More Love My Way
by JenSorel
He pushes his famous face into the soles of my infamous feet and I can’t help but think this is a scene we should be seeing more often up on the big screen in movies starring him.
He inhales, kisses one sensitive bottom, tickles the other with his tongue.
The action is so tender, so loving, so damn sexy.
I giggle, I cry out, it always been a part of me.
He showers my soles with kisses, drives me crazy as his lips travel a nonsensical, but very sensual path toward my toes. When he gets there, he rubs his nose along the bottoms of them, across the little dabs of tempting flesh that hang from each digit. I sense this is his favorite part of a foot. I can always tell what a man of the foot loves most, what he lusts for, fantasizes about, requires, desires.
Sometimes it’s the whole foot, sometimes the soles, sometimes shoes or boots or stockings or socks or the tops or just the toes.
For him, it’s the toes, definitely the bottoms of my toes.
Everything we’ve done so far has led to this. Everything that happens after will be because of this.
We’re at his place, high on champagne, high up in Hollywood Hills. Some lingerie clings to me, but I’m almost naked, Choos strew on the bedroom floor, along with my dress. I’m such a floozy? I giggle, not because of the foot love we’re both enjoying, but because I just thought the word floozy. I am drunk. Too much Veuve Clicquot.
His nose tickles me down there, but I own him. My feet hold his attention. My toes hold his gaze. He kisses each dollop lightly, again, then again. He pulls each one between his lips, almost into his mouth and sucks, but with no tongue, no wet. I want to whisper, “Make them wet,” but I let him do what he does. I let him play at his pace. I enjoy his gait.
I watch him work. I smile, take in the scene as this A-List actor plays no part tonight and instead shows me exactly who he is, exactly what wants, loves and needs -- my perfect size seven feet, complete with pampered soles, palatial toes and pedicured nails painted La Paz-itively Hot pink.
Needless to say, my feet are good enough to eat. Wouldn’t have it any other way.
The shrimping escalates as each toe goes SPLISH! into his mouth, gets bathed in love and comes out all shiny and anew, making me feel so warm all over and so wet between my thighs. How predictable. How I love it so.
Another giggle, this one because of the little starfucker I’ve become as of late. A party last month led to a sweet affair with a leading lady, feet so fine I’d lose my breath every time my lips would touch her skin, kissing sole, arch or heel, every time my tongue would wrap around her toes, making her shiver, warm and wet.
We had a sweet affair, but she was and is mightily adventurous, hard to keep in one place or with just one. Before we parted, we did enjoy the company of another starlet, this one very sweet and very young, evidently not into feet, but easily swayed, at least for a night. And what a night it was, like something out of a movie, a very lurid film starring the three of us all hopped up on some ecstasy the young one brought to a party, to the bed, to our lovemaking. The drug had diverse effects on the three of us, the short blonde star, the tall black-haired up & comer, and me, the just-right brown-haired benefactor! My blonde beauty turned reticent, but so very appreciative for every touch, every kiss, every suck, every probing finger, every curious toe, all the love my way, all of which seemed to elicit a new level of bliss inside, all over and all night. The youthful black-haired beauty, apprehensive at first of a lesbian tryst, became a very vocal fan of everything feminine within the bed and took to my every advance, took to my every desire, every whim, took every one of my digits, fingers and toes, down inside her pouty mouth and up inside her slippery lips, like a good girl turned bad, turned my way. I, the brown-haired one, never felt so alive, so sublime, so responsive all over, from my these lips to my tits to those lips to my toes, never felt so lustful for skin, so giving, so hungry for the taste of pretty female feet. Thank god there were two photogenic pairs to enjoy, twenty toes, so totally famous, so utterly gorgeous, so altogether scrumptious.
Needless to say, I had my fill.
The young starlet led me to the leading man currently chomping on my toes. I ran into her at Bastide and her sober snobbishness was startling and rather rude. In any case, she was with him, and as I shook his hand, he did things that made me smile and blush and warm and wet. Namely, his famous eyes toured my body, downward to my infamous feet and, well, here we are. If you’re following the plot, you know I already said sans ecstasy the young one’s apparently not into feet, which made my job all too easy.
A sexy smile here, a dangling Choo there, a smooth flash of sole after dinner, a wiggle of ripe toes before dessert. Two tables over, he ate it all up, had his visual fill. Needless to say, he slyly requested my digits. I coyly gave them up. He called just hours ago. I played hard to get. Not! Definite floozy. Another giggle, amid the moans.
So here we are. Funny how lust is. Funny how this fetish works.
He’s done with my feet, ready for the main course. I serve myself up to him. He strips off my lingerie, drinks in my nudity, my pristine skin, my rockin’ body. He enjoys it all with licks and kisses, eats me out until I’m ready to pop, then shoves it up inside me, makes love to me, slowly, adeptly, confidently. Slip sliding away, he gets me going really good, put us in all sorts of fun positions, enjoys more of my feet along the way. I love it. I want to say, “Harder. Faster,” but I let him do what he does. I let him play at his pace. I enjoy his gait.
He’s as good at this as he is his craft. And that says a lot as in a couple weeks he just might walk away with an Oscar. I’ll bestow him one tonight for this very memorable performance, no acceptance speeches allowed, just my bravado as I quiver, shake, buck, starfuck.
So close, soles sliding over his arms and chest, up to tickle his stubbly chin with the part I know he loves, the tender bottoms of my talented toes. He grins, flashes those pearly whites, thrusts, open his mouth and lets in the fun. He enjoys me, head to toes. He’ll always remember me, especially my toes. I know he will.
I’m not a starlet, nor a harlot. I’m just little Jenny Sorel, having the time of my life, being swept off my feet by all of Hollywood. I’m just little Jenny Sorel, coming like gangbusters all over this bed, while my leading man thrusts and nibbles the tips of my edible toes.
I come. A lot. So does he, not too far behind, all over. He collapses onto me, covers me, holds me. All sticky, we spoon, he whispers in my ear, tells me things I can’t tell you.
I love it. I think about the last month, tally the three famous notches in the last thirty days, nine total in my vivid life. I wonder what could be next. I smile, ready for my close-up, ready for more love my way, ready for all of Hollywood to get two feet closer to little ol’ me, little Jenny Sorel.
by JenSorel
He pushes his famous face into the soles of my infamous feet and I can’t help but think this is a scene we should be seeing more often up on the big screen in movies starring him.
He inhales, kisses one sensitive bottom, tickles the other with his tongue.
The action is so tender, so loving, so damn sexy.
I giggle, I cry out, it always been a part of me.
He showers my soles with kisses, drives me crazy as his lips travel a nonsensical, but very sensual path toward my toes. When he gets there, he rubs his nose along the bottoms of them, across the little dabs of tempting flesh that hang from each digit. I sense this is his favorite part of a foot. I can always tell what a man of the foot loves most, what he lusts for, fantasizes about, requires, desires.
Sometimes it’s the whole foot, sometimes the soles, sometimes shoes or boots or stockings or socks or the tops or just the toes.
For him, it’s the toes, definitely the bottoms of my toes.
Everything we’ve done so far has led to this. Everything that happens after will be because of this.
We’re at his place, high on champagne, high up in Hollywood Hills. Some lingerie clings to me, but I’m almost naked, Choos strew on the bedroom floor, along with my dress. I’m such a floozy? I giggle, not because of the foot love we’re both enjoying, but because I just thought the word floozy. I am drunk. Too much Veuve Clicquot.
His nose tickles me down there, but I own him. My feet hold his attention. My toes hold his gaze. He kisses each dollop lightly, again, then again. He pulls each one between his lips, almost into his mouth and sucks, but with no tongue, no wet. I want to whisper, “Make them wet,” but I let him do what he does. I let him play at his pace. I enjoy his gait.
I watch him work. I smile, take in the scene as this A-List actor plays no part tonight and instead shows me exactly who he is, exactly what wants, loves and needs -- my perfect size seven feet, complete with pampered soles, palatial toes and pedicured nails painted La Paz-itively Hot pink.
Needless to say, my feet are good enough to eat. Wouldn’t have it any other way.
The shrimping escalates as each toe goes SPLISH! into his mouth, gets bathed in love and comes out all shiny and anew, making me feel so warm all over and so wet between my thighs. How predictable. How I love it so.
Another giggle, this one because of the little starfucker I’ve become as of late. A party last month led to a sweet affair with a leading lady, feet so fine I’d lose my breath every time my lips would touch her skin, kissing sole, arch or heel, every time my tongue would wrap around her toes, making her shiver, warm and wet.
We had a sweet affair, but she was and is mightily adventurous, hard to keep in one place or with just one. Before we parted, we did enjoy the company of another starlet, this one very sweet and very young, evidently not into feet, but easily swayed, at least for a night. And what a night it was, like something out of a movie, a very lurid film starring the three of us all hopped up on some ecstasy the young one brought to a party, to the bed, to our lovemaking. The drug had diverse effects on the three of us, the short blonde star, the tall black-haired up & comer, and me, the just-right brown-haired benefactor! My blonde beauty turned reticent, but so very appreciative for every touch, every kiss, every suck, every probing finger, every curious toe, all the love my way, all of which seemed to elicit a new level of bliss inside, all over and all night. The youthful black-haired beauty, apprehensive at first of a lesbian tryst, became a very vocal fan of everything feminine within the bed and took to my every advance, took to my every desire, every whim, took every one of my digits, fingers and toes, down inside her pouty mouth and up inside her slippery lips, like a good girl turned bad, turned my way. I, the brown-haired one, never felt so alive, so sublime, so responsive all over, from my these lips to my tits to those lips to my toes, never felt so lustful for skin, so giving, so hungry for the taste of pretty female feet. Thank god there were two photogenic pairs to enjoy, twenty toes, so totally famous, so utterly gorgeous, so altogether scrumptious.
Needless to say, I had my fill.
The young starlet led me to the leading man currently chomping on my toes. I ran into her at Bastide and her sober snobbishness was startling and rather rude. In any case, she was with him, and as I shook his hand, he did things that made me smile and blush and warm and wet. Namely, his famous eyes toured my body, downward to my infamous feet and, well, here we are. If you’re following the plot, you know I already said sans ecstasy the young one’s apparently not into feet, which made my job all too easy.
A sexy smile here, a dangling Choo there, a smooth flash of sole after dinner, a wiggle of ripe toes before dessert. Two tables over, he ate it all up, had his visual fill. Needless to say, he slyly requested my digits. I coyly gave them up. He called just hours ago. I played hard to get. Not! Definite floozy. Another giggle, amid the moans.
So here we are. Funny how lust is. Funny how this fetish works.
He’s done with my feet, ready for the main course. I serve myself up to him. He strips off my lingerie, drinks in my nudity, my pristine skin, my rockin’ body. He enjoys it all with licks and kisses, eats me out until I’m ready to pop, then shoves it up inside me, makes love to me, slowly, adeptly, confidently. Slip sliding away, he gets me going really good, put us in all sorts of fun positions, enjoys more of my feet along the way. I love it. I want to say, “Harder. Faster,” but I let him do what he does. I let him play at his pace. I enjoy his gait.
He’s as good at this as he is his craft. And that says a lot as in a couple weeks he just might walk away with an Oscar. I’ll bestow him one tonight for this very memorable performance, no acceptance speeches allowed, just my bravado as I quiver, shake, buck, starfuck.
So close, soles sliding over his arms and chest, up to tickle his stubbly chin with the part I know he loves, the tender bottoms of my talented toes. He grins, flashes those pearly whites, thrusts, open his mouth and lets in the fun. He enjoys me, head to toes. He’ll always remember me, especially my toes. I know he will.
I’m not a starlet, nor a harlot. I’m just little Jenny Sorel, having the time of my life, being swept off my feet by all of Hollywood. I’m just little Jenny Sorel, coming like gangbusters all over this bed, while my leading man thrusts and nibbles the tips of my edible toes.
I come. A lot. So does he, not too far behind, all over. He collapses onto me, covers me, holds me. All sticky, we spoon, he whispers in my ear, tells me things I can’t tell you.
I love it. I think about the last month, tally the three famous notches in the last thirty days, nine total in my vivid life. I wonder what could be next. I smile, ready for my close-up, ready for more love my way, ready for all of Hollywood to get two feet closer to little ol’ me, little Jenny Sorel.
