Ian's Adventure Pt. 01

*Everyone is of legal age and meets all the fine print*

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I was eighteen when I found the perfect job.

A stockboy at a local chain woman's shoe store at the mall.

If you're asking yourself why this was the worlds greatest job, you really don't get it.

Simply put: I have a fetish for women's feet.

There was a time I couldn't just openly admit my fetish, mostly because of the ridicule and stigma that comes with an unusual sexual kink but too much has happened to me these past few years to even consider being embarrassed any longer by this fetish of mine.

This wasn't always true. After an incident when I was younger, I learned to conceal my fascination for feet. So far as my family knew, it was nothing more than a phase I went through while young, even though I was still mercilessly teased about it by my older sister and her friends.

Still, I couldn't believe my luck when the shoe store accepted my application.

Go figure a freak like me working in a shoe store!

At the time I started working at the shoe store, I wasn't a catch by any stretch of the imagination, that is, girls my age wouldn't spare me a second look. I was rather heavy set, not fat, per-se but not in shape either. I had long black hair, brown eyes, pimples, the whole nine yards that screamed 'Dork'. Rather unremarkable really, the type easily overlooked, bullied at school, a nobody. About my only redeeming feature was that I was six foot tall.

Since I was still in High School I could only work evenings and weekends, which I didn't mind at all as I wasn't interested in sports or other extracurricular activities.

I rather enjoyed the work, and after several employees just quit by not showing up for work, I was promoted to floor salesman.

I thought I died and went to heaven!

I quickly developed a knack for finding the right shoes for our customers. I loved handling women's feet, but had to be careful not to be obvious about it. I was super conscious of what I was doing and did nothing to warrant suspicion, instead gaining praise for my willingness to work, attention to detail and my friendly demeanor. I learned to wear a jock strap and tight underwear under loose fitting slacks to keep the occasional erection from being noticeable. Some women had absolutely gorgeous feet, and I would get so hard I would have to jerk off in the bathroom afterwards, While most women were average, more than a few had some sort of nail fungus infection, and some feet were absolutely disgusting, not just from their bathing habits, but from wearing shoes way too tight. I can't tell you how many women maimed their feet in the name of fashion.

There's the myth that men with a foot fetish find all women's feet irresistible. That's complete bull shit. Just like any one, I had my tastes, things that turned me off, like I don't like pungent foot odors, crooked toes, and so on. Working in that shoe store is where I refined my taste in women's feet.

Rare was the woman that met all my criteria.

Still, handling women's feet on a daily basis was a dream come true for me.

The store manager was Rachel, late twenties, early thirties. Not bad looking as manager's went, with her long brunette hair usually done up in a bun, and dark brown eyes. She was in rather good shape, presented herself well, and drew looks of appreciation from others. But it was Rachel's feet that drew my attention. I had peeks and glimpses of her feet before with the various shoe styles she would wear, but when she started wearing a pair of sexy low heels, leaving the tips of her toes exposed, I really took notice. It was a style of heel the store did not carry and very uncomfortable for a woman that was on her feet all day. It seemed she favored those shoes as she started to wear them more frequently, and most surprisingly, she switched from wearing nylon pantyhose to what could only be expensive high end silk stockings.

Damn sexy!

As Rachel had pretty feet, I was concerned she would permanently scar her feet wearing those shoes as she did. But how could I tell her without revealing I was a weirdo?

Saturdays I worked the evening shift, and it would be up to me to clean and get the store ready for the next day. One of my tasks was to re-shelve all of the loose shoe boxes, making sure the right shoes were in the right boxes. Most of the other employees would just shove the boxes back on the shelves, but I was a bit anal about everything back in its rightful place. What is it with people that just stick crap everywhere? Just leave the fucking box on the damn floor. Makes things so much easier. Fixing other's messes could make for late nights.

"Ian?" Rachel called out from the back as she was going over the days receipts. "When you get a done, I need to see you for a minute."

When I finished, I went to see her, worried that since business was slow lately, she was going to let me go.

"I have to do quarterly reviews of our employees performance." Rachel said in a reassuring tone, seating herself in the only chair in the cramped office. "Even the part-timers."

"Oh." I replied, grateful that I wasn't going to get laid off.

"I want you to sell me the perfect pair of shoes." Rachel said simply.

"What?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"These shoes are killing my feet." Rachel said, taking her shoes off, setting her feet on a nearby stool. "Pretend I'm a customer, and I don't know my shoe size."

"You wear a size eight, wide." I said nervously, kneeling at her feet.

"You know what size I wear?" Rachel asked, surprised. "How can you be so sure?"

"I can tell a foot size just by looking." I answered, gazing at her feet. They were even more beautiful than I fantasized about. "I only need to measure when the customer insists on shoes that are too small for their feet, so they can see the truth."

Rachel considered me for a moment.

"Imagine I'm a mother with two kids and work on my feet all day. What kind of shoe would you recommend?" She asked.

"You let me choose?" I asked, finally looking up to meet her gaze. I felt a rush of excitement.

"Yes." Rachel nodded.

"Does the mother work in a professional setting, or more of a service industry?" I asked.

"A store manager." She replied, and I knew she was describing herself. Until that moment I didn't know she had kids. A working mom, perfect!

I knew what shoe would be perfect for her. I quickly retrieved the box, and knelt at her feet once more.

"Really?" She said skeptically as I revealed the contents.

"I think these would be a good choice. Inexpensive, but functional." I said, removing the tissue paper from inside the shoes. The shoes I chose were nice, comfortable, showing just the right amount of toe. "You have perfect feet, and those heels you wear are tearing your feet up. I don't know how you can wear them all day."

I held her foot for a moment, a thrill racing up my spine. The feel of the smooth silken stockings, the warmth of her feet fresh from her shoe was like holding a baked roll fresh from the oven. She really did have beautiful feet. Her toes were deliciously long and of Roman shape, that is her big toe and the next two toes were of similar length. Her arch was wonderfully tall and elegant, graceful, sculpted by a master artisan. I wanted to caress her feet, rub my face with them. That thrill turned to something else, and I felt the familiar stirrings. I was glad my jock strap was doing its work.

She let me fit the shoes to her, and it was a perfect fit. Not bad for my first try. Rachel rose, and walked around, trying them out, moved to the floor length mirror on the wall to study the fit of the shoes.

"They are comfortable." Rachel admitted reluctantly. "But-"

"Despite the inexpensive price point, they are the best we carry for someone who works on their feet all day." I admitted, hoping my growing excitement wasn't showing. "They won't kill your feet. Suitable for work and running errands. We have several other styles in stock, but I think these would work best if you want to go cheap and still be able to walk at the end of the day. If you really want the best, you would have to go to Smith and Trevor at the Town Center. They have a beautiful Italian made pair that would be perfect for feet such as yours."

"I see." She said, her brow furrowing as she regarded my shoe choice.

"For just a little more, I have another choice in mind that will do very well, and are more stylish." I said.

"Let's try those." She said.

I fetched the other pair, and like before, they fit perfectly.

"Ian, can I ask you something?" She asked, studying my second choice of footwear in the mirror.

"Yes." I nodded.

It was a moment before she spoke. She seemed almost embarrassed.

"Do you think I have pretty feet?" She asked finally, a touch of crimson rising in her cheeks.

"What?" I felt a surge of fear race up my spine. I was petrified that she knew the truth, and that was she was going to fire me.

"You said I have perfect feet." Rachel reminded me. "I've not heard you tell anyone else that."

It took a moment for me to find the will to answer. I gulped. "You have very beautiful feet."

"Such ordinary things." She said, finding her seat once more, slipping the shoes off, wiggling her toes. "What makes them beautiful?"

"You take care of your feet." I said, hypnotized by the way her toes danced in the sheer silk. I couldn't look away. "You don't have callouses. You paint your toe nails weekly, taking the time to take the old polish off. A pedicure at least once a month. Your toes are long and perfectly formed, the arch is wonderfully tall. You don't take your feet for granted. I think you wear sandals when you are not at work, or at least like to go barefoot when you can."

"You notice these things?" She asked.

I nodded.

"What color polish did I wear last week?" She challenged.

"Metallic neon green. Not very flattering." I answered honestly.

"My daughter's choice." Rachel smiled. "What color do you prefer?"

"Depends on what you are wearing. If you are wearing hose, then sheer transparent maybe with a bit of color depending on the shoe, if barefoot I prefer a natural pearl finish." I answered.

"Are feet all you look for in a woman?" Rachel asked.

"Mostly." I admitted, feeling the blood drain from my face. Oh my god! She knows!

An uncomfortable silence settled upon us.

"Do you have a thing for feet?" She asked finally. I could feel her gaze upon me. "Don't lie, I can tell when people lie."

"Please don't fire me." I practically begged, fighting the bile rising in my throat. My whole body was weak with fear.

"Thought so." She smiled, regarding me. "Interesting. The rumors were right."

"You're not going to fire me?" I asked.

"No." She shook her head. "Your fetish is what makes you my best salesman."

I breathed a sigh of relief, but I was still tense. Something had changed, but I didn't know what it was.

"I've seen you watching me." Rachel said. "At first I thought you were staring at my ass, but you didn't spare a glance when I bent over. For a while I thought you were a leg man, but you ignored me when I wore skirts. Then I noticed I caught your attention a lot more when I wear those shoes. I started watching you around our customers. Then I overheard two of the older customers talking about you. You think you're pretty sly, hiding your fetish. Sometimes I can see the bulge. What are you wearing to hide it all the time?"

"A jock strap, and bicycle shorts." I admitted, stunned that she could see my bulge, despite all the effort I put into being so careful.

She nodded, her decision made. She set her feet up on the stool. "How are you at foot massages?"

"Pretty good." I lied, a thrill suffusing my body. I had never given anyone a foot massage, but I had seen the online videos while searching for my foot fetish fix.

"I'll be the judge of that." Rachel said with a smirk.

I was in heaven. Rachel's feet were perfection, those of an angel descended from on high. Enveloped in sheer silken hose, the feel of her feet under my fingers was unlike anything before. I long fantasized giving a customer a massage, but nothing compared to massaging my manager's beautiful feet. I massaged those delicate feet with the utmost attention, caressing her every curve, ensuring nothing was missed. I was tempted to kiss and nibble on those delightful toes, but I was frightened that she would be grossed out and would make me stop.

It was glorious torture.

My hardness had already escaped the jockstrap, pressing against my leg, making it difficult to kneel. Oh, how I ached to feel those feet rubbing my cock.

"Not bad." Rachel appraised when I finished. "You have willingness, but not the experience."

That deflated my ego somewhat.

Rachel smiled. "But let's see what I can do to return the favor." She said, slipping her stockinged foot down to my crotch. She stroked me through my pants, and I groaned, pleasure suffusing my body. She had a momentary look of confusion.

"Take off your pants." She ordered.

I must have misheard her. I gave her a puzzled look.

"Take off your pants." She repeated.

"I uh." I hesitated.

"Don't worry." She assured me. "Your job is safe so long as you don't tell anyone that I am sexually harassing you."

This was going well past the point of sexual harassment.

I stood up slowly, slipped out of my shoes. I wasn't sure what to do, or even what I could do. I knew what she was asking of me was wrong, but something deep within me didn't care. I undid my belt, slipping my slacks down to reveal my tight fitting bicycle shorts.

"Oh my god." She whispered, seeing the bulge straining against the layers of restraint. "Let me see!"

I slipped the shorts down, taking care to pull the jock strap with it, pulling it down to my knees and struggled for a moment to step out of them.

I was naked from the waist down, and I was as full attention.

"Your shirt." She said, staring at my cock. "take it off!"

I did so.

"You're bigger than I thought." Rachel said, admiring the view.

"Thanks." I said sheepishly.

"Have you ever loved a woman's feet?" Rachel asked.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Ever have a woman jerk you off with her feet?" She explained bluntly.

"No." I admitted nervously.

"Good." She nodded. "Cause it's about to happen. Lay down."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

It was like I was living an erotic story I've only ever read about online.

I wanted to pinch myself, to know if I was dreaming or awake.

I feared if I was dreaming and the pinch woke me, then I would lose this fantastic dream.

Instead I laid down on the floor.

Rachel really got into it, rubbing my cock with her feet as she remained seated in her chair. She caressed everything, even rubbing her stockinged feet in my face. I was excited beyond belief. I couldn't get enough of the sensations she provoked within me. It was the greatest feeling ever. Finally she got around to rubbing my cock full measure, concentrating all of her efforts on getting me to orgasm.

"No touching!" She warned when I squirmed. "You touch me again, and I'll stop!"

I groaned, my body twisting as I fought the building wave of pleasure rising within me. I gasped, struggling not to cum. Having an orgasm meant that this wonderful time would come to an end, and I really wanted this to last forever.

When her stockinged toes caressed my balls, I couldn't contain it any longer, and with a beastly moan, I came hard, a sudden fountain exploding. I nearly hit the ceiling as I squirted ropes of my cum all over, splashing her legs, clothes and even the paperwork on the desk.

It was incredible! My senses were ripped from my body, thrust through the store ceiling and into the deepness of a pleasure filled ocean. I was sent spinning. This easily surpassed any orgasm before.

It was a moment before I found my body again.

With a tremendous sigh of satisfaction, I relaxed, my cock shuddered several more times, but the well was dry, and the best it could manage was several drips running down the side of my cock. Rachel used her talented foot to wipe these up, and smeared them onto my chest. She giggled, amused by my reaction.

"Tablespoon my ass." She laughed with a shake of her head. "Came like a stallion. Must be a cup or more."

"Oh god." I managed to breathe as my heart started to beat once more.

"There's some things I want you to do." Rachel said in a suddenly business like manner, turning back to her desk.

"Things?" I said, unable to comprehend what she was saying, still basking in the glow of my dissipating orgasm.

"You need to lose the weight." Rachel nodded, moving ledgers aside on the desk, using a tissue and wiping up traces of my cum as if it were an everyday occurrence. "Join a gym, diet, whatever it takes, just lose the fucking weight. I like my toys in shape. That's very important."

"Toys?" I blinked, trying to sort my thoughts.

"Second thing." Rachel pressed on, finding a pen and paper. "I'm giving you the address for a massage therapist. Ask for Phyllis. Tell her you need to learn how to give a proper massage. You will work for her from now on. Don't worry about coming to work here. I'll mark you as working, so you can get paid. I'll set everything up."

"Phyllis?" I asked, wondering what was going on now.

"Third thing." She turned her attention back to me. "Tell no one. Ever. If you ever want to fuck my feet again, you will do whatever I tell you to do. I mean anything. Agreed?"

"Hell yes." I said.

"Good." Rachel nodded, pleased with my answer. "Lose the weight, get in shape, and learn how to give a massage. Take care of items one and two, and then we can work on three. You have four weeks and then we'll see where you are. Tell no one. Fail me and I'll fire you."

I started running the next morning.

Could barely manage a hundred yards.

Damn near killed myself I was so out of shape.

Well. Round is a shape, isn't it?

I took up cycling on a bike I hadn't been on since forever, and did a little better, even though I was mocked by nearly every kid I passed. I guess there is nothing funnier than some fatty on a bicycle too small for them, pedaling like the hounds of hell were after them.

And no matter which diet you are on, they all suck.

God did I want to eat candy and chips, sodas, everything that was my normal diet.

But the promise of loving Rachel's feet again was motivation enough for me to push myself hard. I read everything I could find on diet and exercise, determined to get in shape.

Phyllis at the massage parlor turned out to be an elderly massage therapist of Filipino descent with over forty years of experience. For a seemingly frail looking old woman, she was strong as hell. After a very brief introduction to massage techniques, she put me to work on a number of her clients, older men that were not in the greatest of shape. I wouldn't be allowed to work on female clients until she deemed me worthy. Phyllis watched me like a hawk and was quick to point out any errors in the most verbally abusive manner possible, often in her native tongue. Phyllis was harsh task master and I always went home with my hands and fingers sore, but I stuck with it. I learned a lot about human musculature and basic anatomy.

I couldn't wait for the month to pass, and when it finally did, I showed up at the shoe store early, and it was as if I had never left. Upon store closing for the night, I finished organizing and cleaning the store in no time at all. There's an old saying that nothing will make a man do house work faster than the promise of sex.

As before, Rachel summoned me into the office.

"Ian, do you remember what I told you last month for your professional progress?" Rachel asked as she typed at the computer.