I do love a beautiful foot. Always have. It has never been sexual for me, though I understand that it is one of the most common fetishes. The first feet I can recall noticing as beautiful were those of a boss. She had incredible long, slim, legs. She wore Louboutin to work every day it seemed. She was a gorgeous woman, and I spent a lot of time literally sitting at her feet in her office taking notes and saying “yes Miss”. Those were the days. And she loved to tease me, to make me blush.
Apart from being my boss she was dominant…not in the sense of being bossy, but in the sense of being fully aware of her feminine power…and I say that, because I find it a fey power, one that is free and carefree and dancing…and a man can only ever perceive it when it comes to him. But the curse of the male is to seek to possess it, and that just doesn’t work. To possess it is to kill it.
A friend of mine who had beautiful feet did note my love of elegant women’s shoes. She teased me, “you should be a foot fetishist.”
“Yeah,” I shrugged, thinking it was kind of kinky in a safe way.
But I always wondered what is in it for the object of those affections. Does the recipient of foot fetish love actually enjoy it? What does it feel like to have someone kiss or lick or suck on your toes? I don’t know how I would feel about it. I would imagine it would feel silly.
When I was a kid visiting my cousin in NY, he showed me the taboo cable Channel J—anything to do with sex is taboo when you are little. There was nothing sexy about what we watched…two rather unattractive adults who were not face to face but face to toe, and they were moaning and licking each other’s feet and just farting and farting. My cousin and I were giggling like mad, and I was wondering, “do people really do this?”
Not too long ago I knelt on the floor after a rather beautiful experience with a delight of a dominatrix. She sat above me on the bed. She extended her foot and placed it on my thigh and then with an elegant gesture, just introduced her foot. I looked at it resting there. It was beautiful. Narrow, petite, beautifully proportioned, with long, elegant toes. It was still. It was on me. It was waiting. It was the loudest thing in the room. I looked up at her and asked if I might kiss it.
“Yes,” she said. So I did. I bent down and lifted her foot slightly, and gently kissed the top of her foot. I put it back. “I’ve never kissed a foot before.”
“Really?” she asked. She seemed genuinely surprised. I suppose it is rather surprising that a submissive man has managed to get through life without kissing a foot.
After, I thought about this from time to time. And the idea came into my head that when I saw her again, I would like to do the symbolic washing of feet. I think of it as a quasi-holy act, of course Christianity is laced with such, but it is also beautiful and submissive.
And sometime later, circumstance found me on my knees before her again and I told her that I had brought a small facecloth and a foot cream and I wanted to know if it would be all right if I washed her feet. I have been taken by the Christian history of foot-washing, with Jesus submitting in this manner in the Bible, all the way to the Pope, who does the same. I had also bought a reflexology card on the feet and had watched several youtube videos on how to give a foot massage, having never even done that before.
“I’ve never washed someone’s feet before. I never gave a foot massage before. But I did watch some videos.”
She was as surprised by this as she had been by my previous revelation on having never kissed a foot.
“I used to be a foot domme,” she said.
“Yes, that is how I got started.”
“I guess it is very popular.”
“I could turn you into a foot fetishist,” she said with a smile.
“I suspect you could turn me into anything you liked.”
I washed her feet one at a time, gently, carefully, lovingly. I applied cream and began to apply the techniques that I learned from watching videos.
“I might have put too much cream,” I noted.
“You’ll just have to do it long enough,” she said, resting back and closing her eyes.
What happened over the next while is a blur. I have no idea how long I knelt before her, but everything in the world ceased to exist. Only her feet. First one, and then the other. And I could see that her face was flushed with pleasure. And then, slowly, imperceptibly, her feet crept closer to my face, and then they were on me, like hands, sensually, caressing my face, teasing my lips, entering my mouth. And we were both out of it, lost in some place where nothing else existed. My mind was empty. All of me was aroused, my senses, my whole body, my skin. And then she raised herself up and pulled me close to her, and rested her forehead on mine, her lips a millimeter or two from my own, and the air crackled, shimmered, vibrated, my vision narrowed down to the gentle curvature of her upper lip, too close to even see, but I could feel the heat and the energy emanating from her. And I wondered, “Oh my God, is she going to kiss me?” and wondering what I would do, and feeling so deeply and utterly in sub space, the kind that paralyses me. No, I am not the boy who leans in for a kiss, even like this. I have spent an entire life waiting for permission, never taking.
She remarked to me once before how she likes to tie her subs up, to totally immobilise them, to even mummify them, because that allows her a freedom in sensual touch that she knows is safe, on her terms. She noted that even a good and devoted sub will often have straying hands. I was so honoured it ached all through my heart when she told me that she felt so comfortable with me that she knew she didn’t need to tie me up at all. It is existential.
I have never known that domination could be so powerful as to not even require any overt acts of domination. Her power lies not in command. It simply is. And I find myself tying myself into little origamis and laying myself at her feet.
I am not a man. I am a flower. Flowers get plucked.