Hunter was a cute young man, 19, short haircut, athletic young body, big green eyes and eager to please. He'd come to audition for me; my name is Donna Culkins, and I'm a theater director at the small community playhouse in my little town, a lifelong amateur actor and in my older years, a director.
He seemed smitten with me, but that's not totally surprising for young men like him to be attracted to older women. And in all modesty, he had reason to. I'm 63, but very well preserved, with chestnut brown hair tinged with gray, and a tall, lean body kept fairly muscular by constant exercising.
But it wasn't my overall look that seemed to garner young Hunter's attention that night. It was my feet. Naughty, naughty boy....
We auditioned several actors, me sitting in the audience seats, the actors on stage. I was wearing a comfortable v-neck, sleeveless t-shirt that did reveal a bit of my sexy, slightly saggy cleavage, but modestly. But it was down below that seemed to get the boy's attention: I was wearing very tight jeans, skinny jeans they're called, and had on short wool black socks that night, with black pumps on my feet. As I sat, just 10 or so feet from the stage, I crossed my legs, my pant leg riding up to reveal a couple of inches of my slender ankle, and the bottom of the muscular calf there, my shoe dangling as I watched.
When Hunter was up there reading for a part of a young man, he seemed flustered, unable to concentrate, and I couldn't help but notice him trying to catch glimpses of my shin, calf and feet without being too obvious about it. It was flattering, to say the least, and to be honest, I'd never entertained the notion of sexually exciting a young man. Well, at least not with my feet.
"Uh, don't be nervous, Hunter, just be yourself," I finally said, then turning to my assistant, whispering, "I'm going to the bathroom, maybe he'll loosen up a bit."
I lied about that, I just left the theater proper and stood outside, listening. Sure enough, with no one but my capable male assistant to audition for, Hunter's delivery was assured and precise. 'Oh well', I thought to myself. 'At least he's not a gay actor!'
I waited a few minutes, then went back in, where Hunter was finishing up. I sat down, again crossing my long legs, again my pant riding up to expose a tease of calf and shin and that sock, and again Hunter was acting nervous. I smiled, and chatted with my assistant.
"Hunter, can you stick around?" I asked. "Hang out in the lobby? We're almost done, and I'd like to talk to you, one on one."
"Sure thing Mrs. Culkins!" he said brightly, bouncing out of the room.
We finished up the last auditions and I walked to the lobby, where Hunter dutifully waited, noticeably brightening when I walked in. I bid the others goodbye, locked the lobby door and motioned for the boy to follow me back into the theater, which he eagerly did. I walked slowly to the stage, pulled up a chair and sat down -- crossing my leg to give him the show. Again, he went flush in the face, and nervously looked away, to the wings, the ceiling, anywhere but at the slender patch of flesh above my sock and the foot wearing it.
"Hunter," I said somewhat formally, "I'm prepared to offer you the part, would you like that?"
"Oh, yes, Mrs. CUlkins, yes!"
I smiled, and kicked off my shoes, crossing my legs. They clattered off the stage, landing at Hunter's feet. He looked down at them nervously, and I could swear I heard him sniff the air for their scent.
"Oh, sorry," I giggled. "Be a dear, pick them up and bring them on stage..."
He nervously obeyed, picking them up gingerly, one in each hand, soles in his palms, the openings up, chest level. The foot-loving teen was clearly trying to get a whiff!
He walked onto the stage, standing before me.
"It's so hot, I just want to get comfy," I sighed, putting my feet flat on the floor, pulling up both pant legs to the knees, revealing my very long, very smooth calves and shins above the socks he couldn't stop staring at. "You don't mind?"
"No, God, no, not at all!" he gushed, stopping himself when he realized his forceful response was too telling. "Uh..no..."
I sat back, legs crossed, bouncing, the muscular flare of the top leg bulging meatily around the shinbone. I looked up at him as he stood, my shoes still in his hands.
"Tell me one thing, Hunter," I said with mock sternness. "Do my feet and legs and shoes and socks...excite you?"
His face went white, his head shaking side to side, his mouth open, trying to lie.
"Smell them," I growled, a slight smile on my puckered lips. "Go on, smell your director's stinky shoes! Don't lie, I know you want to! In fact, you want to smell my feet, too, don't you? You couldn't stop staring at them and my legs when you were auditioning, it made you nervous, didn't it? The thought of them, so cheesy and ripe and nasty, the smell...the taste? Admit it. Admit it or you don't get the part. It's that simple, really."
He stared at me and then at my shoes in his shaking hands, then at my meaty, muscular legs and those dirty black wool socks. Ashamed, he nodded, head tilted down, toward my shoes.
"Very well, that's out of the way," I sighed. "Now smell. Smell those filthy shoes you're holding and maybe we can work that nervousness out of you. Smell them!"
He balked, unsure what to do. Impatiently, I snapped my fingers, pointing to the floor before me.
"Kneel," I barked. "Here. Now."
He obeyed, kneeling before me.
"Put your hands on the floor, by my feet," I said sternly. "And put my shoes on my thighs."
