Feet 101 -- a new year resolution (a little tickling, lots of feet)

Class is in session…


It’s known, especially in these parts, that I like feet -- pretty, sexy, naked, female feet.

It’s also true, of all my parts, that I love my feet the best -- my dear sweet flawless size sevens.

When I was young, formative, impressionable, something happened. I’ve racked my brain, wished I retained those memories or possessed a time machine to witness firsthand (or is that firstfoot?) the events that occurred, to see unerringly what transpired. I don’t, I can’t, and, in turn, I have to simply imagine myself crawling around on a floor in diapers, crawling over feet, my mom’s, my mom’s friend’s, someone’s sexy naked feet way back when, way back then.

It left an impression, needless to say.

I’ve been told I sucked my own teeny toes, in the crib, with a playful grin on my baby face, preferring them to the traditional, to thumbs or pacifiers. Been told I sucked my own toes relentlessly, long enough for my parent’s smiles and amusement to turn to concern and remedy.

Maybe that was it. Maybe it was the combination. Maybe there was more within the recipe that baked up these desires and needs of mine. I’ll never know.

What I do know is I love feet, a simple, unique, quite amazing, always enthralling part of the body. I love this fetish, a simple, unique, quite amazing, always enthralling part of my life. How can you not love it? How can you not enjoy it, embrace it, explore it? It is, after all, simply another part of the body to get excited about. Where's the sin in that? Where’s the weirdness in that? Where’s the shame in that? Please tell me, because I just don’t see it.

If I didn’t do it, enjoy it, embrace it, I’d be hiding, I’d be stupid, I wouldn’t be me.


Most every child was breastfed by their mother when young, formative, impressionable. And something happens. In turn, the breast becomes something sexual and no one thinks it strange. Boys turn into men and can’t wait to get their hands and mouths on second base. Girls turn into women who love the sensation and the suckling that is second base. No one thinks it strange.

Lust for breasts, the ass, third base, even legs and no one thinks it strange, they pay no mind.

I like all that, but I like something else, maybe even more. Who am I kidding? I like it above all the rest. I like feet -- pretty, sexy, naked, female feet.

I like my feet -- my dear sweet flawless size sevens. And I enjoy many feats with these feet of mine.

The first time my toes were ever kissed, ever sucked, ever loved just like the rest of me, something happened, something dripped, something clicked. I was in college, just a freshman, but, in many ways, I graduated that very day. My life, quite simply, was never the same.

Thank god.

The first and, more so, the second time I did the sucking, I fell head over heels in love with the feat, the action, the feeling, the affect, the effect. It all fell into place, made too much sense, the canvas of me finally painted a masterpiece. Every step that came before was clumsy and aimless. Everything stride thereafter, confident, poised, assertive.

Lucky me.

The first time I was tickled, I loved it, especially upon the sensitive soles of my feet, my feet, my feet. I giggled so hard, I wet my face with tears. I came so hard, I wet my sheets with, well, you know.

So fun.

The first time with stockings I felt nostalgia, warm, wet, the buzz as hands slid over my thinly covered legs, ankles and feet. I felt tickled all over, overjoyed all over by the nylon that stretched and contained my bottom half in sheer black, sheer fun, sheer joy.

Too sexy.

Another’s fascination embraced involved boots. I felt the confidence and the thrill of being playfully dominant, felt the power of making the potent submit, kiss the boot, lick the leather, do anything I ordered. I loved, loved, loved the feeling of the long zipper unzipping, all along my calf, to my ankle, releasing my legs, freeing my foot, making me naked down there once again. Boots are indeed fun, but barefoot is the way to be, is always the way more fun end result.

Spanking my soles. Don’t get me started.

Tie me up. I could write a book.

Inhale the aroma, it’s divine, something between fruit and floral, so I’ve been told.

Taste. Have your fill. Wetter the better, never feel more alive.

Then there is my favorite feat of all. Seducing the un-seducible, convincing the skeptic, showing the foot allergic the allure of it, the beauty of it, the fun of it all, the toes and the soles. It is my specialty.

I rain down on Hollywood, showering the sunny skies and the lurid nights with my fondness for feet. I convince with actions, preach without words, frolic sans shoes. They listen, they follow, they kiss, they suck, my feet, my toes, my soles, my fetish.

I’m a vampire, biting into the narrow-minded, changing them, changing their perception of feet, turning them into followers. I suck no blood, but I leave an imprint, give them something they take with them, something they'll retain forevermore. I’m good like that.

“Suck my toes.” “Make them wet.” “Do it.” “For me.”


Here’s the thing, the deal, the reason I write. I care that you hide, fear, shame, duck, lie to the world by blending in. I don’t get it. It bothers me. Harsh words to follow: you’re weak and pathetic, but I only say that because we have numbers. We are many. We are strong.


Listen to me. Come with me. Tell them all what you want. Show them the fun. Show them the way.

It is, after all, who you are.

Do this. Make a resolution. The next time you’re kissing her, holding her, making her warm, making her wet, whisper in her ear, tell her what you’re thinking, wanting, needing. Whisper, “I want to kiss you everywhere, all over, from these lips to those toes.” Say that, and then grab those toes, those feet, hold them, massage them, smile, never take your eyes off hers. Tell her, “My god, even your feet are pretty.” Say it with a smile, say it with confidence, make her blush. Then, in the shine of her blush, whisper again, while holding, massaging, smiling. Whisper, “Has anyone ever kissed your feet?” Regardless of her answer, amid nods or head-shaking, kiss her then, kiss her there. Enjoy. Be yourself. Explore your desires, your needs, this fetish. Kiss her then, kiss her there, her toes, her sole, kiss her passionately, like you want, like you need, then stop there, don’t obsess, not yet. Drop the foot away from your face, slide between her legs, back on top and kiss her, kiss her, kiss her. Tell her she’s beautiful and desirable all over. Tell her without words. Tell her with your kiss.

Therein lies the secret.

It starts with a kiss. Teeny steps, baby steps. Only a kiss. A kiss that’ll open her mind, get her going, move the two of you in the direction you want and need to go.

We have numbers. We are many. We are strong. Listen to me. Come with me. Tell them all what you want. Show them the fun. Show them the way.

Don’t do it for me. Do it for you.

It is, after all, who you are.

Wonderful post.
As a lover of women's bare feet, I loved reading it.

Soothing...

Jen,

I loved this journey into your mind that you've allowed me to enjoy. I love how you write with such feeling. I could feel it in your words.

Please don't let this be the last little trip we take into your world. For now, I just wanted to thank you very much for sharing this with me.

words

Jen,

This will be a long reply, so I hope it is ok to do so. I tend to write novels when I reply to posts I like.

It is not the words in this sotry, so much as the way they are all strung together. As with all of your work, this comment on feet, which I embrace wholeheartedly, has an impressionistic quality to it. A lot like llistening to Broms solo piano works.

my toes.” “Make them wet.” “Do it.” “For me.”

How that line brings back memories of the original story it appeared in. You have a point about the foot fetish that I want to tell to a girl I know, but she's scared, that's another story for another time. I just love the way you write in lines, not in a flowing narritive, because lets face it that gets old sometimes. Sometimes the message can be condenced, or even broken apart as you did.

Honestly, the last part about the resolution, makes me want what I don't have, but desperation won't lead to anything, again, another story for another time.

It is beautiful the way you write, from wondering about why you have this fetish to the way you express it and the way it should be expressed, both in words and action. It is not something to be scorned pon or dismissed, but something, as you said, to be explored.

I don't know how else to say it, but I hope this is good feedback. I would tell you if you had written something that just didn't work, I'm a writer and reader as well. So Jen, once again you have graced us with the shortest thing I think I have read of yours, as well as the most precise but pointed piece of, if I may call it this, prose poetry. As a student ofEnglish I have never understood why the term has been created, but in my mind it aptly describes this piece. I do not wish to be flowery, just honest with you.

Good stuff, now just help me find a girl who will see things the way you do please? smile.
Dave

more feedback

Hi again Jen,
I just re-read your story, your wish, and realized a few more things.

To start out with, you give peopl like me hope, hope in convincing maybe jst one girl that this fetish is not something gross or bad, and your idea bout kissing simply, tiny steps, makes perfect sense. It is something that can be applied to other aspect of my life, another story for another time.

The next two things have to do with your writing specifically. It is in these words, that you create a circle. You create a web, linking phrases back and forth. You have done it in other works as well and I have noticed but for some reason failed to comment. "we think the same thing," Stretch thatacross 10, 12, a whole novel. What you have a gift for however, is not to repeat so much that it gets worn out. Repitition is a hard skill for any creative writer to utilize, most avoid it whenever possible, because too much can ruin a story. I am a psychology writer, repition is something you cannot do, the creative arena is severely smaller in this realm. However, it takes a creative writer, I think, to know how to write creatively in any form.

I always feel as if I get a hint of Mrs. Dalloway in your stoies. If you have read the book, you know that all the events link up somehow, even across a great city such as London in 1925. The same holds true for your work, perhaps this one more than the others I hav read because it is considerably shorter. Also, the subject matter is far more condensed than the aforementioned book, either making repeition an easier, or perhaps more difficult skill to pull off well.

You may have noticed that I have decided to refrain from making comments about the eroticism of the work, I will simply say that it is erotic but in a completely different way than a lot of erotica out there. It would take a few more pages to tell of such things, citin examples and enfringing on other work which I do not have the time for at present. I write this, not in a state of arrousal, but in a state of purely analytical motives as any good critic should do. I should write from a neutral standpoint, I know, and furture feedback will attempt to be in such a state.

If anyone else other than JS reads this, know that I wrote it specifically for her, but if anyone sees what I do, that is a plus.

engthof ok, these are merely my thoughts out loud put down in writing.

Yours,
Dave