(AUTHOR'S NOTE: What follows is a story of romantic sex, much centered around foot worship, between a woman much older than the young man she seduces. If you do not like stories of older women and younger men, do not read. If you do like them, please enjoy and vote accordingly and comment if you so desire Thank you)
She saw him right away. Being observant was one of her skills. She was keenly aware of her surroundings, always noticing who noticed her.
And the boy had noticed her. She smiled to herself, a little flattered and more than a little aroused. She had a thing for boys his age.
Deidre Mattock was CEO of a very successful security company, providing services around the world, and was on her way to Amsterdam this day to meet a potential client, a nonstop, overnight flight. She'd take first class, of course. The boy, she imagined, would not.
He sat across from her, waiting for the flight to take him to the Netherlands where he'd catch up with college mates for spring break, a gift from his parents. He saw her when he sat down, drawn by the elegant beauty of the silver-haired woman. He imagined her to be his grandmother's age, in her 60s perhaps, but with an air about her his beloved granny never possessed.
She was sleek and lean, poised in her business suit of dark blazer, white blouse beneath, and black slacks. She looked tall and angular, fit and firm. Her feet. Her feet are what drew his furtive gaze when he sat down, beautiful, long, tapered feet in an expensive-looking pair of black leather pumps, a hint of toe cleavage where her presumably equally sexy digits were pointed down into the harsh triangular shoe front.
And Deidre noticed that as well. She sat, newspaper on her slender thighs, leg crossed, bouncing that foot, twisting it side to side. His gaze widened.
'A foot boy', she thought. 'All the better to play with you dear child'.
She slowly, very slowly, let the shoe slip partially off, dangling it playfully. Peripherally, she noticed the boy fidget nervously in his seat as he tried not to watch but couldn't help himself. The lure of that sexy foot was too much, the tease of toes still hidden in the shoe, the long sweep of her instep, the creamy white skin, the exposed wrinkles of the sole.
It drew him in. He ached to kneel and smell and worship those feet.
He'd had his moments before. His first introduction to an elderly woman's feet was his grandmother's, for which he still felt shame and arousal. He and his grandmother used to play wrestle when he was younger, innocent stuff, always. But one day, around his puberty, as he lay on the floor before her couch, she had sat back on it, pinning his face beneath her large, wrinkled, sweaty feet.
She'd done it before and he'd giggle and pull away. But this time, he could not. Would not. He felt her scent and power embrace him and his dick exploded in his pants, moaning as she wiggled her toes, his mouth open, tasting of the sweaty, salty, wrinkled flesh.
She had no idea the effect she'd had on him as flush with embarrassment, he raced off to his room to change his wet underwear. And jerk off, thinking of what happened, the scent of his granny's feet still moist on his face.
Over the years since then, he'd volunteered to massage her feet, and she always accepted, always with grandmotherly innocence. And he was gracious and polite about it, giving nothing away, later stealing to his room to masturbate with one hand to the scent on the other.
He got bolder. He'd duck into her huge closet on visits to her country home, devouring the leathery, sweaty scent of dozens of shoes on the floor, jacking off into them, with them, always careful to remove evidence of his perverse ways.
He'd steal her dirty sweat socks from her gym workouts, or short black trouser socks she'd wear to work, crusty and stale, and have at them, having at himself. He felt filthy and alive, ashamed and energized. It consumed him, this lust for his grandmother's feet and smell.
On trips to her house, when her lady friends were there, his grandmother would innocently boast of his foot massage prowess, and he'd eagerly rub their feet as well, none as sexy as his granny's, but equally as smelly, some more so, the old ladies giggling as he did his work, etching the moments into his brain, the scent into his hands, those hands working himself into a frenzy later, at home or if it was too long to wait, in his granny's bathroom, listening to the laughter of the old ladies just down the hall, blissfully unaware of the effect they'd had on the boy.
But this lady in the airport lounge, this marvelously well-kept older lady now before him, she possessed feet unlike any he'd ever seen. The foot now mostly bared before him, taunting him, was sculpted and smooth, white and creamy, wrinkled on the bottom, delicately fleshed along the instep, the corded Achilles at the heel, a slight thickened vein running from her toe cleavage up under her pant leg to what he imagined to be a perfect shin and muscular calf.
She knew he was consumed by the sight of that foot and mischievously now let the shoe drop, wriggling her red-painted toes, long and slim, and saw him fidget more. She almost felt bad for the boy in a way, knowing he'd have several long hours of imagining that foot as he tried to sleep in coach on the flight.
But maybe he wouldn't, she thought: She noticed his cell phone in his hands, presumably texting, but likely snapping photos of that foot.
'Sly, sly boy', she thought, a slight smile breaking on her slightly wrinkled mouth.
The announcement came shortly thereafter, breaking the boy's reverie. As usual, first-class and business-class customers boarded first. She slipped her shoe back on, leaning forward to do it, letting her blazer open, her blouse with it. She felt her saggy but sexy old tits jiggle into view, thick and fleshy, and lifted her head slightly to let the boy see, feeling naughty in the doing. And he noticed, of course. How could he not.
She stood to board, purposely walking close by the boy, smiling down at him as he looked up.
"Have a nice flight, young man," she said courteously, startling him with the greeting. "I have a grandson about your age, it's good for young people to travel, see the world."
She turned to stand in line, but turned to him with a smile, bending to whisper, "What I like best is putting my feet up to relax for awhile."
She overemphasized feet. And felt her loins tingle as his eyes widened as she did.
She went aboard. The first-class section was comprised of pods, one row of four on either side of the plane, and one row of connected pods in the middle, a one-two-one configuration that was roomy and comfortable. Each pod was a curved half-wall of molded blue and white plastic, each seat with a command that allowed 16 options for reclining, including laying the seat flat into a bed.
Each came with a giant swing out television, and a package with a thick comforter and fluffy pillow and small overnight bag with toiletries, a sleep mask and sleep socks, among other things. She put her bag into the overhead, pulling out a small pair of silky white running shorts and a t-shirt, into which she would later change to sleep the flight away, as she always did.
She sat down, arranged her space and looked around. For some reason, she found herself quite alone in the section, most unusual. The flight attendant, a lovely older woman herself, offered her champagne before the rest of the flight boarded.
"Very sparse crowd today, Rebecca," Deirdre said, eyeing the woman's nametag. "Odd."
