We’ve all had to find new ways of working, of being this last year. Our homes have expanded with fistfuls of windows, tiny snapshots on a screen, portals into the private worlds of our colleagues. There is a strange intimacy in this, even as an endless cycle of lockdowns have kept us distanced. The guy in accounting with really rather more cats than you’d expect — the woman down the hall who clearly has a much bigger house than you’d have guessed — the man who always has one of a selection of small children sitting on his lap during the morning ‘stand up’.
We have also met those we live with (those of us who do), in new ways — until now I never really had a clear sense of who you were when you were at work; never saw you exist in the context of colleagues I’d never met, or seen (beyond the occasionally overhead phone call) you, with a client. You aren’t a different person at work, just differently emphasised. It fascinated me – this slight stranger come to live in my house, and made you suddenly exotic. We kept out of each others’ way, meeting for coffee and lunch, me occasionally passing through the background of one of your meetings to bring tea before returning to my own work.
You’d claimed the lounge – larger, better light (so important for hours of video calls), and I worked in the kitchen, quieter and more solitary. As the weather grew hotter, and the temporary interlude of the virus grew to be a permanent fixture in our worlds, your business attire relaxed and you became perpetually semi-casual – red haired pulled back in a ponytail to keep cool, shirt, fisherman pants and bare feet. The bare feet slayed me. I lingered in the doorway after bringing your ice coffee, watching your naked toes pontificate under the table as you patiently explained some fine point of detail to your team, hypnotised by the crinkling of your soles, the traces of dust on your heels from where I had insufficiently hoovered.
It was then that I thought about how it would feel to crawl under the desk, and once thought, I couldn’t get it out of my head. I’d always harboured the odd fantasy about public play, but discarded it into the territory of fantasy only. Too shy. To ethically problematic. Better to just imagine. But I couldn’t get this imagining out of my head. I tried to work, but as hard as I stared at the diagrams on my screen, I couldn’t see anything but myself lying naked under your feet while you worked. Utterly ignored, except for an occasional instruction to lick, or suck, or rub your beautiful pale pink soles.
And so I blurted it out, while we were having a normal lunch. Immediately burning bright red and part cursing myself for not being able to hold it in, but simultaneously relieved to release the image from bouncing off the walls of my skull.
“You want to what?” You said, forkful of mozzarella paused halfway to your mouth, and eyebrows arched over your green eyes.
“Nothing. Forget I said that, please?” I said, shrinking into myself and staring down into my salad looking for salvation. I heard your chair scrape back, felt you pad around the table until you were behind me. Felt the heat coming off you as you bent over to my ear and your hands slid onto my shoulders.
“You want..” You said, quietly, into my ear. “To be my … footstool, while I work?” I swallowed and couldn’t answer you, I could feel my heart thudding in my chest, and my loins tightening in my loose shorts.
“You want.. to lie naked under my sweaty, dusty feet, while I’m in meetings? Have I got that right, footslave?”
I shut my eyes and managed to nod, even hearing you say the words forced my cock rigid and tautly full.
“But what if somebody saw? What if they got a glimpse of you, lying under there, with my dirty toes stuffed into your mouth? What if everyone knew what a dirty little footslut you are?” You sounded mockingly sympathetic at the prospect of my humiliation.
“I don’t.. it was”, I started to say.
You ran a hand softly through my hair, and then your fingers tightened viciously and you slowly pulled my head back until I had to meet your gaze. Grinning widely at me, you kissed me and said “Strip, footboy.”
The floorboards were hard and cold under my back, and if nothing else, this was a cooler way to spend a few hours than sweating at my laptop. You’d instructed me to bring a bowl of ice cubes to set within my reach on the floor, so that I could suck them periodically and use my frigid tongue to cool your feet. My cock twitched in time with your steps as you padded back into the room, and sat down at the desk. You peered under and winked at me.
“Ground rules, slave. You must remain silent – I don’t want you interrupting my work.”
“Of course Ali” I said, frowning.
“And..” You said, bringing your feet down squarely onto my upturned face. “Do not touch your cock, understand, my little footslut?” You emphasised this with a light slap of your sole against my cheek. “Or I’ll have to tie your hands. And you don’t want that, do you slave? You wouldn’t be able to fetch my drinks, or rub my feet, and I might not find you useful! And you do want to be a useful little slut, don’t you?” As you spoke, you ground my face under your soles, and then, turning you attention back to your desk, slid your toes into my mouth.
“Yeth miff” I mumbled around your big toe, tasting the sour, bitter, brackish saltiness of your skin and then gently sucking and swallowing as you’d taught me.
It was an hour before you spoke to me again. I heard you counselling a junior colleague about a challenging case, their side of the conversation mysterious to me through your headphones. I lapped at your soles, first swallowing down the dust and dried sweat, then mouthing an ice cube to try and make the experience as comfortable as possible for you.
After a while you pulled your feet back, and reaching blindly, wiped them dry on my face, before pushing my cheek into the floor and crossing your ankles, one heel resting on the side of my head. I strained my eyes sideways gazing up at your toes, your size 5 feet seemed huge in my vision and the discomfort from the weight of your legs focused on the side of my head was almost immediately intense. When I thought my head my crack, you shifted your feet, brought one backwards down my bare chest until you could just feel the swollen head of my cock with your toes. You played with it, squashing, tickling, rolling, grazing with a toenail. The skin of your big toe and the ball of your foot was soft, but coarse against my foreskin.
I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms and bit my lip until it bled. You hadn’t said I could cum, but I couldn’t hold out much longer. Then, joking about something with your junior your other foot pressed down over my mouth, and your questing toes found my nose, wriggling it between the big and second toe. Your feet never smell bad to me – I don’t understand people who talk about cheesy feet, they smell fetid, funky, like the rest of your body but more intensely. I breathed in deeply, my cock starting to twitch uncontrollably, before your toes pinched my nose tightly shut and held me breathless.
It was too much, and my cock erupted with thick ropes of cum, spattering the sole of the teasing foot and dribbling down over and between your toes.
“So how’s lockdown for you? Finding ways to keep life interesting? I hear you saying to the invisible person in the room, as your foot loosens it’s grip on my nose and let’s me breathe- the dank air between your toes.
Another thing I’ve always placed in fantasy only territory is eating my own cum. This is for the simple reason that, in the immediate moments after I have the idea loses all appeal. In fact, everything about this situation has lost appeal for me. I imagine that this what somebody ‘normal’ would feel at this moment, naked, pinned on their back by a woman’s foot, able to breath only through their nose and smelling nothing but sweaty toes, rapidly cooling cum dribbling down their side and pooling in their belly button. Disgusted, ashamed, humiliated, desperate to escape.
But I can’t escape, not without revealing all of this to the young woman with who, I now realise, you’re joking about the slovenly ways of boyfriends. And there’s nothing I can do when your cum covered foot is shoved against my mouth and your slick toes dive force their way between my lips. I slurp it down, like the filthy slut I am. You smear more of it across my face, physically communicating that you know this also. Then your hand reaches under the table and clicks impatiently at me to finish licking your foot clean. Your meeting is close to wrapping up.
I lap the last of my juices from between your toes, just as your grinning face appears under the lip of the table.
“Coffee please slut!” You say cheerfully. “Better hurry though, I have a team meeting in 5. Be very embarrassing for you to come in late, huh?”