by Ella Ford
She lowered her eyes with obvious embarrassment and a hot flush rose in her cheeks, making her face glow. “I want…” she began, then stopped, chewing at her lower lip and gazing off to the side. “I want to taste you.”
I nodded, feeling suddenly hot, buzzing with a nervous energy. I shifted on the seat and felt a slippery wetness between my thighs.
The words, when they came, fell from my mouth without prompting or conscious thought. “I want you to ask for what you want, Kelly, like a good girl would,” I said, my tone one of matronly command, using the phrase that Kelly had used herself.
Kelly looked up at me and exhaled slowly, then nodded. “Please Dr. Vickers, may I taste you?” she asked. Her obedience and submission thrilled me.
I nodded. “You may.”
Without another word or hint of trepidation, Kelly lifted my foot and swept her tongue in a broad stroke from my heel to my toes, drawing her warm flesh across my sole. I sighed and closed my eyes, gripping the arms of the chairs tighter than ever. Her tongue felt amazing, a real sensation compared to the faint facsimile of the fantasy. It didn’t stop there. Holding my foot in trembling hands, Kelly reoriented herself and began to kiss along the curve of my arch, moving slowly down the length of my foot. Every third kiss, her tongue would flick out and lap at me. Her eyes were closed, she seemed utterly enthralled by the task, fastidiously covering every inch of me with her mouth.
I glanced down, captivated by the sight of the young girl before me, committing the image of her worshipping my foot to memory, hoping to remember it forevermore. My eyes traced down her young body, taking in every minute detail. Her slender neck and creamy chest, the hot flush of her arousal plainly visible like a pink rash. Her button nipples, hard nubs under white cotton. She wasn’t wearing a bra. My gaze fell to her legs, coltish thighs spread apart as she kneeled. Her light skirt had gathered at her waist, giving the briefest of glimpses of her white cotton panties, so girly and innocent.
“Kelly, I’d like you to slip your hands into your panties and play with yourself,” I said without thinking, gasping as I realized what I was saying. “You may continue what you’re doing to my foot.”
Kelly sighed and sat back, blinking quickly as though unsure of herself. But then she nodded. “Yes, Dr. Vickers,” she replied.
Moving again, her left hand dropped between her legs and pushed her skirt up around her waist, then her fingers disappeared into the delicate band of her panties. She turned back to my foot, gripping my ankle in one hand now, and peered at my sole as though fascinated by it anew. I flexed my toes with impatient need, drawing her forwards with my beckoning digits. She leaned in again and buried her nose behind my toes, breathing deeply as her nimble fingers began their work.
“Are you wet, honey?” I asked. I had to know.
“Yes, Dr. Vickers,” she breathed. “So wet.”
Her body began to move with a slow rhythm, hand sliding back and forth, her mouth moving across my foot in time with her own beat, planting lazy kisses and quick licks on my soaked nylon. I gazed at her with utter fascination, watching her motion quicken, enjoying the way her flush deepened to a bright crimson, relishing every soft moan that escaped from her mouth. My own pussy throbbed, demanding similar attention. I wanted nothing more than to grab the girl and push her down, push her between my legs and have her take me away to the place that I wanted to be. But I knew that I must not, that I must resist, that such a surrender would be a step too far. As if this wasn’t already.
It is strange to think back now, but a part of me still viewed what was happening as therapy. As forbidden and taboo as that sinful seduction was, a tiny part of me still clung to the notion that it was all for Kelly’s benefit, that it would help her with her obsession, with her crippling need. How could I have been so naive?
Kelly’s hand was now a blur, moving in tight circles. Her breath came in shallow pants, eyes closed, skin pricked with beads of perspiration. Her entire body was rocking back and forth, back and forth, faster and faster, mouth resting against my sole, coming alive every few seconds to tenderly kiss me.
“Do not come until I tell you to,” I said without thinking. Where was this coming from? my conscience, demanded, what am I doing?
“Yes, Dr. Vickers,” she panted breathlessly. She began to moan. Soft sighs and sudden gasps, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Please, Dr. Vickers, may I? May I come?” she said, speaking her words carefully, as though desperate to make her case clearly.
I watched her move, watched her hand dart between her legs, watched her fingers grip my ankle, her tanned skin against the dark weave of my pantyhose. I gazed at her face, partially obscured behind my writhing foot, mouth still pressed against me, nose buried in my sole. Seconds stretched out to glacial epochs and still I didn’t speak. She had to know, she had to accept my authority. It was for her own good. Her breathing became frantic, deepening and rapid, drawing sweet air into her tortured lungs. Her forehead was drenched with sweat, blonde curls caught in damp ringlets on her soft skin. She looked angelic and sinful at the same time, bathed in the amber light of a late afternoon in fall, long shadows falling around her, framing her in the glow of her approaching orgasm.
“You may come, honey,” I finally said.
Her body reacted instantly, curling up and becoming tense, still clutching my foot to her face like a lifebelt. “Ah, ah, ah,” she gasped, rocking backwards and forwards, tense muscles on her neck lifting like cords of steel. She threw her head back, mouth open, eyes tightly shut and screamed a silent scream of release. For a second, I thought she might cry out, revealing this secret, sordid scene to anyone who could hear. But she held it inside her, channeling the energy of the orgasm into the tension in her limbs.
And then she was still, collapsing forward into a ball, rolling to the side and gripping her knees to her chest. For a minute, she lay there panting and I gazed at her, studying the slick wetness on her skin, the crumpled mess of her clothes, the long, endless line of her legs and her dainty feet in white sneakers. My guilt and doubt had left me now, all I felt was a hunger and an aching need, a burning desire centered between my legs. A need for fulfillment.
After a while, Kelly rose, propping herself on her hand and blinking, then she stood up and glanced around, unsure of herself. She looked shocked, appalled, scared even. She couldn’t even bear to look at me. With a sigh and a sob, she launched herself across the room, heading for the door with tiny, purposeful steps, straightening her skirt and vest, sweeping her damp hair from her eyes.
I watched her move with detached fascination, speaking only when she reached the door.
“Kelly,” I said, injecting the word with a heavy tone of command.
She stopped, hand on the handle, unable to move, unable to turn towards me, frozen like a deer in headlights.
“For our next session, I’d like you to wear pantyhose. Sheer and black, with flat shoes and a plaid skirt,” I said, peering down at my notebook as though detailing a serious requirement for her treatment. “Oh, and no panties,” I added as an afterthought.
Kelly sighed but didn’t speak. She remained motionless for ten seconds, then turned the door handle and hurried out into the waiting area.
Session 3
“I did as you asked,” she said, standing before me nervously, fingers fiddling aimlessly with the hem of her short, plaid skirt. Her eyes were lowered, focused on the ground between us. It was almost as though she couldn’t bring herself to look me in the eye. Or was it a sign of respect?
The time between our sessions was becoming like a blur of thoughts and emotions. After our last meeting, I’d remained seated in my chair for half an hour, ignoring any calls from my secretary, unable to move, rooted to the spot with a paralyzing combination of fear, guilt and desire. I was convinced that Kelly would run home to her unbearably right-on parents and tell them everything that I’d made her do. My career would be over, my life would be ruined. For every minute of that turbulent half and hour I stared
at the phone on my desk, expecting it to ring at any second and signal the end of everything that I’d worked for over the years.
But it didn’t ring, and it continued not to ring as I stood and left the office. It didn’t ring when I told Chloe to cancel my appointments and ignored her confused response, then hurried home and locked myself in my bathroom at home, tearing at my clothes with a feverish need to give myself the satisfaction that I craved. And when I brought myself to a quick and frantic orgasm, kneeling there on the bathroom floor, I thought of Kelly, I thought of her with my foot on her face, I thought of her hand sliding between her legs, panties damp with her own cloying desire. I thought of her expression at the moment orgasm struck her, eyes squeezed tightly shut, mouth open, every muscle on her body rigid and taut. I thought of the things I could do with her, to her. I thought of owning her, of possessing her, of using her for whatever sordid pleasure my mind concocted. I thought of her gazing up at me with wide eyes, ready, willing and utterly obedient.
When I’d finished, when the last vestige of sensual energy had left me curled up and prostate on the floor of my home, it wasn’t guilt I felt. It wasn’t fear. It was excitement, anticipation, the delicious sense of possibility that this new avenue offered.
And when the next session had rolled around, I’d forgotten, if truth be told, about my final command to her as she departed the previous session. So seeing her standing before me, decked out to my exact specification, was something of a pleasant surprise.
I set my notepad down and slid my reading glasses from my nose, folding them neatly beside me, then I turned to face her. Her expression was one of nervous anticipation, but also a palpable fear. To my surprise, this exquisite combination thrilled me.
She was dressed much as I’d asked her to. She was wearing a white blouse and black cardigan, with a blue-green plaid skirt that was short enough to be revealing, but not too short to hide her modesty. Her honey blonde hair was held back in a loose ponytail of curls that tumbled down her back like a waterfall of liquid gold. But it was her legs that drew my eye the most. It was the first time I’d seen her wear pantyhose, girls her age seldom did, preferring to show off their toned and tanned gym-honed legs. Today though, at my behest, Kelly’s legs were clad in sheer black nylon of exquisite quality. There was not a single blemish or imperfection on them. On her feet, she wore simple black flats, rounding off the picture of innocent youth that I’d hoped to paint. She looked perfect!
“I look ridiculous,” she frowned.
“Nonsense,” I countered, “would you like to take a seat. We’ll get on with your session.”
She looked at me with a confused expression. “I thought…”
“What did you think Kelly, honey?” I replied with an impatient tone.
“I… nothing,” she said, a mixture of disappointment and relief washing over her pretty young face. She turned crisply on her heel and walked quickly to the couch, resting back into her familiar position, stretching her legs out before her. I watched her move, studied her as she relaxed. I gazed along the length of her legs, savoring the sight of her. I had no idea what I was going to do, what I was going to say, how I was going to pursue this sordid whim to its inevitable conclusion. But I knew that I would do something.
“Where would you like to begin?” I said finally, picking up my pad and pen.
“Um, I’m not sure…”
“Did you have the dream again?”
Her feet were resting on the arm of the sofa, less than two feet from where I was sitting. As we began to speak, Kelly started to idly tap her toes together with the precise rhythm of a metronome.
“No,” she said. “In fact, I’ve had trouble sleeping.”
“Oh?”
“I can’t stop thinking about what we did… what you made me do. It’s...”
I reached across casually and took hold of the shoe on her left foot, then slowly slid it off. She sighed as I moved, then wiggled her toes in the air, an involuntary action.
“Go on,” I said, compelling her to ignore what I was doing.
“I keep remembering how it made me feel,” she continued, resting back on the couch, closing her eyes.
“How did it make you feel?” I said. I reached over again and slipped the shoe from her right foot. Then I idly lifted it to my nose and breathed deeply inwards, burying my face in the pretty ballet flat. It was quite new, and smelled mostly of shoe leather and perfume, but there was an unmistakable element of Kelly in that complex aroma, a hint of sweat.
I glanced over at the girl and found her staring back at me with quizzical eyes, gently touching her lower lip with a single, slender finger.
“It made me feel out of control,” she breathed in response to my question. “Having you tell me what to do, it was as though all of the weight had been lifted from my shoulders.”
“Did you enjoy the feeling?” I asked, my attention only half focused on what she was saying. Reaching to the side, I set her shoes neatly down on the table beside my chair, then turned my attention to her feet. From this close distance, I could clearly make out the fine weave of her pantyhose and the pristine artworks of her painted toes. Her foot was tipped with a dark helmet of reinforced nylon which muted her red nails and stretched lazily as she flexed her foot. Her soles looked unfathomably soft, infinitely detailed with shifting wrinkles of velvet flesh. Her arches were high and curved with mathematical precision, a sensual bridge between her toes and her heel.
Before Kelly, I never thought of feet as a sexual thing. Oh, I knew of foot fetishes, I had enough patients who were obsessed with them. But always men, never women. I saw it as a dysfunction, a malady to be treated, minimized, hopefully cured. I simply didn’t see the attraction of the curious objects on the end of your legs. But sitting there, that afternoon, gazing at Kelly’s twitching, flexing toes, studying the intriguing length of her arch, I felt breathless. I felt dizzy. I felt hungry.
I wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch her, to scratch an itch of curiosity, to find out what they felt like under my fingers, how silky soft her pantyhose were, how warm her skin.
And so I did. Without hesitation or thought of consequence, I broke the wall between patient and doctor, a wall already severely weakened by my previous transgressions. I reached out and stroked my finger down her sole, relishing the long shudder that echoed up and down her body, the way her toes curled into my touch.
“Well?” I said, prompting her to answer my question, continuing as if nothing was amiss, as if no serious ethical breath was happening.
“Y-yes,” she stammered, “yes, I enjoyed it. I liked to be told what to do. I liked you to tell me what to do, Dr. Vickers.” Her words came in halting whispers, breathless as my hands roamed on her feet.
“How does this feel?” I said, gripping her foot and swinging her leg around towards me. She didn’t resist my advance, didn’t try to pull away from me. She was like a doll, mine to play with as I pleased. Oh, the things that I wanted to do.
“It feels… it feels good,” she sighed, eyes closed, one hand flat on her chest, the other toying with her lip. As I moved her leg, I caught a glimpse up her skirt. Her pantyhose darkened between her legs, forming an opaque window onto her pussy, revealing the frozen folds of her young sex, displayed like an artwork in a gallery. The confirmation of her lack of panties made me ache, the sight of her damp flesh made my body throb with eager anticipation. She was an artwork, but one that I had commissioned.
“I think it’s perfectly natural for a girl of your age to want to surrender to an older woman,” I said. As I spoke, I lifted her leg up and studied her sole, shuffling forward in my seat until I was inches away from the velvet expanse of her tiny foot. “There are really two types of woman,” I said. I was no longer reading from any accepted psychology textbook, I was not repeating accepted wisdom. I was instead speaking with the certainty of instinct, of knowledge birthed in the hot place between my legs. “There are women like me,” I said, with forceful com
mand, “women who want to own, to possess, to direct. And there are girls like you. Girls who want to feel the firm hand of discipline in their lives, to be obedient, to have structure given to them as a gift. Girls who want to be owned.”
She sighed and nodded with a faint reluctance, following my every move with wide aqua eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, glistening lips parted as she breathed quickly.
Without thinking, I leaned forward and pressed her upturned foot to my face, covering my nose and mouth with her, feeling her toes squirm against me. She exhaled quickly, fear and excitement driving the reaction. I sighed, unable to resist, overcome by the overwhelming sensation of her presence, of the intolerably intoxicating feeling of domination and the unfathomably soft touch of her foot on my skin. I breathed in, drawing her into me, filling myself with the lightly perfumed tang of her sweat. I shifted back and licked her, mixing taste with smell, sampling her like a fine meal. Then I kissed her, moving my hand along her calf, exploring her leg with my fingertips. She felt soft, silky, hot and alive with desire. My pussy roared between my legs, a harnessed storm of anticipation, a hot ball of fire sending tingles throughout my body.
Kelly remained silent, peering at me with dumbstruck fascination.
I pulled back and gazed at her over her toes, gripping her heel in my hand. I could feel the warmth of her on my cheek, could feel the flush of my desire reflecting that warmth back at her.
“You like to be told what to do?” I purred, surprised by this aspect of my persona, wondering where it had come from, why it was asserting itself now. But I didn’t try to resist it, I didn’t deny that it was anything other than an evolution of my natural self, a perfectly rational step on my life’s journey.
She nodded.
“Excellent. In a few seconds, I’m going to ask you to lie down on the floor over there.” I pointed at the rug beside the fire. Her eyes followed my finger, like a marionette on a puppet’s strings. “I’m going to join you,” I continued, “and you’re going to eat my pussy like a good little girl.”