"My feet are killing me"
They say no woman is shapeless who has good ankles.
Mrs Verity was one hefty lady, but from the knees downwards she began to approach at least fair-to-average contours.
Not quite in the league of the professional foot-artist, who might be paid to model tights and stockings. But there was definitely something arousing about the sight of her shoes and feet, as she walked. Or even just standing still - and she'd spent most of today on her feet, as the two of us worked the exhibition-stand at a big trade fair.
It was towards the end, when the visitors had thinned out, that she said. "Come on. Let's start packing up. My feet are killing me."
That gave me a sudden and unexpected erection, and I had to adjust my clothing to try and conceal it.
Back in the stock-area, Mrs Verity sank into a chair and kicked off her shoes, letting out a long, loud sigh of relief that seemed to exhale from every part of her ample frame. For me, it carried a deeply erotic charge.
I had never dreamed I would be allowed to view her stockinged feet close-up, in private. And after a long day standing upright, supporting her considerable bulk, they would be full of her exciting taste, her special signature.
Now I realized she had caught me staring. "You keep looking at my feet. Are you some kind of foot-fetishist?"
"Er... no, just an enjoyer of the female body in its entirety. I'm not sure it's really a fetish anyway. Nobody talks about the breast-fetish or the hair-fetish, do they?"
Then I thought I would risk a personal question. "Doesn't your husband worship your feet?"
This seemed to surprise her. "I don't think he's ever noticed them."
That gave me another electric shock - the idea of those lovely stockinged feet walking through life unnoticed, unworshipped, unawakened...
"In any case," she said. "I haven't exactly got the perfect dainty foot, have I?"
"It's perfect for me. I wouldn't alter the smallest detail of it." I said. "But you see, it's largely in the mind anyway. The act of sliding off a shoe is like the shedding of armour - a bedroom gesture, yet lovely and innocent. It's the first intimacy, even if it's also the last. A very special invitation to come a little closer into your life."
She digested this idea with some interest, having apparently not heard it before. It was clear that she had never thought about this particular erogenous zone.
Then on a glorious whim, she lifted one foot and pointed it straight in my direction, as though teasing or challenging - maybe just curiosity, seeing what I would do.
I knelt and cupped her heel in one hand, while I tasted the tip of one stockinged toe. A tiny hint of her perspiration excited my tongue.
Now I began to massage the instep, always the sexiest curve on a woman, especially in silhouette, with that smooth stocking-texture, impregnated with her unique flavour. When she began to moan her satisfaction, she managed to inject an element of welcome surprise. This was literally the first time she had experienced foot-worship, and she was liking what she found.
It was time to lie on my back with one of her feet on my lips and one on my prick. This was glory. "Will you let me spunk into your fabulous feet? Tell me to fuck your feet."
"Fuck my feet" she said - clearly the first time she'd ever said it.
This suck-&-fuck combo was so intoxicating, I realised I was being selfish, but there were limits to what we could get away with in the back of an exhibition-stand with the security men starting to announce closing-time.
So I had to keep back my thoughts, as I exploded into the sweetness of her stockinged shape-and-taste, while she made noises that sounded halfway towards a foot-orgasm. In due course, we would work on this, along with many of the other wonders that follow-on naturally from the sliding-off of a ladylike shoe - the loveliest green-light in the world.