by Ella Ford
“None of the women are wearing pantyhose,” I said, suddenly sure I had stumbled onto the right answer, cursing myself for not spotting it sooner.
Abi Hausman smiled and took a sip of her coffee, her beaming face tinged with a look of bittersweet sadness. “Correct,” she said, setting her cup down and rotating it so that the handle was in perfect orthogonal alignment with her perfectly laid out spoon. “And it’s not just here,” she continued, “it’s everywhere. When I was a younger woman, pantyhose were an essential part of a girl’s attire. Whether you were wearing a dress, a skirt, shorts, pants, you wore pantyhose.” I suppressed a shudder at the thought of such an enlightened age. “Nowadays,” she continued wistfully, glancing around at the chattering businesswomen, “such elegance is seen as frumpy, middle-aged, old-fashioned.”
I nodded. I knew exactly what she meant. Pantyhose were non-negotiable as far as I was concerned, but my younger colleagues thought differently, baring their legs in any weather.
Abi turned to me and smiled, a warm smile that radiated sympathy. “I’m afraid Jamie Danvers has gifted you something of a poisoned chalice my dear. I get the impression that my old friend was on the verge of dropping Endless Legs as a client, that she thought we were a lost cause. I was expecting as much when I received her call telling me that she was handing the account over to you.”
She peered at me over her coffee cup, scrutinising me in a way that I couldn’t understand. All I could do was sit there and take it, feeling the enormous burden of responsibility that had been placed on my shoulders.
Abigail Hausman was an intimidating woman, enormously wealthy and impeccably presented. She was in her early forties, with naturally fair hair that was worn long and tumbled over her shoulders like a honey waterfall. She was wearing a flowing summer dress with an eye catching floral print, cork wedge sandals and, of course, tan pantyhose. I noticed it as soon as she walked into the bistro, the way her legs shimmered and shone in the late afternoon light, the subtle swish of her thighs brushing together as we walked across the establishment and took our seats. But it was her face that held my attention as she studied me. Her high cheekbones, like sculpted marble; her full lips, painted crimson to match her nails; and those deep, blue eyes, enormous and twinkling. I would have bought pantyhose off her in a hot second.
“So, Rebecca, as the last hope of Endless Legs Ltd., what do you think we should do?”
I blinked, suddenly feeling the pressure of my position. Up until now, it had been a lark, a game, a strange opportunity gifted to me by my insatiable boss. But now it became real, and I felt myself wilting beneath the weight of Ms. Hausman’s gaze. She genuinely expected me to come up with something that would turn around the public opinion of a nation’s women.
I lowered my gaze and frowned, furrowing my brow in concentration, scouring my mind for something, anything that I could offer this powerful woman. But every time I tried to think of pantyhose, my train of thought took a sordid turn. Images flashed up unbidden in my mind: the anonymous foot worship club that I’d been to in Chicago, a disembodied pantyhose covered foot pushed through a padded hole in a wall, toes wiggling and squirming and inviting my mouth forward; the slow, rhythmic bounce of a dangled shoe, hanging precariously from painted toes; the intoxicating aroma of a woman’s pantyhose, a hot musk of desire. I shuddered and tried to keep my mind focussed.
And then it came to me. An idea so daring and bold that it was either genius or extreme folly. I took a deep breath and fought against a strong urge to stand up and run.
“The trouble you have,” I began, struggling to keep my voice even and calm, “is that pantyhose are seen as utilitarian.” She looked at me, leaning her head to the side and narrowing her eyes slightly. I continued. “They’re a tool, a means of keeping warm, or hiding less than perfect legs.”
I paused and took a sip of coffee. The next part of my pitch was everything.
“Pantyhose should be about sex.” I stopped and waited for her reaction.
The older woman frowned and looked at me. “You’re right of course,” she whispered, then looked around. “But they’re not exactly sexy are they?”
It was my turn to smile back at her. “Really?” I asked. Now for the bold bit. “Put your foot in my lap…” I said and my words hung between us for an endless amount of seconds. I feared that I may have overstepped my mark.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, blinking.
“Put your foot in my lap,” I repeated, a hint of forcefulness adding spice to my curious command. To my surprise, Abi Hausman lifted her leg and placed it on my thighs, underneath the small table.
I pushed my chair back slightly so that I could see her foot in my lap, lying there expectantly. I took a quick look around the bistro to verify that no-one could see this strange interaction, then placed my hand lightly on her nylon-covered leg. I felt her shudder beneath my touch.
“I noticed you were wearing pantyhose the moment I saw you. The way your legs shimmered and shone; the soft, inviting texture of your calf; the exaggerated contours of your muscles. It made me want to touch you, to caress you,” I paused, teasing my fingertips up to her knee and back down to her ankle. She gazed at me with rapt attention, never taking her eyes off mine, a look of faint fear on her face, mixed with something else.
I looked away from her, down at her foot. “I see a world of detail here, endlessly fascinating, endlessly inviting. I see the way your pantyhose creases around the bend of your ankle, forming tiny wrinkles that are barely noticeable. I see the thin line of the seam, following the line of your painted toenails to perfection, an undulating sine wave. I see the buckle of your shoe, so tiny and delicate, and I wonder what it would be like to undo that buckle, to slide the leather strap over your ankle, to ease your shoe from your foot. I wonder if you would wiggle your toes, what your arch looks like, free of its confinement…”
I paused, realizing that I was breathing heavily, fearing that I was laying it on too thickly. Then I glanced up at Abi. The older woman was leaning back in her chair, touching a manicured fingertip to her open mouth, staring at me with wide eyes. “W-why don’t y-you?” she stammered, barely a whisper. She seemed distant and distracted, then blinked and pushed herself up in her chair. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, shaking her head. “I was just…”
I ignored her attempt to pull away and gripped her wedge sandal, taking the chance that I’d touched on some untapped seam of interest here. I continued, lowering my voice to a husky whisper. “My hands are trembling,” I said with genuine conviction, “but I’m not nervous. I’m excited.” I reached down and touched my fingertips to the buckle on her sandal, and slowly eased it open. Then I cupped her heel in my palm, relishing the soft warmth of her skin, and gingerly eased the sandal forwards over her toes.
She exhaled slowly, releasing an endless sigh as her nylon-covered foot was revealed. With an involuntary ripple, her toes danced, stretching at the tight fabric. I moved my hand up to grip her arch, caressing my thumb over the soft flesh of her sole.
“I love the way that the pantyhose encapsulates your toes, forcing them into an ordered row,” I continued, no longer acting in a professional capacity. My soliloquy was as much an expression of my own longing as a PR pitch for an ailing company. But she seemed to be hanging on my every word. “I love the way the fabric mutes your toenail paint, a thin veil of secrecy, forcing me to look closer to see the detail of your toes. I love the complex wrinkles of your sole, so soft and inviting, I’d love to run my tongue over the …”
Ms. Hausman gasped, a sharp intake of breath that was partly surprise and partly exhilaration. I knew the sound well. I stopped, realizing suddenly that I had gone too far. I felt a soft flush creep over my cheeks, burning my face with the sudden fever of self-awareness.
“I’ve never…” she said with a sigh. “What else?” she added, her voice suddenly laced with a sultry cadance. She sunk lower into her seat, pushing her stockinged foot further up my thigh. She seemed ob
livious to the surrounding hustle and bustle of the bistro and its patrons. What had I started?
I lifted her foot slightly, then with my free hand, stroked back along the length of her calf muscle. “I’d start at your toes,” I purred, my heart hammering in my chest. I no longer cared who could see or hear us. “I’d taste each one, suck them until your pantyhose was wet with from my mouth. Then I’d touch my tongue to your heel and slowly lick up over your sole, savoring the sweet taste of your feet.” I paused and shifted in my seat, pushing my thumb gently into the soft flesh of her sole. The older woman sighed and closed her eyes. I took a deep breath through my nose. “I can smell you even now.” She flinched and pulled away slightly, but I tightened my grip on her ankle and pulled her back towards me. “Don’t pull away. It’s a wonderful smell, shoe leather and sweat, so feminine and intimate. I want to bury my nose in your feet, breathe deeply until every sense is filled with you.”
I flicked my eyes up at her. Abigail Hausman was lost in a deep, sensual trance that I was conjuring with my words. Her glistening pink lips were hanging open, her eyes narrow and distant. Her hands were flat on the table in front of her, a seemingly epic struggle to prevent her touching herself.
Under the table, I flicked my toes and loosened my stiletto heel, slipping my stockinged foot out of the shoe. Then I straightened my knee and touched my foot to her other leg, slowly teasing my toes up and down her calf.
“Ahh,” she breathed, her hands moving to grip the edge of the small table.
My foot stroked upwards, reaching her knee and then pushed forwards between her legs.
“Then I’d kiss your foot, slowly working my way past your ankle, touching your leg to my cheeks, smothering myself in the softness, enjoying the firmness of your calf muscle and the endlessly soft place behind your knee.”
I pushed my foot forward slowly, brushing my sole up her inner thigh, never taking my hands off her toes.
“I have one destination in mind as I follow the length of your leg with my mouth,” I continued, locking my gaze on hers, drowning in her impossibly blue eyes. She exhaled and nodded urgently, knowing where I was referring to. “I need to touch it, I need to taste it, I need to see it beneath your pantyhose. I can picture it now… you’re wearing sheer to waist pantyhose aren’t you?” I purred, taking a chance.
She gasped and blinked. “H-how did you...?”
I smiled and inched my foot forward. “I knew the moment I saw you. I know what you like. I know that you love how it makes your pussy look, how it makes you feel brushing against your tender lips.”
“Ahh,” she breathed, then nodded.
My toes reached the top of her thigh and I pushed forward insistently. Her legs flopped open without a hint of resistance, allowing my foot to reach her sex. I leaned back in the seat, pushing my bottom forward and allowing a slight bend in my knee as my toes teased over the warm geography of her pussy. I could feel it through her pantyhose and through mine, hot and moist, a physical articulation of the arousal that held her face in a mask of longing.
I glanced around the bistro, a distant verification that nobody was looking. But it didn’t matter now. Abigail Hausman and I were locked in a private moment of intense intimacy, a sordid journey that I had taken her on. The stares and disapproval of the bistro patrons seemed a remote and unimportant risk.
With my big toe, I followed the line of the seam that ran between her legs, teasing along that sensual border and familiarising myself with the novel topography of her labia. I closed my eyes, allowing my consciousness to inhabit the senses of touch from my hands and feet. Beneath my fingers, her soft foot, toes writhing languidly in my grip, silky smooth sole slipping through my hands as I massaged it with my tender caress. But the bulk of my awareness was focused on my own toes, pressing down on her pussy, looking for that familiar reaction that I knew so well.
After several gentle prods, I found it. A defined bulge that I swear I could feel throbbing beneath my big toe. As I pushed down on that inviting nub, Abi’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. She sat forwards in her chair and gripped the edge of the table so tightly that her knuckles whitened.
“P-please,” she began but didn’t continue. Was she begging me to stop or begging me to continue? I pushed down on her clit again, mashing the heel of my foot into her moist lips. She nodded urgently, leaning back in the chair, answering my question without speaking a single word.
I felt myself settling into an insistent rhythm, manipulating her clitoris with my big toe, sliding my foot in lazy circles, intensifying the ordeal that I was subjecting her to. Unbidden, a hot warmth rose in my midriff, looming up out of my own pussy. There was something irresistibly thrilling about this sordid encounter, something that was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. Fucking this demure older woman with my nylon covered foot, driving her to a wild frenzy of pleasure with barely a movement. And all this in full view of a crowded bistro.
I glanced down at Abi’s foot in my lap. Her painted toes were curled into tight fists, gripped with the building tension in her body. Slowly, I teased a slender finger up the length of her sole, relishing the shiver that proceeded up her leg to her tortured body. I looked up and gazed at her face, mouth hanging open and eyes squeezed tightly shut. She was leaning back in her chair, breathing quickly through glistening lips.
Suddenly, she opened her eyes and sat forward, fixing me with a sultry stare that was heavy with sexual tension. There was a light covering of perspiration on her forehead, tiny beads of moisture that twinkled like precious gemstones. She panted deeply, long inhales and exhales, her chest rising and falling beneath her pretty summer dress. An unspoken communication flashed between us, a plea for release and a subtle nod of understanding. I wondered briefly if this was her first experience with a woman, if this was her first such display of public exhibitionism. I suspected it wouldn’t be the last.
Suddenly, she reached down with her right hand and gripped my ankle, seizing control of my trespassing limb. I gasped as she touched me, shocked by the palpable heat in her fingers and the frantic force of her grip. She began to stroke up and down my leg, caressing my nylon-covered calf, reaching up to my knee and down to my toes. I continued my motion, not allowing the sensual sensation of her touch to distract me, moving my toes and heel between her legs with machine-like efficiency. My pussy was aching now. My inner thighs were slippery with my wetness, soaking my pantyhose, smearing that hot juice with every subtle movement of my leg.
Around us, the bistro sank into a blurred irrelevancy, people moving around like swarming ants, away from our sphere of interest. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a waiter circle into the orbit of our table, moving in a kind of slow motion, then sweeping away from our vicinity. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered except my foot and her pussy. The world around us receded, leaving the writhing pair of us in sharp focus.
At once, Abigail Hausman’s breathing changed, becoming quicker and sharper. Her eyes widened and her head bobbed up and down with every fast inhale and exhale. Her hand moved to my ankle and tightened her grip, then I felt myself lose control of my foot. The insatiable older woman commandeered my limb for her own uses, moving my heel against her pussy, grinding herself with my captive leg. She began to move in her seat, barely perceptible motions of her hips as she rode my pantyhose foot. Her breathing changed to sharp pants, she lowered her head and closed her eyes. Her free hand gripped the side of the table which rocked and shook, causing the coffee cups to vibrate and hot coffee to spill over onto the table.
I glanced around, distantly worried that someone would glance over and see what was happening, but no-one seemed to care. I turned my attention back to Abigail Hausman, the beautiful CEO lost in her own world of intense pleasure. I held onto her foot, fixing the memory of its soft warmth in my mind, gripping her perfect arch, forming a sensual connection between us. Her pleasure flowing down her leg into my hands, amplified by my own hot sex and spilling down my leg into her dripping puss
y. An endless feedback loop of desire and longing, a love of the female form and a hot, insatiable hunger for feet.
Suddenly, she inhaled deeply and her mouth opened wide. She hunched her shoulders forward and pushed my foot into her exploding pussy. “Ah, ah, ah,” she breathed, barely audible in the buzzing eatery. Then she clenched her teeth, riding the maelstrom that was raging through her body, inciting the muscles on her neck to stand up in stark relief. Her entire body was gripped by the tension of her orgasm, toes and fingers curling into tight balls. Beneath my damp sole, I could feel her clitoris throb and pulse.
And then she exhaled one final time and bowed her head, sucking cool air into her tired body. Her body seemed to deflate, losing the rigid tension that had previously animated it. Her leg went limp in my lap, foot falling to the side. Beneath the table, she released my ankle, letting it fall down between her thighs.
For endless seconds, she sat perfectly still, her only movement the rise and fall of her chest as she struggled to regain her senses. I took this chance to study her, admiring her mature body, relishing the way blonde curls stuck to her damp forehead, a lasting reminder of the intimate exchange we’d shared, drying even as the fading light of her orgasm receded. She looked beautiful and alive, glowing like a cooling ember.
I glanced down at her foot, limp and perfect, her delicate toes lifeless and relaxed, followed the inviting curve of her arch. I reached down and touched my hand to the soft nylon of her pantyhose, savoring the way she shuddered as I caressed her, an involuntary response that rippled up her body.
And then I had an idea. An idea so audacious that I almost ignored it. But it persisted, gnawing at my mind, unfurling into something wonderful and bold. I sat forward in my seat and reached across the table, taking hold of Abigail Hausman’s slender hand.
The older woman looked up at me, smiling lazily and gazing at me through half-closed eyes.