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Originally posted by Footman44:
Great story footfunk385

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Posts: 194 | Registered: Oct 2016  |  IP: Logged | 

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Originally posted by Ella Ford:
I would describe my feet as... the center of my girlfriend's universe

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I meant to say... great response
(No idea how to delete a response)

Posts: 623 | Registered: Jan 2015  |  IP: Logged | 

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Originally posted by Ella Ford:
Did you ever worship the feet of a sleeping girl? Do you want to? I did, and here's the (slightly fictionalized, but not very) account of the night...

A great and well written post, Ella!
I understand that it is ‘slightly fictionalized’ and as it turned out your friend was awake and enjoying your attention so this is not so much directed at you but at other readers who think it is ok to touch, take photos of basically put any part are their body on a sleeping persons feet. Unless agreed upon ahead of time right before the person fell asleep; this is NEVER ok. Without consent it is a definite sexual violation. For a foot fetishist the feet are just the same as breasts or vulvas are to those without a foot fetish. You all know that and you all know inside it is not right.
I am someone who emersed myself in this world due to my partners fetish and completely enjoyed sharing my feet with him (and photos of them with the foot fetish community) and having them worshiped but I have also had things done to them when I was not aware and can tell you it made me feel
Completely violated and disrespected.
If you’re getting sexual pleasure from a sleeping or unaware women/girl or from a photo you’ve taken without the woman’s/girls knowledge you have an issue with objectifying females. You are violating them, even if they are a girlfriend or wife. I feel it’s my responsibility as a woman to speak out about it.

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted but for anyone reading who remembers me or those don’t, I hope
You’re all well and enjoying some consensual foot play
xo Natalie

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Another true tale from Ella’s life of erotic adventure.

This story happened when I was visiting an old high school friend, about a year after my divorce, back when I was still finding myself. It's a story of three parts, one of which is a dark secret of mine that I have conflicting feelings about.

The friend I was visiting was Cass, an old friend from the debate team. We’d lost touch, but found each other again on social media and arranged to meet up in the city that she’d made her home. In high school, Cass was a typical hippy chick, loose dresses and flat sandals, hair braided, that kind of thing. She didn't seem remotely interested in fashion or looking "proper". But by the time we met up she'd been working in a downtown law firm for the last decade and had polished up really well. Lots of hot dresses, tight tops and she seemed to have an obsession with shoes that bordered on the worrying.

On the last night of my stay, we went for dinner together to a fancy restaurant in the expensive side of town. We both got dressed up for it, helping each other to select complementary outfits with a girlish zeal that reminded me very much of being a teenager again. At the restaurant, we found ourselves seated on a side table for two that was quite cramped. Cass sat with her legs crossed off to the side, meaning I had full view of her legs and her feet.

At the time, you understand, I was just figuring all this stuff out. I'd barely accepted that I liked girls, let alone tried to confront the other strange urges that bubbled away below the surface of my psyche. But for some reason that I couldn't explain at the time, I found myself staring at her feet. She was wearing these dark, open-toed pumps, with a delicate little ankle strap; and sheer black pantyhose. One thing that I remember with a vivid clarity is that I could see her toes through the open front of her shoes, beneath the thin pantyhose, and her nails were painted a lovely dark crimson.

With her legs crossed, she bounced her foot up and down, and rotated her ankle as she talked. I was mesmerized, risking a glance down at her pretty shoe and captivating toes every chance I dared. As dessert rolled around, she paused and looked at me seriously. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Anything," I replied.

"Why do you keep looking at my shoes? Do I have something on them?"

I panicked a little and felt myself blushing, but managed to say, "they're cute is all."

She looked at me strangely, almost as if she didn't believe me. I guess I must've looked kinda odd, gawping like a teenage boy in a strip joint.

And then, the weirdest thing happened. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the comfort of an old friendship rekindled, I’m not sure. But I found myself telling her everything. About why I'd left Eric, about realizing that I liked girls, about how I was struggling to work out what it was that I wanted out of life. She nodded, and confessed that she'd always suspected I swung that way, and this didn't surprise her at all.

Feeling bold, and enjoying the relief of confession, I started to tell her about the other strange obsessions I was slowly nurturing - my maddening need to control, to dominate; my borderline obsession with feet and pantyhose. She listened and nodded along, but I could tell that she didn't really understand. So I found myself describing how I felt about her heels, her feet, her pantyhose, trying to explain why I was so captivated by them. I told her about the things I’d seen that time I found Eric's porn. I told her about how it had made me feel and how I was noticing things I didn't previously.

I think she was a little uncomfortable, being straight-as-you-like and having your childhood friend talk in such explicit terms about your body. But she didn't judge me or mock me, and eventually my awkward, ill-advised confession ground to a halt and we moved onto something else. A testament to the strength of our friendship is that, even with this between us, we had a wonderful night..

That's the first part. For reference, the opening part of "Her Best Friend Likes Feet" is based on this conversation. The idea of making other women try to understand your fetish is something that intrigues me.

After dinner, we went to a bar and carried on drinking. I'd like to say that we came together in a sweaty, frantic fumble in the bathroom and ate each other till we begged for more, I know that’s what you’re expecting at this point. Actually, it was nicer than that. Two old friends, comfortable in each other's company, talking and laughing.

Around midnight, we got back to her apartment. I made my excuses and went to my room, while Cass said she'd tidy up and then go to bed herself. After an hour, I couldn't sleep - wine buzz and the excitement of having unburdened myself made it difficult to settle. So I got up and went to the kitchen to refill my glass of water.

On the way back, I noticed that Cass had fallen asleep on the couch. She was lying on her front, snoring quietly, her feet hanging off the edge of the cushion, still wearing her heels. I thought about waking her, but she looked comfortable enough so I went to the linen closet and got a blanket to cover her.

Then, with nothing but innocent intent, I swear to you, I moved to her feet and started to unbuckle her shoes. My heart was racing at this point, and my fingers were trembling. I fumbled the clasp three times before I finally managed slip her shoes from her motionless toes. Honestly, I've never felt so horny and excited. It was like unwrapping a Christmas present.

I sat back and gazed at her feet, hanging over the edge of the sofa, dark pantyhose covering the delicate wrinkles of her soles, toes together in a perfect line, the thin chain of her ankle bracelet beneath the silky nylon. I must've stared at her for ten minutes, unable to move, telling myself that I was just making sure she was comfortable.

And then, without even thinking about it, I leaned forwards and touched my mouth to her heel, planting a soft peck and then pulling back. I looked around, feeling guilty as hell, then I went back for more, stroking her sleeping soles across my cheeks, kissing her toes, tasting her with as much boldness as I dared, with my tongue, with my lips. She tasted wonderful, feminine and alive, like nothing I'd ever experienced before. Holding my nose against her toes, I breathed in, acting out the fantasies that had played at the back of my mind for countless long months. I filled myself with her scent, engorging my nose and throat with the sweet aroma of sweat and shoe leather. My pussy sang out, demanding attention, pulling my hand to it through the satin material of my pyjama shorts. I thought I might die then, stricken down by an overload of exquisite sensation.

To this day, every scene I write in which a woman tastes another woman is templated in this moment. It was a defining trespass that made me feel more alive than I had in a decade. When I finally left, when I finally dragged myself breathless from her exposed soles, I staggered back to bed, pulling myself beneath the sheets and slipping my hand between my legs before I was even fully under.

That's the second part. The part I'm not exactly proud of. The final, thankfully much shorter, part is this.

Months later, long after when had happened had established itself in my consciousness and I stopped thinking about it every damn night, I got an email from Cass. Quite unexpected, we didn't normally talk in the long years between our visits. It was short, one line.

"I was awake. And I enjoyed every second x"

We've seen each other a few times since, but never repeated or pursued anything beyond our simple, uncomplicated friendship. This was a moment in time, an opportunity that I was maybe wrong to take. It worked out fine, more than fine in fact, but I sometimes wonder if I was right to do what I did.

Do you judge me?

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