The tip of my stilettos glistens seductively while I slowly slide them in and out of your mouth. I know you have a foot fetish and when I’m feeling particularly kinky I always use my long toes against you. Your face is wet with tears and saliva, your hands bound and restlessly wringing for escape. As my delicately curved arches draw closer to your face I hear you begging for release. “This is cruel,” you whimper. I look down at your hard, unwavering erection. “No baby,” I say, “This is fun.” I have a fetish for foot domination and designer shoes are my biggest turn on.
I don’t know how I acquired a taste for luxury boots and heels, only the moment that it first seized me. We were on our way to Chamonix after spending far too much time partying in Switzerland and too little enjoying the Italian Alps as planned. Sitting beside you in the G-Wagon I savored the feeling of leather on leather, languidly placing my lambskin thigh highs on the dashboard as I leaned my head against the glass. Counting frosted mountains like counting sheep, I had almost dozed off when suddenly you offered me the joint. Your lips curled and grinned as you watched me giggle, “I thought you left this behind in Geneva?” I laughed. “I had an extra stash of it saved from Milan. When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” you said almost as flippantly as you lit your spliff. No one would ever expect you to be such a party animal and when I first met you neither did I—but the feeling of worshipping my elegantly boned feet, wrapped in sheer Wolford pantyhose and peep toed Jimmy Choo’s for the first time high on haze was enough to get you hooked. Both on my body and the freedom.
After three deep drags you reached over to hand the burning joint to me. We hit a pothole and your hands slip, the joint misses my fingers completely and instead lands on the instep of my favorite Balmain boots. I order you to stop the car and get out. It’s freezing outside, but the wind chill only makes the blood in my veins run colder. This isn’t playtime or BDSM porn, these are the expectations of our Female Led Relationship (FLR) and baby, you fucked up. I snatch the keys out of your hands, clack my heels angrily around to the driver’s seat of the G-Wagon and get in. The look on your face as I sped away, watching you run after me like an embarrassed dog, was such a potent aphrodisiac I was seduced to linger, slow down, and play with myself until you finally sauntered closer to the car. The way I looked when you opened that door was so paralyzing sexy, by the time that we reached Mont Blanc you had already bought me three more pairs of shoes.
Tonight, I am reminded of that evening. The heavy snowfall and the fearful look in your eyes ignites my arousal so vividly it’s almost like I’m in a dream. I no longer want to you to worship my feet, this time I want you to make love to them. “You said that I’m cruel… Should I be nice?” Eyes begging for release, you look at me hungry and pleading. I point to the bottom of my Louboutin pumps, red like a bull’s eye, “On the count of ten, shoot.”