Pantyhose Feet Ch. 01

She walks into the house at 6:30pm. I think that I am ready for her.

She is dressed to the nines, of course, as she always is nowadays. This is only right, since her clothing budget alone now consumes about 65% of my salary.

"Honey, I'm home," she says ironically.

"You wouldn't believe the day I had. It was so hot at the office."

The office of which she speaks is the Law Firm of Carroll, Bergen, and Smith, where she has been working as a secretary for the last year.

She sits down on our leather couch, looking at me expectantly at me- and more significantly, at the freshly prepared martini in my hand. I set it before her on the coffee table, atop a coaster.

I stand for a second, transfixed by her beauty. She is a woman whose presence alone speaks of command. A look from her eyes is enough to make me melt, blush, or cry, depending on her mood.

She clears her throat, bringing me out of my reverie, and motions to her feet.

I get down on my knees

I kiss the pointy toe part of both shoes passionately, being sure to taste the leather with my tongue. Slowly, gently, I remove the shoe from her left foot. My face is close to her foot, so that I may catch the scent that first escapes when shoe parts from foot. That is, indeed, the true essence of her foot. There is much wonderful scent and sweat clinging to both her pantyhose-covered foot and the shoe, and the scent that first escapes is pure pleasure. I distinctly feel, for that moment, pleasure chemicals being released in my brain. I waste no time in licking the inside part of the shoe, which just a moment ago had held her blessed foot.

It is important that I only take a brief second to lick the shoe once it is off of her foot. This part is, according to her, purely for my pleasure, having nothing to do with hers. However, while I do it, I see a sardonic smile creep over her face. She knows that I worship every object that is closely associated with her flesh.

I hold her foot in my hands, like the splendid trophy that it is. Just then, she gives me a sharp look. A small shot of adrenaline runs through my system - what could I have done? Is the martini too dry? Did I take too long licking her pungent, supple, $8000 shoe? Just then, before I have a chance to truly panic, she points downward with her right hand in the universal gesture of "Down on the floor." Well, universal between us, anyway.

On my back now, head resting against the back of the couch. Her foot nearly covering my face. The silkiness of the pantyhose against my face. The difficulty breathing. The smell. The smell. The smell.

As she said, it was warm at her office that day. Her feet are very sweaty. Besides, I know of her Friday Policy. On Fridays, she always wears the pantyhose that she wore the previous day. I imagine that by doing this, she puts off more of her womanly scent than usual while she walks through her office. I have witnessed firsthand the lawyers' tendency to drool over her extra hard on Fridays. She never fails to get laid on Fridays.

She hasn't had sex with me in two years.

I begin to lick the sole of her foot, up and down. At the toes, I stop. I put my nose between her big toe and next toe, taking a full inhale of precious, beautiful scent. A scent so HERS, with her sweat, from her feet, covered in her exquisite shoes and pantyhose all day, containing her attitude, her uncrackable demeanor, her cruel, merciless commanding of me, and her wicked, wicked ways.

This image, that of me on my back, loving her feet, has been photographed, and those photographs have been reproduced. I have discovered scans of these photographs being used as background wallpaper on her boyfriends' (and fuck buddys') computers from time to time. Amongst our circle of friends, this is a very familiar image.

I lick and suck each and every toe, taking time to taste her saltiness, smell her pantyhose foot smell.

I address her other foot in a similar fashion.