Girls in their teens weren’t supposed to know all the things Helen knew about boys and sexuality. But Helen knew that sex wasn’t just a matter of humping your brains out. There were all kinds of needs people had, needs they’d either been born with or which had been developed.
She already knew where her needs lay. Ever since she could remember having a sexuality, she knew she wanted to be the boss. She knew she was sexually dominant. Thank goodness, she thought, that men are easily dominated. They’re particularly vulnerable if a woman knows how to recognize a guy’s hang-ups. One of the things which go hand-in-hand with a guy submitting to a female, she reflected, is his fascination with certain objects or body parts which enhance a woman’s appearance, be they lingerie, breasts, leather, high heels, delicate feet or any other turn-ons or fetishes.
It was the shoe and foot freaks Helen could easily and quickly identify, and she kept her eyes open for them. In high school, she knew who all the secret foot fetishists were even if they didn’t know it themselves. It wasn’t difficult. There were always those few guys in class who got caught up, seeming in hypnotic gazes, by the little foot shows most girls did subconsciously. In Helen’s case, it was on purpose. She wanted to know who lusted after her feet and shoes. Most of the guys were into their macho numbers of eye-balling boobs and ass. But a few, such as a guy named Phil, had interests that went a bit beyond the norm.
At the beginning of the year, Helen had seen Phil in class watching her dangle her high heel off the end of her nyloned toe and play with it, slapping it against the sole of her foot. He was as mesmerized by that performance as any guy who’d ogled her breasts. When he asked her out a few days later, she was quick to say yes.
That night, when they were parked near the stream at the local lovers’ lane and were into light petting, Phil kept reaching for her feet. He ran his hands over the patent leather of her shoe and encircled the high heel with his hand.
They dated a few more times, their petting in the car late at night getting more and more intense. By then, Helen had allowed him to suck on her nipples and to touch her over her panties. Each time they were together, Phil managed to pay some sort of attention to her feet and heels. Of course, she rubbed his cock through his pants and worked him up to a fever pitch every time they were together. But he always went home with a case of blue balls. Helen was in control and they both knew it.
One night, when her parents were out and Phil was over to study with her, they began making out in the basement recreation room. She was teasing unmercifully, squeezing him through his pants as he again ran his hand down over her feet.
She made sure he was desperately horny before passionately whispering in his ear: “Phil, would you like to kiss and worship my feet and shoes? Would you like to smell the leather and suck on my toes?”
His response was eagerly positive.
“Then,” she said, “get down on your knees.”
Phil obeyed quickly and Helen told him to stay in position until she was ready to let him kiss her feet. As he held his pose, she said, “Phil, I know how much you’ve been wanting to kiss my feet. I knew it even before our first date. And the way you always let me run things tells me that you’re the kind of guy who needs feminine direction and control. Am I right?”
He admitted that all she’d just said was true. He also said it would be a dream come true if she would allow him to worship her pretty feet and shoes. She hesitated for a moment, looked down at him and, establishing direct eye contact, said, “Your dreams will come true now and many times in the future, Phil, if you agree to be my slave.”
His eyes broke with hers as he let loose a huge sigh, the kind of sigh that said his secret yearning had been discovered and that he was relieved that it had. He agreed immediately to her terms, promising to do everything she said.
