Nevermind 1

I had just come through a difficult time when I met her for the first time. I was a divorced man in my mid-fifties with no children. I was chronically bankrupt because the separation from my ex hadn't turned out very well and I had to pay her a lot of money at the time.

From today's perspective, I would describe my hasty marriage at the time as a "bad deal". I had married a woman who undoubtedly had a certain sex appeal, but apart from that she wasn't even particularly pretty. The only thing that drove me out of my mind back then -- for sure -- were her breathtakingly beautiful feet.

I've been fascinated by beautiful, unusual feet for as long as I've been aroused.

I find the vast majority of women's feet repulsive. Especially what many call the ideal: Long, thin, even bony toes with picture-perfect pedicured nails.

No. Feet like that were nothing for me. They didn't appeal to me at all, and for a self-confessed foot fetishist like me, that meant quite a lot.

Dora, my wife, was different. She had enchanting feet. They were small, maybe a size 37; her toes were short and even. Her feet radiated what I desired: a delicious body part that had driven me crazy as a teenager and had become a recurring wet dream that I could indulge in at any time.

In this respect, the decision for Dora was purely a decision for my cock. A decision that later proved to be fundamentally wrong and harmful.

So I had only just got over Dora when I met Anouk.

She was very different from Dora. She was young. Very young. At 19, she was straight out of school. She had no life experience of any note (at least that's what I thought). Some might have called her naive, but it was her apparent inexperience and shyness that underlined this impression.

Unlike Dora, she wasn't just sexy, she was beautiful. She had her shoulder-length golden blonde hair tied up in a quick, messy bun on top of her head, which gave her round face with its cheerful smile an extremely charming touch.

The best part, however, were her feet. I'm not exaggerating when I say that they are even more beautiful than Dora's. She also has the maximum shoe size 37 and the beautifully shaped foot was beautifully crowned by cute, short toes.

When I saw them for the first time, I had an involuntary urge to touch them. I wanted to touch them, sniff them. I wanted to put them in my mouth like a delicious snack. I wanted to lick them until I felt like I had licked away all the sweet sweat.

"Can I help you?" I was suddenly snapped out of my thoughts by her pleasant voice. She looked at me questioningly with beautiful melancholy green eyes.

I had obviously made a moronic, or at least not entirely sane, impression on her.

"Uh... I..." I stuttered, caught out, and coughed embarrassedly. Then I managed to regain my composure. Then I shook my head and said: "No, sorry, I was just confused."

Anouk smiled sympathetically and looked a little perplexed. I had the feeling that I'd made a terrible mistake with her before anything had even started. So I hurriedly asked her: "Can I invite you for a coffee?"

Her eyes said it all. She looked at me even more irritated than before.

I pointed with my hands to the book she was reading. "I've read a lot of him too," I said, pointing to the name Charles Bukowski, who had written the book of poetry in her hands. And it seems obvious to me to talk to you about it". She raised an eyebrow in astonishment (or even more irritation), just like Mr. Spock from Star Trek always did when a reason seemed completely outrageous to him.

"You know," I continued, "I'm something of a Bukowskie expert, I..."

I paused. Somehow, I felt a bit silly myself for trying to dig at her in a rather clumsy way. Am I really doing this right now, I thought, letting my gaze wander down to her, almost ashamed, as if I was looking for an answer.

And that's exactly what I did, because my gaze soon fell on her pretty feet again, which were now in these stylish Birkenstock sandals with toe separators, which clearly gave them even more sex appeal.

I could feel my cock getting hard again at the sight and I had to struggle not to lose my composure.

"All right," I finally said. "I saw you sitting here," I said, suddenly switching to a familiar voice, "and I liked you. More precisely, I liked you a lot. I didn't know how to approach you. I mean..."

I pointed at myself, then at her. "I mean, we're very different. But I'd just like to get to know you because I really find you appealing. That's why I'm inviting you for a coffee."

I paused and when she didn't reply, I added: "And I would be very happy if you accept my invitation."

There was an awkward pause in which we stared at each other. Finally, a mischievous smile appeared on her lips and she said, "Okay."

On the way to the café I had in mind, I had a little more time to study her because we barely spoke -- out of embarrassment or because of the nervous tension that had built up between us.

She was small. Her head barely reached my chin. Her golden blonde hair had a silky, beautiful glow and framed her round head beautifully.

Her eyes opened up a whole new world to the observer. Beneath her cute snub nose, she had beautiful, full lips that she could shape into either a mouth kiss or a pout without it looking strange or unnatural. She was slim and, as far as I could tell from the generous but opaque blouse, had rather small breasts.

Her fashionable but not particularly fancy jeans underlined her girl-next-door appearance.

But the fact that she was reading Bukowski suggested some interesting secrets, or at least a pleasant curiosity and love of experimentation.

When we reached the café, a cozy place with a mainly student audience, I held the door open for her. She seemed to like the fact that I was behaving like a gentleman.

We sat down and I ordered a black coffee, she a latte macchiato. Almost a cliché.

And there it was again, that awkward pause. "How old are you?" she finally asked. I blushed. Then I said: "I'm 52."

She looked at me and smiled. "Are you always trying to pick up girls who aren't even half your age?"

Bam! That was spot on!

Sure, I hadn't expected us to have more than one coffee together. But I really hadn't seen that coming. Had I just involuntarily become part of a lesson on #MeToo? Or was she simply playing a joke on me? In any case, my emotional state had completely changed in one fell swoop. My expectant excitement had completely disappeared and given way to a great sense of unease.

This had obviously reached her too, because her facial expression now alternated between confusion and compassion. "I'm sorry," she said, "I was just genuinely interested. There was no judgment involved. Perhaps my question was simply clumsily worded and implied the opposite of what I intended."

She tried to put on a friendly smile, but now looked uncertain. I put on a slightly reprimanding but conciliatory face and said, "Nevermind. Let's just pretend we haven't started our conversation yet."

Her face brightened and a sweet smile flitted across her face.

"Okay," she said again, and it sounded like the first time she'd agreed to a coffee.

" You know," she began, "why I agreed and came with you?"

"No," I replied, making it clear how eager I was to hear her explanation.

"I have a thing for older men," she admitted bluntly and suddenly started stroking my leg with her foot.

"When I said you, I felt that unmistakable tingle that comes over me when I see a guy like you, a daddy type who is at least twice my age."

"Have you had several men like me?" I asked curiously.

She nodded. "The oldest so far was 81," she boasted and my expression of disgust made her quickly add an explanation: "He was incredibly agile for his age and so damn attractive. What I particularly loved about him was that we shared fetishes and sexual preferences. He was a total foot fetishist and no one could lick my sweet little toes with such arousing devotion."

Her last words made me swallow a lump in my throat.

That horny bitch, it went through my head, she's into exactly what I'm lusting after. And the first person allowed to touch her sweet toes was an old bastard who had a further 30 years on his back. Did I feel my pride in exclusivity had been violated?

I quickly regained my composure and pushed the negative emotions aside. Instead, I tried to look on the bright side: My chances of getting more than this coffee that day and licking her gorgeous little toes before too long had just increased by 500 percent.

"What do you like?" she said as casually as if it were a matter of latte or Americano.

"Guess," I said, grinning broadly.

It took a moment, then a broad grin appeared on her face too. "I almost thought you would," she said, "because I noticed how you were staring at my feet and how your trousers were starting to bulge out at the crotch."

The rest of our conversation was very pleasant. Since we both knew about our most intimate desires, we both felt neither shy nor ashamed of imagining these fantasies in detail. We talked about what it would feel like for her if I not only licked her toes, but also the spaces between them. Or whether I would come faster if she massaged my glans with her toes.

It was a wide range of new possibilities that we tried to explore.