by Donna George Storey
(1/09/08)
It is, in the beginning, an ordinary morning. A man and a woman lounge on their sofa, reading the Sunday paper, sipping coffee. He wears shorts and a T-shirt; she is still wrapped in her cotton kimono. Summer sounds drift through the window -- the grinding buzz of a lawnmower, the softer chorus of bees -- mingled with the sweet scent of rotting apricots from the gnarled tree guarding the corner of the lawn.
The man surely has no idea he will change things forever when he takes the woman's left foot in his hand and begins to rub it, slowly, distractedly, in counterpoint to the rantings of his favorite sports' columnist.
At first she merely endures his touch, annoyed at the half-assed effort. If it's sex he's after, he'll have to do better. But then his thumb finds a groove at her instep, right along the tendon. She tenses and shivers.
But not because it hurts.
Quite the contrary.
"Can you do that again?" she says, her voice oddly brittle.
He looks up. She's gotten his attention. Can he hear it, the electric sizzle of pleasure running straight up her leg to her pussy?
"Do what again?"
"Rub my foot. There. Yes, there."
This time she arches back into the throw pillow and sighs.
The woman is no stranger to the body's magic. She knows well enough that when a lover takes her nipple
between his soft, greedy lips, it tugs at a white-hot ribbon of lust that twines all the way down to her belly
or that when he strokes her asshole, lightly, gently, circling it with his fingertip, her clit rises up as if another
ghostly finger were touching her there, too. But in all her years of foot massages -- even the ones meant to seduce
-- she has never felt this.
He is only rubbing her foot, a simple up and down stroke along the arch, but suddenly her whole leg has turned as soft as warm taffy and her cunt throbs. She can even smell herself, moister and riper than the sweet apricots in the tree being nibbled by the squirrels for a morning treat.
"I can't tell you how much this is turning me on," she whispers.
He cocks his head and his eyes twinkle with lust. Is it not every man's dream to discover some secret, but simple, trick to reduce a female to immediate sexual slavery?
"Should I try the other one?" he asks.
She nods. If this luscious sensation hits her from both sides, she expects she'll come in seconds flat.
But her right foot has other ideas. The pressure of his fingers is pleasant but nothing more.
"I don't feel anything."
"Interesting," he says, studying her indifferent foot, as if it were a problem to be solved.
"Can I try you?"
"Sure."
She takes his left foot and rubs, in the same place, then tries the right one. He shakes his head.
"I think you have a gift," he says, smiling.
"Can you rub the left one again? Please?" She has to know if the magic will work again.
He seems to know she is in his power. "Of course. Lie back and open your robe for me. Untie the sash and pull it wide open so I can see you."
Shyly she does as he commands. In fact, she wants him to see.
She moans aloud when he touches her. He is only rubbing a few inches of her foot, but she can feel it now in her breasts. Her cheeks burn.
Even her teeth tingle.
"Your chest is already flushed and your nipples are standing out so stiff. I wish I'd known about your special spot before."
"What else do you want to see?" she purrs. "Do you want to watch me play with myself while you rub me?"
He makes a sound in his throat that suggests he does, but then he seems to reconsider. "Let's try a little more foot massage and see what happens."
It is, she realizes, exactly the answer she wants to hear.
"But I would like you to spread your legs for me," he adds. "I want to see how wet you are."
This she could have told him without inspection. She knows her lips are already scarlet red, swollen, grasping at air, hungry to gobble up something thick and knobbed and weeping white, salty pre-cum. But she spreads her legs obediently, opening herself to his eyes.
He makes a sound of surprise. "That's how you look when I've been eating you for half an hour. What's going on?"
"I don't know. It just feels so good when you do that. I really think I could come this way." She nudges his hard-on with her foot. "Are you enjoying yourself, too?"
"Very much." He begins to work the muscle, acupressure style.
Heat ripples through her body. She is panting. "It makes me want to fuck, though. All I can think about is fucking. But I don't want you to stop doing what you're doing."
"There's no danger of that. I could sit here and do this all day."
She could, too. She's floating now, inches from the sofa, on a warm hammock of desire.
"But maybe I won't." He grins. "Maybe I'll give you five more minutes of footsie time and if you don't come, you'll just have to go take a cold shower."
She flinches. "No, please."
"I know you can do it. How about if I keep doing this?" He returns to the magic stroke, a warm, steady pressure of thumb over thumb.
"Ah, that might do it." She begins to rock her hips, fucking the hot summer air. Still, five minutes isn't very long. "Can I play with my tits?"
He considers the idea for a moment. "Nah. Let's see what we can do with the foot rub. Does it help if I tell you I'm getting so turned on watching you squirming around naked I might come in my pants?"
That does help. But not what he says next.
"Four minutes to go."
"You bastard. You know one of us has to rub my clit if I'm gonna make it in time."
"I certainly won't. And if you do, the foot rub stops."
Images somersault through her head: their bodies twisted into odd positions so he can continue to caress her foot while they fuck. That would certainly take his mind off of the silly time limit. She sees him kneeling between her legs, holding her foot to his chest, or her on top as he reaches down to glide his thumb over the new hot spot. But somehow she understands it is best this way, her body displayed to his eyes, with one single magic point of contact. For in the end, it takes so little -- the dance of his thumb on the arch of her left foot -- to make her into a sweating, writhing slut who is begging for it. That's what she is, what she'd always been.
His scolding continues, his voice soft and teasing. "Now that I know about you, I'm going to use your little secret against you. We'll be sitting in a nice restaurant, and I'll slip my shoe under yours and lift it up, and I'll reach under the table and take your foot. You'll know what I'm going to do, but you'll be powerless to stop me. I'll slip off your shoe and the soft flesh will be moist and swollen and ready. Then I'll start rubbing you through your pantyhose. Slowly at first. But that will be enough to make your cheeks pink and your breath come fast. You'll try to hide it, to keep talking about what's new with the cousins or the Ryder account, but I'll feel your leg trembling, and I'll see the sex rash rising on your neck, and we'll both know you're going to come from what I'm doing to you. You're going to have a big, bad orgasm right in the middle of the restaurant. Or will you chicken out and run to the ladies' room to masturbate in the stall?"
She's clenching her buttocks now and pointing her left toe, then flexing it, pushing herself higher. "No, no, I'll stay," she babbles. "I'll let you do it to me there in the middle of the restaurant."
"You only have three minutes," he says in a low, soft voice.
"Keep rubbing. It doesn't count if you don't keep rubbing." She almost shouts. The windows are open and the neighbors can probably hear, but she doesn't care.
"Oh, I'll keep rubbing," he croons. "I'll rub you in all kinds of places. When we're at the company picnic next week, and we're all sitting around on the blankets after the softball game and the barbecue, I'll reach over and start rubbing your foot. Right in front of everybody and you'll try to pull away, but I'll hold you nice and firm. After all, what's the problem with a little foot massage? They'll all be thinking what a nice guy your husband is and meanwhile you'll be shifting back and forth on your ass and your little shirt will be so wet with sweat your nipples will show through. But I am nice, so I'll let you lie back and cover your face with your straw sunhat, so no one will see your lips twist into a snarl the way they do when you come. Which, by the way, you'd better manage to do in about two minutes."
He stops and lifts the arch of her foot to his lips to kiss it.
She gasps. "I get ten extra seconds for that. Now, rub, you fucker, rub harder."
And then he's doing it, doing it just right. Jolts of heat and honey shoot up through her leg, and she knows she can do it, knows she can wrap that sweetness around her pussy like a ribbon and pull it so tight. She doesn't need fingers on her nipples or her asshole, doesn't need to grind her clit on his belly. All she needs is the eyes of the waiter, frowning in confusion as he watches the lady at table four freeze, then tremble, cheeks bright red, eyes wide. All she needs is the soft voices of her colleagues floating around her as she does her best to muffle her moans and push the pleasure deeper inside, their secret, their magical transgression.
Her transgression. Because, before he can stop her, she manages to slip her hand between her legs and flick her clit, just twice, and that's enough to slide home, under one minute, her body jerking, left foot arched like a prima ballerina, soaring above the stage.
When she touches down, she comes back to an ordinary morning. She is just a naked woman on a sofa, her foot resting in her lover's lap after a little Sunday morning sex.
There is something different about him, though. His face glistens with sweat and he looks oddly spent. Smiling, she probes his crotch with her toes and feels wetness there. She's impressed. He hasn't even touched himself. He's done it. They've done it. Together.
It's enough to make her believe in magic.
