I masturbate to women's feet. Not just in a passing, "oh, that's nice" kind of way. I mean it's a ritual, a deep and consuming need.
It can happen anywhere. In the middle of a work meeting, a woman will cross her legs, and for a split second, her shoe will dangle from her toes. In that moment, the CEO's voice, the quarterly reports, the entire world vanishes. All I can see is the gentle arc of her foot, the subtle curve of her arch, the way her painted nails—maybe a deep red, or a subtle nude—contrast with her skin. My mind starts working, building a story. I wonder what they smell like, after a day in those heels. I wonder if they're sensitive, if a soft touch would make her shiver. I'll excuse myself to the bathroom, lock the door, and the image is burned into my mind. I don't even need a picture. I close my eyes and I'm there, on my knees, tracing that dangling strap with my tongue. I'll imagine peeling that shoe off, the warm, slightly damp scent of her filling my lungs. I'll come, hard and fast, bracing myself against the stall wall, the image of her arches and soles the only thing that exists.
Online is my temple. I don't watch conventional porn. It does nothing for me. I seek out specific content: women with wrinkled soles pointing their toes right at the camera, close-ups of feet being massaged with oil until they gleam, videos of women slowly, teasingly, wiggling their toes. I'm not interested in the rest of their bodies, not really. The foot is the main event, the star of the show. I'll edge for hours, cycling through clips, saving the ones that have that perfect angle, that perfect light. My favorite are the "pov" clips, where the woman talks directly to me, calling me a "good boy" for worshiping her feet, telling me exactly what she wants me to do. I'll save my orgasm for the perfect moment, for the specific video where she wrinkles her soles just right or runs her foot down the lens, and I'll imagine it's my face, my chest, my cock she's touching with those perfect, sacred feet.
The most tainted part is how I see women in my real life. I'll be on the bus, and I'll see a girl in flip-flops, her feet dusty from the city streets, and I won't see a person. I'll see an object of worship. I'll imagine how I would clean them, how I would kiss every speck of dirt from her soles, how I would suck on her toes until she's satisfied. It's a dehumanizing thought, I know, and that shame is part of the thrill. It's a secret I carry with me every day, a lens through which I see half the population. They are all just potential confessions, potential releases, walking around on the beautiful, perfect feet that dominate my mind.
It can happen anywhere. In the middle of a work meeting, a woman will cross her legs, and for a split second, her shoe will dangle from her toes. In that moment, the CEO's voice, the quarterly reports, the entire world vanishes. All I can see is the gentle arc of her foot, the subtle curve of her arch, the way her painted nails—maybe a deep red, or a subtle nude—contrast with her skin. My mind starts working, building a story. I wonder what they smell like, after a day in those heels. I wonder if they're sensitive, if a soft touch would make her shiver. I'll excuse myself to the bathroom, lock the door, and the image is burned into my mind. I don't even need a picture. I close my eyes and I'm there, on my knees, tracing that dangling strap with my tongue. I'll imagine peeling that shoe off, the warm, slightly damp scent of her filling my lungs. I'll come, hard and fast, bracing myself against the stall wall, the image of her arches and soles the only thing that exists.
Online is my temple. I don't watch conventional porn. It does nothing for me. I seek out specific content: women with wrinkled soles pointing their toes right at the camera, close-ups of feet being massaged with oil until they gleam, videos of women slowly, teasingly, wiggling their toes. I'm not interested in the rest of their bodies, not really. The foot is the main event, the star of the show. I'll edge for hours, cycling through clips, saving the ones that have that perfect angle, that perfect light. My favorite are the "pov" clips, where the woman talks directly to me, calling me a "good boy" for worshiping her feet, telling me exactly what she wants me to do. I'll save my orgasm for the perfect moment, for the specific video where she wrinkles her soles just right or runs her foot down the lens, and I'll imagine it's my face, my chest, my cock she's touching with those perfect, sacred feet.
The most tainted part is how I see women in my real life. I'll be on the bus, and I'll see a girl in flip-flops, her feet dusty from the city streets, and I won't see a person. I'll see an object of worship. I'll imagine how I would clean them, how I would kiss every speck of dirt from her soles, how I would suck on her toes until she's satisfied. It's a dehumanizing thought, I know, and that shame is part of the thrill. It's a secret I carry with me every day, a lens through which I see half the population. They are all just potential confessions, potential releases, walking around on the beautiful, perfect feet that dominate my mind.
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SinParty
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