Just three days ago, I'd happened to bump into Tanya, en ex-teacher of mine, and one thing led to another, culminating in me worshipping her feet and enjoying a steamy sex session back at her place.
At the time, I thought that it would be a thrilling one-off experience and although we'd exchanged phone numbers as I left her house, I thought nothing more of it but I felt a shiver of excitement when I got out of the shower at my budget hotel room early next week to see she'd texted me.
She wanted to know how long I was in town for. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning," I replied. Did she want another round of foot fun? I would definitely be up for that. She really seemed to have enjoyed herself when we'd met the other night so perhaps she's up for it too, I mused.
My phone went quiet as I dried myself and got dressed. It's a weekday, I thought to myself. She'll be at work, likely busy with meetings and classes. I had work to do too, but I couldn't concentrate. I found my attention wandering; every few minutes or so I would find myself drifting off imagining her beautiful feet in my face, in my mouth, rubbing my erect cock.
I wondered all sorts of things: What colour nail polish is she wearing today? Which shoes has she got on? Is she still thinking about me?
Ping. Another text. I scrambled to grab my phone, which I'd left on the unmade bed behind me. "Where are you staying?" she'd asked.
I replied with details of the hotel. It was only a couple of miles from her school but a little further from where she lived.
"Lunchtime meeting?" she posted, with a winking emoji.
Yes, please, I thought, smiling broadly. "You bet," I typed. I guessed if she was coming in her lunch break, she would want to get on with it so I gave her my room number, advising that the reception was rarely manned so she should be able to pop up without causing any undue suspicion or embarrassment.
"I'll be there around 12.15."
The rest of the morning dragged. Really dragged. My hands shook a little as I tried to type, my work-rate slowed to a crawl by constant thoughts about what fun I would be having later with my former teacher's feet.
Five years ago she would have been standing at the front of the class discussing the finer points of some classic work of literature. I would be sat somewhere near the front, casting glances at her feet whenever I could, secretly fantasising about them.
Now, here I was, indulging that fantasy; not once, but twice in the space of a few days.
After what felt like hours, the time had arrived. I'd showered again, made the bed and sure enough, just after 12.15, there was a soft knock on the door.
I opened it and she strode in. She'd clearly come straight from school, wearing a smart grey two-piece suit and black stiletto heels.
"I'd offer you a drink, but there's no minibar here," I joked.
She smiled, kicking off her heels and laying back on the bed. The answer to one of my questions earlier was pink. Bright pink nail polish adorned her toes. It suited her, I thought.
Lifting her feet up, she wiggled them suggestively, and asked me, "Want some more?"
Another enormous smile ripped across my face. I didn't need to say anything. She knew full well I wanted more. And seemingly, so did she.