Highschool Reunion Footjob

The prospect of a high school reunion is something that always made me feel ill. I never thought I'd ever go back to the place I graduated from, so many years ago, to play "remember when" with a bunch of doughy strangers. The mere idea of it made me want to skip the whole ordeal all together. But that didn't stop me from going on Facebook from time to time, to see what some of the women from my graduating class were up to. No surprise --most were married. Kids. Job. Some got ugly. Some (very few) had maintained their beauty from the days when I knew them.

It's not like I'm one to judge: Father Time had done a number on me. When I look back at pictures from my high school heyday, I was handsome. There was a shyness to my baby blues, but my jawline and shoulders were strong, and exuded the illusion of confidence. In grade 12, I could bench 285 pounds without any difficulty whatsoever. Now, I couldn't remember the last time I'd set foot in the gym. My ex-wife (when we were still together) gifted me a Fitbit for my 38th birthday. I'd always thought such a gesture was like giving a woman a Thigh Master for Christmas, but I took the hint and started to walk. Even though I'd averaged about 5,000 to 8,000 steps a day, I was still gaining weight at a steady clip. I now have what you would call a 'dad bod' --nothing too terrible, but all the same I wished it were different.

After my divorce, I decided I wanted to be different. I joined one or two of those dating websites but had very little luck. I wasn't much of a photographer, nor were my co-workers, and so most of the pictures were taken at either a local restaurant, or some place outside that didn't resemble a parking lot. The women that 'liked' me were not to my liking so I never messaged anyone back that had initiated contact. One night, as I was perusing my latest 'matches', I received a message on Facebook from Carol. She and I were classmates in Grade 11 and 12, but I never really spoke to her at that time. I would describe her as kind of shy, but my memory from that time is more than a little hazy (I was a stoner at the time).

When you're in a class of 30 + kids, the faces you are likely to remember are: 1) your friends 2) the weirdos 3) your crushes and, without a yearbook handy, very little else. I knew that she'd sat at the back of Miss Haversham's English class and didn't say much to me. I can't even recall if she went to prom or not. Her message was a simple 'Hello, how's it going?' but it left me stymied on how to respond. If I had just replied with a 'Good thanks', I don't think she would have continued the conversation, so I decided to tell her a little bit about what was happening on my end of things. I don't like to sugarcoat things in life, so I was honest and candid about my current situation. Divorced after 5 years of a loveless marriage. No kids. No assets to speak of. A deadening government job that I'd be stupid to leave because of the sweet retirement package.

She told me that she was also divorced, with two kids that she shared custody of. As we spoke, I looked through her profile pictures to get a sense of how she had aged. I'd be lying to say that it had been graceful. Time and circumstance had morphed her once youthful looks into something resembling a resilient (but nonetheless beaten) middle-aged woman; weary from life's misgivings yet unwilling to throw in the proverbial towel just yet.

I was decidedly unattracted to her, until I came across a photo from a recent trip to Cancun which displayed her feet in a pair of white flip-flops. As far back as I can remember, I've always had a foot fetish. I used to gaze longingly at my classmates' toes as they wiggled excitedly in their Birkenstocks, flip-flops, and Nike slides. All winter long, I would pray to receive a set of X-ray specs for Christmas so that I could have a gander at what was inside their boots and shoes. When I saw Carol's feet, I was immediately turned on--I knew I had to put them in my mouth and worship them as soon as I could. As she was telling me about some MLM she'd recently become a part of, I interjected with an impulsive invitation to meet up. 'Sure', she wrote, followed by an emoji with a massive smile. The mere sight of that yellow, grinning face, mixed with the prospect of my touching her feet, got my cock rock hard.

We agreed to meet up at a local restaurant known for its chicken Caesar salad. I know that doesn't sound like much of a brag, but the food at this place was actually decent. I was so giddy and excited that I barely touched my meal as we sat and spoke about our lives in further detail. She was dressed in a long beige cardigan (not a very flattering colour given her complexion), Lululemon pants ( yoga pants, my favourite), and blue/gray Hoka running shoes. As she spoke about her kids and the difficulty she faced with their smartphone addictions, I imagined the fragrant aroma emanating from those beautiful toes. I imagined her embarking on a pre-dawn jog around her suburban neighbourhood; working up a considerable amount of foot sweat in the process. The meal was pleasant enough and the conversation was seasoned with a lot of laughter; not from recollections of our shared past, but rather the current state of things. At times, during pauses in the dialogue, we just looked at each other and chuckled in a knowing sort of way.

I paid for our food and we made our way to the parking lot. Reaching for my keys, my mind went blank on what to say next. Were we meant to part ways at this point? I was worried that it'd be too presumptuous to ask if she'd like to go back to my place, but this fear was quickly alleviated when she invited me back to hers for a Tassimo. Before getting in her car, she produced a purple vapour pen from her (fake) Fendi bag and took a long draw from it, staring at me the entire time. The bright blue light on its shaft flashed three times and she exhaled a cloud of passionfruit vapour in my direction; smiling all the while. Normally, such a gesture would not turn me on remotely, but my cock stiffened almost immediately and I could feel a pre-cum puddle forming on my upper thigh.

Carol's house was a dump. There was no nice way of putting it, other than to say that she was in dire need of a cleaning lady, or a chore wheel for her kids. There was laundry, to-wash/to-fold, heaped upon a stained, gray sectional couch that was already covered in plaid blankets to prevent her dog, Marley, (why are all dogs named Marley?) from shedding anymore onto its surface. The walls were covered in pictures of her kids, her parents; pictures of her from a few years ago, along with some pictures of her ex husband which I'd concluded that she'd neglected to remove. He was conventionally handsome, with straight (whitened) teeth, a decent hairline, and an affinity (seemingly) for Polo shirts in primary colors. Tellingly, in each photo where he made an appearance, he was standing at the opposite side of where Carol was positioned; their two sons serving as a sort of buffer zone, and perhaps an explanation, for their marital discord.

"Have a seat and I'll make us some espressos. Or would you prefer something different?" she asked from the other room.

"No," I said, "I'm fine with whatever you're having." I carefully moved a few articles of clothing so I could sit down on the couch, unobstructed. I also cleared a spot for where I had assumed she would be sitting.

"Do you want a cookie or something? I think I have some left over from my son's bake sale."

Not wanting to appear rude, I agreed to have a cookie even though all I wanted to do was snack on her toes. When she was done busying herself in the kitchen, she came back to the living room with a plate full of cookies and two black coffee mugs bearing the emblem of our alma mater.

"Hey" I said, gesturing to the cups. "now that brings me back!"

"Yeah, my kids go there now. It's hard to believe it."

" Where'd all the time go?" I asked aloud, somewhat stupidly.

"I haven't a clue. It's all been a 'blink n' you'll miss it' kind of a movie." she said in a somewhat mournful tone.

She mused silently at this and then looked at me. I smiled back at her, and my gaze went down the length of her legs, zeroing in on two black Adidas athletic socks. I wanted to peel them off with my teeth, in spite of the dog hair.

"Everything's so stressful these days. It's a lot different than when we went to school." Carol said. "Even though I try to keep Hunter and Adrian off their tablets, they never seem to listen to me. Thank goodness they're in sports, but it's been too hard to get out to all the games, especially with my schedule."

"Is your job exhausting?" I asked, genuinely interested.

"Sometimes it can be. Sometimes I wish I was just back in high school. Knowing then what I know now, I would have done things differently. A whole lot differently."

"Me too." I said with a smirk.

"What's one thing you would have done differently, Gregg?" she asked, meeting my eyes.

The erotic charge I received from the question alone made me drop all pretense and inhibitions. I felt like the poker champion who was ready to lay down his Royal Flush on the felt and collect his chips.

"I....probably would have asked to give you a foot massage." I said with mock embarrassment.

"What?" she said with a laugh.

"Yeah, I... I guess, I've always been into feet and when I saw yours back then, and even now, I knew I should never have sat in silence".

She sat for a moment considering this. Looked at me, and then chuckled again in what I could only determine was a mixture of embarrassment and curiosity.

"Is the offer still on the table?" she asked with sincere curiosity.

"W-would you like a foot massage?"

"I would love one."

She swung her legs onto my lap and moved her bum back into the arm of the couch. I began with an introductory thumb that traced the arch of each stockinged foot.

"Can I take these off?" I asked, pointing to her Marley coated ankle socks.

"You can, but I must warn you, I haven't had a pedicure in a while. I've been meaning to go with my girlfriends but I can't seem to find the time."

I smiled at her and carefully removed each sock, revealing two beautiful feet that had finally found their way into my expectant (and capable) hands. I continued the introductory massage techniques that I'd perfected from the years of tending to my then-wife's peds. Carol's toes were long and elegant with the second toe being the longest. The feet had a high arch and a heel that exhibited minimal calluses. They looked to be the feet of a woman half her age. She clearly had been taking care of them, despite the fact that the rest of her was in a state of irreversible decline. There was no polish on any of the toenails and no yellowing of the nail from the overuse of said polish. They were natural and stayed natural, and in an age where women slathered themselves in layers of makeup and polish and other chemical agents that only destroyed their skin and follicles, hers were defiantly 'au naturel'. I used the time-honored technique of the Crab Claw to soften the emergent calluses on the sides of her feet which made her close her eyes and moan with pleasure. Unsurprisingly, she complimented my prowess as a masseuse.

" You could go into business doing this." Carol suggested.

"Maybe so. But I wouldn't do this to just anybody." I said.

"No? You could probably make a small fortune with those big hands."

With my thumb and index finger, I gently rubbed on her big toe. The nails had grown out slightly, giving them the appearance of a French pedicure. Some needed to be trimmed and tended to, sure, but their (slightly) unkempt quality turned me on all the more. Her feet were cold in my hands, which is my preferred way of receiving them. My hands didn't warm them, but still gave them comfort nonetheless. I could tell she was relaxed from her breathing and the way that her right arm slowly slipped away from her stomach, careened southward, and gently caressed the hardwood floor with the back of her hand. Her breathing was deep, as if in a trance. I wasn't aroused during this process because I was focused on her pleasure and not on my own.

"You have beautiful feet. Did anyone ever tell you that?"

"You're the first one. Nobody's ever done this for me before. Even when I go to the salon, I never think to spend the extra five bucks on a foot massage."

I continued to rub and relax her, using my skills and expertise to give every toe its due. After twenty minutes of rubbing, I felt a pang of nervousness. Now came the next critical step in any foot fetishist's stratagem: The Big Question. It's one thing to ask a woman to give her a foot massage. It's another thing altogether to ask if you can worship them. This must be handled respectfully and with the greatest of care. Carol seemed to be as relaxed as she ever would be, so the time to ask became self-evident.

"Are you enjoying it so far?"

"I am. This is the best foot massage I've ever received."

"Would you be willing to let me...kiss them?"

With her eyes still closed, Carol nodded 'yes' almost immediately. As I moved her right foot towards my lips, however, her eyes opened.

"Wa-Wait" she implored. For a moment, my heart sank. "Don't you want me to wash them first? They've been in my shoes all afternoon."

"Why would I want that? They're better this way."

Carol's toes traced the outline of my expectant lips. I could feel the tips of them gliding past my bottom lip and teeth. I started there; inserting both her big toe and that prodigious second toe of her right foot into my mouth, sucking slowly and with great care. Carol let out a moan that contained both surprise and excitement. I could tell this was the very first time anyone had given her feet the royal treatment. My cock immediately became hard at the sensation of her tasty phalanges as they entered the core of my being. I welcomed them with a warm, attentive tongue and just the right amount of suction. I worked each toe--one, sometimes three at a time, showing Carol the full extent of what it means to be properly worshipped by an seasoned foot slave. Her hips writhed from a wave of sensations, and the hand that was once rested on the floor now found itself running through her thick, dyed hair, loosening the messy bun she had made it into hours ago. In addition to sucking, I continued to lick and sniff the pleasure zones; basking in the salty perfume of their essences. In the midst of all this, Carol felt the urge to use the foot I wasn't worshipping to return the favour. With the big toe of her left foot, she seductively traced the outline of my stiff penis in my joggers. This caused my cock to harden even more which only increased my resolve to shove her toes deeper down my throat.

"Oh my fucking God, she exclaimed. Where have you been all my life?" She smiled and laughed as she said this. I kept looking at her with fierce intention: a foot slave knows his place.

"Take your pants off." Carol demanded. She'd begun to understand her role in this dance. As I slid down my joggers, she pulled down her Lululemon's, revealing a palpable stain on her pale, pink panties. I focused my attention on the wet line of discharge, as I continued to shove her toes down my throat while she worked my cock with her other foot. She curled her long toes in my mouth, gently caressing my tongue. I had almost no gag reflex so I could take them down to nearly my esophagus. She made a thrusting motion with her foot as though I was deep throating it which turned me on all the more. With her other foot, she worked the precum out of the tip of my penis.

She was a natural. I could tell that this had been a fantasy of hers for quite some time. I removed her panties and stroked her large clitoris with the same thumb that I'd used to give her foot such pleasure. With semi-circular motions, it grew red and even more engorged under my care. She was sopping wet and I was very close to climax; I could feel the euphoria of my orgasm growing with every stroke of her foot. Taking the toes out of my mouth, I told her of my impending eruption.

"Where do you want it?" I asked.

"Where do you think?" she smiled.

I quickly positioned my sex to the bow of her feet just as I felt the first pump leave the sluice gate. The initial spurt was followed by a cum blast of surprising volume and velocity. Three massive pumps sprayed against the tops of her feet, ricocheting and splattering across the length of her bare legs and stomach. She was surprised (and, I assumed, flattered) by the sheer amount of semen that was exiting from my blushing johnson. The spurts finally settled into driblets from the afterglow of what I now considered one of the best orgasms of my life. Bested, I slumped back down onto articles of clothing that were piled on the opposite arm of the couch. Breathing heavily, I wiped the sweat from my eyes.

"Naughty foot boy," she said, jokingly. "what a mess you've made!"

I stared at her cum drenched feet and knew exactly what to do. "A thousand pardons, mistress." I said with an obedient smile.

I knelt down and dutifully cleaned the cum each foot with my mouth and my tongue and fed my seed to Carol in a deep and passionate kiss. She swallowed my juices and exclaimed that I'd tasted just as great as I'd worshipped her feet. We laid back and looked at each other. Her toes, still cold, still wet, caressed my legs and still-hard cock in a loving, attentive way. With my right hand, I stroked her ankles and traced the intricate veins on the tops of each foot.

"W-would you like to do this again sometime?" I asked, transforming into that shy teenage boy I used to be.

"Definitely." she said. "But next time you'll have to do more than just worship my toes."

"Yes mistress."