Toe Be or Not Toe Be

I HATE my feet. I was born with toes so long that they resemble little fingers. I could almost play piano with them; my reach is so long. My second toe is considerably longer than my big toe. To make matters even worse, my toes are rather thin as well. Worse yet it seems to be a dominant trait with four of my five children having inherited the same horrid birth defect. Ironically enough I discovered after my recent divorce that men have no such aversion to my feet.

It all began a few months ago, when I began dating this cardiologist in his late-fifties. At the time, I admit I was attracted to him for the money and prestige; a divorced single mother has to think of these things. But a couple of months into the relationship it was clear that it was not heading anywhere serious. I planned to cut my losses and move on to more promising fields. Now being a nice person, I decided the best way to end it was over a nice dinner. So when he asked me out to his favourite Italian restaurant, I decided this was it. I was going to end it.

Of course, I wanted to end it in such a way that he would spend weeks or even months thinking about the one that got away. So I splurged. I not only fixed my long reddish blonde hair and make-up to perfection, but I also choose a particularly stunning white sundress that would show to perfection my new Southern California tan. I also did something I had not since the divorce; I got a manicure and pedicure. It was one of the many luxuries that a single working mother with modest resources simply foregoes in favour of the necessities such as rent, power and food. But this one time would not hurt I assured myself. So when he picked me up that Saturday afternoon I looked stunning. The children were with my ex that weekend so I definitely intended to end the date with the best sex we had had...another reminder of what he would be missing.

When he picked me up that afternoon in his stunning silver Corvette, I was proud of how I looked. His dark brown eyes travelled slowly from the top of my slightly tousled long hair across my generous 38D breasts only barely contained in the halter top of my sundress and down my long tanned legs. But those eyes froze when they lit on my freshly manicured feet encased in the wedge-heeled sandals. I could actually see his rather ordinary cock harden inside his khaki trousers. When he stepped forward and put his hand about my waist drawing me against him, the kiss he brushed across my lips was the most passionate of our brief relationship.

Over lunch we enjoyed the normal friendly banter that marked a casual dating relationship that was headed no where, but I noticed that he kept sneaking glances at my feet. It actually became a game of teasing with me. Anytime that the conversation dulled I would stretch in the chair, comment on the lovely view from the cliff-side restaurant and cross my long legs tapping my sandal encased feet to some imaginary beat. His eyes would literally follow each tap as he mumbled so inane response.

Finally the moment came when I knew it was time to end it. I calmly explained that while I enjoyed his company I did not think that things were going anywhere and that we should see other people...something I had already begun to do actually. I ended with the suggestion that we spend one more evening together; for old time's sake. He definitely perked up at that offer. Then sheepishly he asked if I would grant one final request. I was in a good mood, having accomplished exactly what I wanted: leaving a man wanting more. I was a tad shocked though at his request: a foot job.

I was though determined that this man never forget me, a tad vain I know. So when we retired afterwards to his beach side home, I was committed to fulfilling this fantasy. We sat on his plush neutral beige suede sofa; relaxing into the comfortable cushioned that cocooned us. He slowly removed my strappy sandals. His hands were firm and actually very efficient as they slowly massaged my right foot. I commented playfully that if the heart thing ever fell through he should consider a job as a masseur. After several minutes he switched to the left foot; repeating the whole process.

I could tell from the uncomfortable way he kept shifting on the couch that his cock was hard within his pants. I reached over and slowly unbuckled his belt. My hand ran softly along the ridge of his cock through the cool cotton material. I was not shocked to discover that it was harder and larger than ever before. When I unbuttoned and zipped his pants down, he lifted his hips enough for me to push them down his legs to pool about his feet still encased in his loafers. I left him that way: his rock-hard five and a half inch penis still covered by those tighty whities with his pants about his feet like some naughty school boy caught masturbating in the bath. He was at my mercy then.

Sitting back once more into the lush cushions, I untied my halter top allowing it to fall forward revealing my large breasts topped with light brown nipples that had suckled my babies. I ran my own hands slowly across them pulling and tweaking the nipples exactly the way I liked as I brushed my right foot across the front of those white briefs. My toes were painted with my favourite clean white and pink French manicure pattern. They showed against the white material of his briefs as I smiled coyly at my lover. With my other hand I lifted the hem of my sundress to reveal my bare shaven cunt; having foregone panties another tease on this special occasion.

The wonderful thing about giving my partner a 'foot job' was that both of my hands were then freed up to take care of my own needs. Since the time I began masturbating to orgasm in my early teens, I had discovered that it was impossible to cum without the twin stimulation on my nipples and my clitoris. With my feet doing the job that would usually require at least one hand or my mouth; I could focus upon achieving my own release, which is exactly what I did.

Soon the large living room was filled with moans; his and mine as my fingers brought me closer to orgasm. My partner too was approaching his release. With my left foot now being massaged firmly in his strong hands, he had drawn it to his mouth so that he could lick and suck my long painted toes. I hate to say it but the sensation actually did nothing for me. In fact I had to force myself to focus on my nipples and clit; ignoring it. But it was definitely heightening his pleasure as he moaned with each firmer stroke of my right foot across the front of his cotton briefs and along the hard length of his cock.

I know it would have been nice of me to allow him to remove the briefs so that my feet provided skin-to-skin contact, but I was in a bit of a dominating mood at the moment. I had already decided in my mind that if he did not cum before or shortly after my orgasm that I would simply leave; forcing him to take matters into his own hands if he wished his release. Did he after all deserve such a treat? I was after all dumping him because of his lack of promise both as a potential mate and a lover. So instead I continued to focus upon achieving my own release.

I wonder sometimes what it must have been like for him though: to sit on his couch and watch me as I played with the pussy he had fucked and with my big tits while I fulfilled his fantasy with my foot rubbing against his hard cock. I can say that he was moaning louder and harder than I was at this point. Just as I felt my peak approaching I felt his cock beneath my toes begin to harden even more and throb. I knew he was about to spurt his cum into his shorts. I opened my eyes and stared at him then. The naughty side of me taking over as I commanded him 'Make a mess in your shorts.'

We both seized in powerful orgasms at the same time. He did exactly as I had said. I could tell by the wet stain that was growing on the front of those tighty whities. He collapsed back against the cushion of the couch with a sigh of satisfaction. I too relaxed; surprised at how much I had enjoyed this little fetish of his. You might think that this little foray changed everything. The truth is that it did not. I knew that despite this little fantasy eventually the relationship would once again stall. I decided that rather than prolong the inevitable it was best to go out with a bang as it were.

But that afternoon did have lasting repercussions. I became increasingly curious about this fetish. Eventually I found a couple of websites on the subject. One day I even answered an advert for a foot model. Now I have quit the job I had, moved with my children into a nicer home, drive a new car and work around their schedules. How? By occasionally having those long toes I hated so much photographed doing what they were created to do...rubbing against some guy's hard cock. Of course, I no longer hate them. I take very good care of them too; pedicures are no longer a luxury this single mother can not afford. They are not a tax deductible business expense. And my former lover is a big fan; I often receive emails from him rememberng that afternoon fondly...and begging for a repeat.