This story came about after meeting a new friend on AOL. We talked, and by her screen name I knew she had a fetish for having her feet worshiped. After a little talk and some rather hot cyber, she told me about her fantasies and asked me to write a story for her. I have been sending her this in small chapters for about three weeks. Now that it is finished, I have sent her the full unedited copy, then changed some names, and given it to you. I hope you enjoy it everyone...
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You walk through your front door, closing it behind you, setting your keys on the table there for just that purpose. Another day at the office finished, another dollar earned. Flicking the light on you freeze. A man kneels before you, someone you have never seen before. Your first instinct is fear, who is he, what is he doing here? What does he want? But you pause for a second, looking into his wanting hazel eyes. Could it be....?
"Rogahh?" You ask.
I slide down lower, bowing my head towards your feet,
"Yes Mistress, its me."
You laugh,
"What are you doing here?"
By answer, I lean forward, taking your foot into my hand. You place a hand on my shoulder to steady yourself as I slip the black patten leather flat off your glorious toes, placing it to one side.
"Your feet look tired mistress, may I service them?"
You pause for another second, could this really be happening? Was I really here? Then,
"Yes Footboy, you may."
I remove your other shoe, setting them side by side next to your door. With both of your feet flat on the floor, I proceed to kiss the deep red nail of each toe, left to right on each foot. I can smell the sweat from a long day trapped in those shoes, no one there to massage you, to give your feet the attention they crave. I kiss the top of them, licking slightly on each kiss, moving slowly towards your ankles. My lips kiss each ankle in turn, sucking briefly on each. I look up at you,
"Mistress, I so wish to suck on your toes, may I?"
You are stunned, is this finally happening? All that time wanting it so badly and now it's come to pass? Your own foot slave?
"Yes, Footboy," You say to me, "But not here, take me to my bedroom. It will be much more comfortable for me there."
I stand before you, my erection tenting my pants,
"May I carry you Mistress?"
You smile at me, not believe how wet you are getting,
"Yes, I wouldn't have it any other way."
With that I scoop you into my arms, sweeping you off your tired, sexy feet, kissing you with a burning passion you have never felt before. As I walk towards your bedroom door you return my kiss, wrapping your arms around my neck. Your nipples are hard, you are beginning to feel so hot, and I haven't even sucked on your toes yet.
'What pleasures', you wonder, 'does my very own bedroom hold for me?'
I carry you through the halls of your own house, seeming to know exactly where I am going, not once asking for your direction. The door to your chamber lies ajar. In the otherwise darkened hallway, an erotic flickering light caresses the walls and floor before it. The effervescent fragrance of roses waif to your nose, causing you to take a deep breath, smelling for the first time my foreign scent. The scent of maleness, the smell of something new, something that was all yours. As I walk slowly past the threshold into your inner sanctum, you stare in awe at the new decor. The room is dim, lit only by two tall silver candelabras, each holding six long obsidian candles. At first you think the scent of roses must come from these, then you see your bed. Gone are your practical sheets and comforter. In their place are black silk sheets, on which rest handfuls of red rose petals. The corner of your bed is covered by a black rectangular box, a silver ribbon tied into a careful bow on opposite corners. More roses fill a vase resting on your night stand, they seem out of place next to the strange equipment there; A pair of sliver clips on the end of one foot of steel chain, a glass bottle stoppered with a white cork, filled with a pinkish liquid, a black leather riding crop, a thick black rubber dildo, at least ten inches in length and an inch and a half in girth, and last but not least, a final sash of black satin. You notice, while your bed is covered in the crimson petals, not one ruby flower lies on your bedroom's floor. How long had I been here? How had I known when to set this up?
I stop at the foot of your bed, gazing down into your eyes,
"Mistress, would you like to slip into something more comfortable?"
You stare in silence for a second, still in a state of shock, then answer,