitement show. “I’m your doctor.”

  “But this would be part of my treatment,” she persisted, “you said so yourself.”

  “I meant that you should play out this fantasy with a girlfriend or a woman you met in a bar,” I protested. At once, she turned to me, breathing quickly, brow furrowed. Then she stood up and stepped briskly across the room, then dropped to her knees on the floor before me. “What are you doing? Kelly, I insist that you return to the couch and we continue the session.”

  But it was no good. My protests were half-hearted and barely meant. The sight of her kneeling before me, gazing up at me with pleading eyes… it was simply too much. A disturbing echo of the fantasy that resonated in my mind, awakening those forbidden feelings.

  “Please, Dr. Vickers,” she said, and for the first time, I didn’t feel the urge to correct her, to make her call me Marie. My formal title seemed appropriate, somehow.

  “Okay, maybe,” I said, unsure, walking uncharted ground that I knew to be dangerous. “It might help you, after all.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Vickers,” she said.

  I glanced around at the door to my office. It was closed. My secretary Chloe never interrupted me during a session… but what if someone came in? What if I was caught in this compromising situation, a young patient kneeling before me like this? I knew for certain that I wouldn’t be able to justify the therapeutic value of this unconventional treatment to others half as easily as I did to myself. To my surprise, the possibility of discovery thrilled me, sending waves of numbing pleasure through my body, radiating out from my pussy in hot bursts. I turned back to Kelly.

  “Cross your arms behind your back,” I said, knowing that, with this one phrase, the point of no return had been crossed. This wasn’t therapy, this was fantasy.

  Kelly looked initially confused, as if suddenly uncertain about her chosen course, but did as she was told, folding her arms neatly behind her back, pushing her firm breasts out towards me. I could see the outline of her nipples, forming inviting bulges beneath her white cotton vest. Her chest rose and fell with a quick cadence, breath coming in deep sighs.

  I sat back and gripped the arms of the wingback chair then lifted my leg, pointing my toes towards her.

  “Take off my shoe, Kelly,” I said. She shifted in position, loosening her arms. “With your mouth!” I snapped and she gasped.

  “Dr. Vickers, I’m not sure about…” My version of the fantasy was clearly not what she’d envisaged.

  “Do you want to get better, Kelly?” I asked with a smile. enjoying the way that the power had shifted back to me. I knew that what I was doing was wrong, beyond a shadow of a doubt. I knew that I would be fired, struck off, shamed and humiliated if knowledge of this betrayal ever got out. For the briefest of moments, I did pause, allowing my conscience to get the better of me. I pulled my foot away from her and forced myself to breathe slowly. But she gazed up at me with pleading eyes, a look of hurt gripping her pretty face, and I realized that I could no more stop this unforgivable breach than I could speak Chinese.

  “I want to get better, Miss,” she said.

  “Good, then take off my shoe,” I spoke calmly.

  Kelly leaned forward, as the girl in the fantasy had, then gripped my heel between her teeth. Slowly, with great care, she eased the shoe from my foot and slid it over my toes. Then she sat back, holding it in her mouth like a puppy. I lifted my foot, waving it in the air between us, bending my ankle to present the expanse of my sole to the young girl. She followed it with her eyes, breathing quickly around the expensive shoe. I bent my toes back, enjoying the feeling of freedom and liberation. My dark nylon pantyhose stretched around them and the bold line of the seam danced back and forth.

  “Would you like to touch me, Kelly?” I asked, teasing her with my toes. She nodded, the shoe bounced up and down. “Put it down, I want to hear you say it,” I said, as though her permission might absolve me.

  Kelly looked back at me, green eyes wide with confusion. Then she realized what I meant and turned to her left, allowing the black heel to fall to the floor. She watched it roll away from her with detached fascination. I wondered what was going through her mind at that point, what combination of sensations she was feeling. She turned back to me and fixed me with a serious stare.

  “Please, Dr. Vickers, may I touch you? With my hands?” she asked, idly chewing at her lower lip.

  I thought for a second, my conscience and my professional restraint wrestling with my desires in a battle that was over before it began. What is wrong with me? the fading voice of my turmoil cried as it drifted away to nothingness. “You may,” I said firmly.

  Kelly moved without question, lifting her hands to my outstretched foot. Then she paused, fingers held an inch from my nylon covered flesh. She sighed, breathing quickly in short gasps. I didn’t need to be a psychotherapist to know that Kelly was fighting her own internal fight, a war of sensations, a need to hurry a
nd a need to prolong this first touch, this first contact, the crystallization of all her fantasies. It was fascinating to watch her struggle, thrilling even. A warm buzz erupted between my legs, sending tendrils of exquisite pleasure out into my body.

  Taking a deep breath, Kelly touched her fingertips to my foot, gripping the curve of my arch and cupping my heel in her other pam. She sighed, relief palpable.

  “How does it feel?” I asked, sitting back.

  “Soft,” she replied without thinking. “Silky, warm.”

  I flexed my toes back, an involuntary invite.

  “How does it make you feel, to touch me?”

  She thought for a second. “Hot. Breathless. I have… I want to do things.” She traced her fingernail across my sole, causing me to flinch.

  “Naughty girl!” I scolded her with mock sincerity.

  “Sorry, Dr. Vickers,” she said, taking my reproach seriously.

  “It’s okay. Continue. You were telling me what you want to do?”

  “I want… I want to kiss you.”

  The thought thrilled me. My heart was pounding, out of control. I had to force myself to breathe slowly, to control the excitement that had gripped my entire being.

  “Then kiss me,” I said quietly.

  Kelly smiled and gasped, then leaned forward and touched her mouth to the sole of my foot. She closed her eyes, lingering for a moment as our bodies connected, then pulled away with a girlish smile. A shiver ran along the length of my leg and up my spine, an echo of the warmth of her lips that resonated through my body. I sighed, scarcely able to believe what was happening, scarcely able to believe how good that felt.

  “How did that make you feel?” I asked, touching my fingertip to my lips.

  She closed her eyes and leaned her head to the side. “Like electricity. Your foot is so soft, Dr. Vickers,” she said with a sigh.

  “What do you want to do now?” I asked, enjoying the blurred ambiguity between therapy and sex, ignoring the sinful truth that this was becoming more of the latter and less of the former. Had it ever really been anything else?