tagErotic CouplingsYour Poor, Aching Feet

Your Poor, Aching Feet

byNassauHall©

I finally finished the invitation to the opening. This could be our biggest show ever.

What's the topic? What's making it so big? A big show for a little museum.

Don't laugh. Shoes.

Shoes? Well, they're compact enough that you can get a lot of them in there. I'm not laughing. Look how well the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum does.

It'll have that kind of feel. All kinds of shoes and artists' interpretations of shoes. You'll see everything from ancient moccasins to Manolo Blahniks to concrete boots from a movie.

He sleeps with the fishes kind of shoes.

Right. And drawings and sculptures and even some knit shoes, like blankets for your feet.

You'd like those.

We've even got a tape recording of Ed Sullivan saying, "We've got a really big shoe for you tonight."

You'd have to be 50 or over to get the joke.

Maybe I should say it's a big shoe for a little museum. I have a question.

OK.

For the opening, everybody's going to be very aware of the shoes they wear. So, what will you wear? Something you already have or will you get some special shoes for the show about shoes? What would you choose?

Something comfortable! I'm on my feet for the whole opening and my feet get so tired. Never a moment's rest. So no high heels for me. I know you'd like that, though.

Not the time to live out a "Sex and the City" fantasy?

Not while I'm working. Put me in heels then and I'd fall over by the end of the evening.

Face first into the punch bowl?

More likely I'd knock over a Warhol display.

If you did wear heels and I was there, you could excuse yourself to go rest in your office and I could give you a foot massage. That'd perk you right up and then you could be the hostess with the mostest.

Tell me more about that.

About what?

About the foot massage!

Oh, that. Well, we'd have to do some advanced planning, knowing your feet would be sore. It would have to be a special foot massage.

I think they're all special.

And all the other massages, too, I hope.

They are. What kind of planning?

You could stash away a bottle of massage oil. Any kind you like. Maybe baby oil. Olive oil if you want something tasty. You could put it in your desk where nobody would see it. And where it wouldn't spill on your high-end Mac graphic design computer.

That's all easy enough to do. That's all?

You might want to bring a towel, too.

Why a towel?

To drape over your office chair, in case the oil starts, you know, flying around. Foot massages can get drippy.

Just the oil flying around?

Aren't you the coquette tonight. What else could happen?

We've barely got to the office. I don't know what could happen. Help me fill in the blanks.

Just the blanks?

Stop it! Tell me some more.

I'd see you at the opening. You'd have your name tag on and I'd have mine. We could pretend we don't know each other, and we could circle around and pretend to just meet. I'd compliment you on the show and ask what you do there. You'd say you were a graphic designer and I'd say, My, what a great poster and promotional materials you did. The poster caught my eye at the train station and I had to come over here. I never knew shoes could be so artistic. You'd laugh modestly even as you run your eyes over me like a hungry bird of prey, looking for a snack.

You want to be devoured by me? During an opening I do get hungry.

Yes, think about just snapping me up. Remember, we're strangers, you're curious, you're surrounded by coworkers. Maybe you feel tired and a little daring after all the work of getting the show together.

Mostly my feet hurt.

And that's what you tell me. You offer to give me a tour of the offices -- you've worked there a long time, you can wander around with guests of, well, potential. I could be a big donor.

I know what you want me to say, but I'm not going to say that.

Say what?

You know.

Sperm donor?

You said it, not me!

Perish the thought. We're looking at each other and like what we see. Would you like to see where I do all my creative work, you ask. Sure, I say, give me the grand tour.

We get refills of our wine glasses and I take you upstairs to my office. I doubt anybody's up there. To everybody else it looks innocent.

To everybody else it is. You've worked there a long time, anyway, you know your way around.

My office is one of the few enclosed spaces, where I can close the door. A window looks outside on a park but tonight it's dark. It's fall and we can hear the wind rustling through the trees. Some moonlight comes in through the branches.

You're setting a pretty picture.

I've already got a bottle of baby oil in my desk. I've got a beach towel, just in case.

Just in case of what?

In case I decide to go to the beach. Now what?

We're in your office. You close the door, but you don't turn on the light, since the moon and a street light provide some illumination. We can find each other in the dark, anyway.

Practice makes perfect. I tell you I'm glad to get away from the noise and the crowds and the need to be engaged all the time during an opening. And my feet hurt.

That's why we're up there, to take care of your aching feet. What are you wearing?

I've got on my shoes that are a cross between style and comfort, but the style overwhelms the comfort after a while. I have on a silk blouse and a knee-length skirt. I'm comfortable enough except for the shoes. I sit in my chair and lean back and close my eyes. It feels great to be off my feet and sitting for a while. Then I get out the bottle of oil. I don't know what you're going to do. Or maybe I do.

I sit on the floor in front of you and take off your shoes. You like that. First I run my hands over your feet and around your ankles. I hold one foot and then another in my hands to you can feel the warmth. I move my hands around them.

The circulation starts coming back. It feels great. You can put some oil on my feet.

I say that's a great idea. You plug your iPod into speakers and we start to hear music by Bruce Springsteen. A good mood setter. You always said that he was the soundtrack of your life in college, when you were the Jersey girl going to Harvard. You must have been quite the rock and roller in Cambridge.

Hardly. I spent more time at the co-op, making all-natural vegan meals.

Work with me here! Anyway, you've got Bruce on and you like that. None of his depressing music.

Only happy music. But we can't put it on too loud. I wouldn't want anybody to know we're up there.

You think people would be shocked? I wouldn't want that to happen. You've got to be professional.

My feet are really sore by now. You'd better get going or I'll have to put my shoes on and get back downstairs.

Thanks for reminding me. I have your shoes off. You are wiggling your toes, happy to have them free from your shoes. You like wearing sexy shoes but they're not very comfortable, especially when you're working. I'm sitting on the floor in front of you. I put some oil on my hands and start stroking one of your feet, starting with the ankle and then drifting toward your toes. I hold your heel in my hand and move my hand up and down your foot, and circle your ankle. I'm not in any hurry. You lean back in your office chair and sigh.

The noise from downstairs sounds farther away. The music and the feeling create our own little nest. I'm feeling more relaxed than tired. I can feel your fingers between my toes, rubbing the oil in. It feels great.

I do one foot and then the other. You seem much less tense. I put more oil in my hands and move up one of your legs, up to your knee. I do long strokes up and down your calf to your ankle, sometimes firm, sometimes with the back of my hand. Does it feel like I'm diddling your leg? Sometimes I go down to our toes and slip my fingers between your toes, where I know your skin is very sensitive. What does that feel like?

Very nice.

Nice like what?

Like you're fingering my twat. Now I'm getting very relaxed. It's getting warm in the office. I like what you're doing and. The skin between my toes is so sensitive! I never knew that. I stretch my arms over my head and arch my back like a big cat. I almost want to purr.

You can. Purr all you want. You've got a cat. You know what they sound like.

Purrrrrrr. You can stroke my fur anytime. Oh and you might notice there's none of it on my legs. I shaved them just before the event so that massage oil skims right over them.

Now I wonder how high you went.

You'll have to find out.

What a vixen!

I'm stretching still. The silk fabric on my blouse pulls when I do that. Your hands are moving higher on my legs and I'm feeling a little bold, even with the people at the party below. I undo a button on my blouse. You notice this and put your hand on my chest, below my throat. You rub some oil on me there and it's like a warm patch spreading across me. One hand on my thigh -- you've moved that high up now, and another making lazy circles on my chest. Then you undo another button.

You're feeling exposed. You feel OK.

Yes. You kiss put your hand on my neck and kiss me. Our tongues touch. I feel you all over me. Standing up, I can feel you hard through your pants.

My Barneys suit doesn't hide very much, does it?

I have my special woman's x-ray vision for those matters. A girl can tell when a guy's getting turned on.

I'm pretty obvious.

You always have been. You're back down on the floor now, sitting closer, and you are massaging my thighs now. I fold up my skirt so you can see what you're doing. I look down and see you very intently smoothing oil over the tops of my thighs and all around, so that I'm actually pulsing, it feels good. You're pressing firmly on me and now your thumbs are slyly going higher and higher on my legs. That really tingles. You tell me to undo another button on my blouse, but I don't know about that. I like the idea of you playing with me while I still have my blouse buttoned up.

So we leave it like that. But you run your hands over your silky blouse and bra. You massage some of the oil on your chest and under your bra straps. While you're doing that, I lean over. I want to kiss your thighs. They are so smooth and shiny now. I'm feeling pretty urgent about doing that. No little soft kisses this time. I have my fingers resting on the edge of your panties and I'm kissing you high on your thighs. I move them open so I can kiss you all over. Then you put your hand on the top of my head and very lightly push my head closer to you. You must like what I'm doing.

Stand up, I tell you. This surprises you. You stand up and I pull you toward me, between my legs. Your crotch is almost at face level. Let's see, I say, what do we have here? I run my hand over the front of your pants. You're pretty hard. I'm feeling a little reluctant but very curious. The party sounds are dropping away. I feel you jump when I touch you that way, so I do it again. You gulp. Then I throw my arms around your waist and hug you. I lean over and put my face against your crotch. I can feel you throbbing. This is fun. Are you having fun?

I'm sliding around in my chair at the thought.

I'm feeling awfully daring, but graphic designers CAN be that way. We're so creative, so I unbutton and unzip your pants so they fall down to your thighs. Your cock is so obvious in your underwear.

I would hope so.

Now you're the one who's exposed. I'll just go all the way, so I pull you out of your underwear the way you like me to. I run my fingers around and feel how it curves a little. That always gets to my G-spot, you know.

I didn't know that. I'm learning something every day.

I lean forward and kiss the tip. You shiver when I do that. You always do, until you get into the rhythm of it. I like looking at you up close. It's so different and textured and . . . Jewish. I lick you all around like it's an ice cream cone.

Vanilla topping, eventually.

And I'll add the sprinkles on top. I close my eyes and kiss your cock again. It's getting wet and I let some of slide into my mouth. You like that. I can tell by the way your hands stroke my head. The way you massage my neck. You like feeling my head move back and forth on you. You get harder every time I move my head. How that happens is a wonder.

I'm looking down on your head, how you completely control me. I want the moment to last. I can feel a little surge in me. This won't take long, but I don't want you to stop. What a dilemma. The moonlight casts our shadows on the wall, two shapes blending and moving together, arms and legs dancing around each other.

Why's it a dilemma? You can have your fun. And it's what I want to do.

I want to keep playing with you. They must be missing us at the party. What if somebody comes looking for us?

I'll say I'm working on getting a very special donation. Donors have individual needs. I'm a woman on a mission. I know how much you like this. You just want to wait so somebody will find us! I wouldn't want that to happen. So you can lean back and relax.

Relaxing is the last thing that happens in this situation. So, here we are. You're licking your ice cream cone, I'm running my fingers through your hair. I can smell your perfume wafting up. Something enchanting and very feminine. I feel a little strange, standing there with my pants down and my cock sliding in and out of your lips. I want to look around and make sure the office door is closed. Then I want very much to see more of you. Your blouse is unbuttoned, so I slip it down past your shoulders. You have such delightfully soft and curved shoulders. All that yoga keeps them in great shape. I can sense us as one big curve, from my cock to your lips to your tongue to your shoulders and down the curve of your waist to the lips of your cunt curving in and out. You're a Botticelli come to life. No straight lines anywhere.

Your hands feel warm on my shoulders. You're massaging my skin around my bra straps. Your fingers stroke my shoulder blades and forearms, then curve around on my neck and back to my shoulders, following the curve of my breasts. I am curvy and the way you follow my curves turns me on.

More turned on than the big shoe show? I'm honored. Seriously, I can tell you like that. You always like how I stroke your skin. You are getting turned on the same way I am. You use your mouth to pull me into you. I can feel your tongue going in circles on me. My heart rate bumps up. My toes wiggle in my shoes. I'm standing up so I can't move too much. You've got me there like your very own statue of David. He was Jewish, you know.

I know. I've seen it. The party sounds far away but something tells me we'd better get our show back on the road. I take you out of my mouth and wrap my hand around your cock. My mouth got it nicely wet so my hand slides up and own it. I know the kind of sensation you like. Your cock against my cheek feels nice. It's so hot -- physically warm, really -- and hard and, well, different. I look up into your eyes. You look back and me and blow a kiss to my mouth, which had been kissing you. I like that look you give me. You once said after I've licked you, you can still see a ghostly image of your cock resting on my lips, like a blurry photograph.

Hmmm, I'm thinking of your hand on me at the moment. That's no ghost. Now I'm bouncing on my heels. This is so different from lying down on the bed. There, I can sprawl around. Here, all my energy focuses in on my cock and your movement. I'm intensely aware of everything going on in that little space where we connect. You're looking at my cock now, like something from another dimension. It's hard but flexible in your hands. You can move it around, up and down.

I increase my pressure. Your hands hold on to my shoulders. The fingers are strong. Then you massage my neck. I know what you want. I lean over and kiss you some more, to tease you along. You jump I hear you purr. I open my mouth so the head of your cock goes into my mouth. I close my eyes and feel so connected, so there. I can't describe it. You're responding to me, to what I'm doing. I have you. I can taste a little drop of you on my tongue. Some vanilla.

You know how to whip up a batch of ice cream. You take your lips off me and move your hand up and down on me. Without thinking -- I'm moving on instinct now -- I put my hand on yours so I can feel what you're doing. My other hand strokes your neck. Now I'm tingling all over. Your soft cheek brushes against my cock, like velvet against me.

Like satin.

Like fine wool from the Sheep Breeders conference, shearing competition and barn dance.

Oooh, now you're talking dirty to me. Sheep. Baahh. Aaaahh. You're on the edge now. I can feel it. And with a little lick, taste it.

You're blushing when you say that. Such an innocent.

I'll bite you if you keep talking like that! Your fingers feel so strong and tight on my shoulders. You're holding on and pulling me toward you. My panties are bunched up around my calves. We're both exposed. I'm holding and stroking you with one hand and I move my other down between my legs. Yes, I'm wet. I tell you that, how excited you're getting me when we're making love like this, how I can't wait for your fingers to open me up and fill me.

That's all I needed to hear. Your words go right into my brain and I feel a flood starting in me. It's like an irresistible force that takes over and I can only ride on the crest. My eyes close tight and I say your name. Forgive me if I clutch your shoulders like they were handrails on a stormy ship.

Now I'm very excited as you start to come. I tighten my hand around your cock the way you like it. You're bucking in my hand. You're a full boy! I grab a tissue from my desk and hold it on my chest, sort of like a target, and hold it up against your cock so your explosion doesn't go all over the office.

Right, we don't want wet spots on your blouse or cheek where those museum donors might wonder what's going on. You planned ahead well. I wasn't thinking about how we'd handle this little matter in a public place unless, of course . . .

We'll save that for later. You start bucking against me and then your back arches and you start shooting out on to the tissue. My hand moves up and down on you, urging every little drop out., I see lots of drops.

That sounds like Dr. Seuss, drops on pops.

Pops drops and then she mops.

We could do a book like that and get a famous artist to do the illustrations. We could do a groovy feminist version and call it "She Pops and He Mops." That would show a real respect for the female orgasm and show males taking responsibility for clean-up activities.

Should it rhyme?

I'm thinking more of the pictures. Do you feel like your popping when you come, like you're a balloon that's been pumped up and then you let the air out?

I don't know if I like that image. It's more like a landslide. The rocks get to the top of the hill and then slide down, picking up speed as they go along.

Maybe for me the right image is a steam boiler about to blow up. I feel more and more pressure until -- kaboom.

Well, back at the museum you've gone kaboom very nicely into the tissue. That was some boiler explosion. You hold my hand against your cock and sigh. I move my hand a little and you shiver. I get another tissue and mop up pop. I don't see any stray drops on my blouse or chest. But I do see some on your cock so I lean over and give it a kiss and a lick. Tasty.

Eek, I'm so sensitive, it's exquisite when you kiss me then. I love looking at your lips on me, drinking me in, like you're a cat licking a bowl of cream.

Purrrrr. You stand me up and we hug. We feel very close. If somebody walked in, we'd look very ridiculous. My blouse is undone and pushed off my shoulders, my undies are pulled down. I'm sure my hair is a mess.

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