"I like these quiet nights, Sara." I said as I pushed the tape into the VCR.
"Me, too, Mike. It's just that we just don't seem to get enough of them, lately," she complained, as we settled into comfortable spots on the couch.
"I know, honey, but next month's schedule looks lighter and we should have more times like these," I said, grabbing the remote to get the movie started. "Why don't you move over a bit and put your feet up? You know, get comfortable."
Sara complied, shifting her weight and arranging her feet in my lap. Her robe parted, revealing her smooth, tan legs; a perfect contrast against the bright, white roughness of the terry-cloth. Absentmindedly, as we watched the movie, I began to knead Sara's sock covered feet, squeezing firmly and pressing into the ball and arch with my thumbs.
"Mmmm, Mike, that feel's nice. Would you?" she cooed, handing me the bottle of massage oil which seems to have become a permanent fixture on our coffee table.
"I don't know, Sara. You know I'm kind of tired. But....I suppose I can if you really need it." I replied in mock resignation.
It's a joke that she would even have to ask. She knows I love to massage her feet, and if she knew how much she would probably charge me for the privilege! Better not get into that!
I slipped the sock off the foot closest to me and began to gently touch and knead, lifting her leg slightly and bowing my head so that I could slide the sole of her foot softly against my cheek, turning my head to plant a playful bite in the middle of her wrinkled sole.
"Hey! That tickles!" she yelped.
"Oops! Sorry, honey." I grinned, satisfied with my tease.
I brought her soft foot back to my lap and began to lavishly cover it with oil, spreading a generous amount on the top of her foot, up to her ankle, down over her heel, back up the curved arch of her wrinkled sole and finishing by pouring more oil over and between her slender toes.
This is the part of the massage that I love the most, working the oil into her smooth skin. Holding her foot in my hands in a gentle caress, I close my eyes and begin to see with my hands. I am a sculptor now, my hands gliding over every curve, burning into my mind every nuance of the shape and texture of my willing model's foot, storing the energy of her image to later flow from mind, through hands, to the cool, malleable clay.
I work lovingly and long, pressing my thumbs deep into the tissue of her sole, feeling each muscle, gliding over sinew, finding pockets of tension, pressing and smoothing until the pressures of her day evaporate. My thumbs work the joints of each slender toe in turn, pulling and stretching, gliding my thumbs to each web, feeling the exquisite hollow between each toe and then moving on to the next. I grip her heal, squeezing forcefully, awakening her sexuality while I run my thumb and fingers of my other hand around and around her anklebones and finish hand over hand, squeezing, gliding and twisting over the entire length of her shapely foot until every muscle is relaxed.
