From Tip To Toe

Holly and I had been together for two months, and I adored her from tip to toe.

The only thing was, I hadn’t yet seen her toes. I had repeatedly seen her nipples, her pussy, even her sweet little asshole, up close . . . but not her feet.

Feet were special to Holly.

So although I’d watched her suck my cock . . . and I’d watched her take a piss . . . and I’d watched her screw her favorite vibrator, with legs spread wide . . . I hadn’t ever watched her take her socks off.

The first time we went to bed, I’d made the mistake of starting to pull down her cute, dainty crew socks, after every inch above foot-level had already been bared for me.

“No,” she said brusquely, almost sternly. It was the only time she ever spoke to me in that tone. I shrugged it off, we fucked deliciously, and I never again presumed to undress her below the ankle.

I did wonder about it, though, and I had to ask.

I waited until a couple of months into the relationship, when I sensed that our level of intimacy and our level of stability could accommodate what was obviously a touchy subject—for reasons I didn’t understand.

“You never take your socks off,” I said, as casually as I could. In the car.

“Not true. I take them off when I shower, and I change them at least once a day.”

“Fair enough. But what I mean is, you never take them off for me.”

“No, not yet.”

“But you will?”

“Please, Dan, don’t rush me.” She said it sweetly, patting my hand on the steering wheel. I wasn’t hurt; but I was as puzzled as ever. Don’t rush me? At this point we’d fucked in every position that didn’t violate a law of physics. We’d done it outdoors and in several semi-public places. Her legs had been over my shoulders so often that I was starting to develop permanent indentations there, and my cock knew the way to her G-spot by heart. But she didn’t want to be “rushed” into going barefoot before me?

In the past, I’d never given much thought to feet. I suppose, if I’d been asked before I met Holly, I’d have admitted that women had cute toes. But feet had not been a particular turn-on.

Now, however, I was becoming foot-fixated. By giving her feet a unique sexual sacredness, Holly was eroticizing them for me as well. It wasn’t just the attraction of the forbidden. It was the germ of a genuine appreciation for whatever it was about feet that had made Holly assign to them the supreme status in her hierarchy of intimacy.

We were spending almost every night together. But on the occasional evenings where our schedules didn’t match up, I would find myself masturbating to visions of Holly barefoot. I imagined cradling her instep; kissing her sole; titillating the secret valleys in between her toes. I would groan my solitary orgasms into the sheets while tasting, in my imagination, the delicate flavor of her feet, fresh and pink from the shower.

What I thought about when I jerked off was my business; but I was careful, when I was with her, to play it cool as far as my incipient foot fetish was concerned. I knew that when and if she deemed the time to be right, Holly would permit me to de-sock her. Just that thought, now, could make me go as hard as the thought of yanking down her panties.

I was aware, too, that the longer I waited, the more dramatic the build-up was becoming. Fuck, I felt more laid-back about meeting her parents than about meeting her tootsies, I observed to myself one day.

Meanwhile, whenever a particular intercourse position allowed, I would keep my eyes on a Holly foot while we coupled. I entertained the fantasy that her foot was having a private orgasm, inside the peach or lime or raspberry sock . . . that it was blushing and trembling, that the toes were wiggling like crazy while I pumped Holly’s cunt.

“I don’t want you to think I hate my feet,” she said out of the blue one morning.

“I’m glad you don’t,” I replied quickly. Then, in response to another possibility that flitted across my brain, I said, “Listen—you’re beautiful, all of you. Your feet are beautiful however they are, whatever they look like. I promise.” I meant it—I loved her from tip to toe, and if her feet were somehow disfigured, I would love them just as much.

She read my thoughts, and her eyes went warm for me. “You’re wonderful. But there’s nothing unusual about my feet. Nothing, I suppose, except my attitude toward them.”

“I understand.” And by this time I did. They were the last bastion of her bodily privacy, when her cunt was an open book to me.

We went out for a special dinner one night, and Holly wanted to talk about the future. Where did we see ourselves in one year, in five years, in ten? We were both comfortable discussing everything, with open minds and open ears. Neither of us pressured the other to volunteer feelings about monogamy, about having or not having children, about ideal locations for settling down . . . but all of this flowed as easily as the nice bottle of wine she’d selected.

When we finally, at our leisure, left the restaurant, I had a feeling that we might be on the verge of a breakthrough in the foot department.

We went to her place, and she disappeared into the bathroom for an instant. When she returned, I saw that she’d traded her socks for a pair of loafer-style corduroy slippers.

I was thrilled, as I’d never gazed upon even the tops of her feet. They were starkly handsome, creamy and pale. Seeing them felt akin to seeing a woman shed a skirt at the beach, to reveal proud, sensuous buttocks framed by a thong.

I ran to her and dropped to the floor, as if I were intent on doing push-ups. But what I was intent on doing was kissing the exposed skin that smiled out of those slippers. I kissed like I’d been waiting all my life to do so.

After losing myself in the kissing, I finally looked up and saw that Holly was rolling her head from side to side. It actually seemed like she might have an orgasm at any moment.

But she held off, carefully prolonging her ecstasy. And as I resumed kissing and she continued to wallow, she lightly stepped out of her slippers, rendering herself naked to me from the ankle on down.

I carried her to the sofa, again taking a position on the carpet. I lifted both her feet into my lap, rubbing her soles and heels against my hardness, letting my cock press her through my trousers. I cradled and fondled and massaged one foot, then the other, in my hands. I tickled between her toes and listened to her squeal and moan, as she fluttered her feet to ask for more. She was on fire, and so was I.

I didn’t even try to undress the rest of Holly. With my cock out of my pants, I pulled her off the couch and onto the floor with me, and I crushed myself onto her firm, wiggling body, feeling her breasts through her turtleneck. I began grinding my bare cock into the soft front of her old denims. I grabbed her sensitive feet, using them as magical handles now, to anchor us.

“Yes,” hissed Holly rapturously. “Keep holding my feet and fuck my jeans. Fuck me barefoot in my jeans, Dan.”

I fucked the jeans, fucked the churning woman in the jeans, while caressing and titillating the naked feet in my hands. I felt her mound vibrating beneath me when I came all over her denim, and her feet went wild for my lucky palms when her clit gave the signal.

“I love you,” Holly said, still bucking against me in luxurious aftershocks.

I took in a mouthful of toes, and closed my eyes in bliss.

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