I am fixated with my foot.
Apologies but that is an inaccurate generalisation. In truth I am fixated by the way my foot dangles midair. The contrast of deep red shoe against barely black fine hosiery, the sight of the small mole atop it visible through the fine denier, the twin curvature of the toe, and, most mentally seducing, is the way the tops of my toes tap against the inside of the shoe when I wiggle them.
It is a quite delightful shoe and certainly deserving of being fixated upon. Resplendent in crimson almost velveteen fabric with a perfect yet dainty arc and a trio of slightly off coloured red flowers adorning the outstep and it is my intention to spend the next 45 minutes of my life enjoying its every gorgeous facet.
The only other distraction that I am allowing to enter my too busy brain is the smooth, cool, finely shaped stem of the wine glass that my thumb and forefinger are caressing with appropriate love and attention and if I could drag my eyes away from my see-sawing footwear I might even enjoy the oiled sheen of the yellow hued Chardonnay as it swirls about the bell shaped glass and clings adoringly to the surface.
It has been an awfully long week and my simple head has become stuffed full of a multitude of contrary and contradictory “important stuff” that has been rampaging through my aching brain ever since I left my last appointment two hours ago. For 120 minutes I have allowed them to careen wildly about like electrons detached from their nuclei, crashing unconcernedly into my brains fleshy tissue, until exasperated and frustrated and quite loud enough to cause several other passengers in my train carriage to turn and stare at the “mad woman”, I commanded them to …
Then, as so often is the case, I missed my connecting train, found myself with the obligatory one hour wait for the next one, and so have retreated to the brightly lit, warm and beckoning, public house perfectly situated the dark and cold train station. Here, I am going to lose myself in the delight of admiring my dangling foot whilst sipping daintily at the first post-work, “the weekend starts here,” glass of wine.
I start rotating my toes in a clockwise direction inside their velveteen casing; watching as my foot tries to replicate the movement as I enjoy the sensation of the fine denier caressing at my toes as they wriggle around. It’s lovely. It’s perfect. I can feel the electrons in my brain quivering to a halt, can appreciate the slow intake and expulsion of air within my lungs and feel it trickling from my nostrils to caress my chest.
I raise the glass, rotate the stem between my fingers, place the rim to my lips and allow the somewhat acidic and flowery liquid to roll across my palate.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
My answer is instant; no need for consideration, no need to flick my eyes away from the joy of my utterly addictive foot, no need to contemplate the shadowy form that has given birth to those words. Yes, I do mind. No, I don’t want company. Go away. Leave me alone. Let me be.
“Ohhhhh, I’m …”
Then the words become stuck; and there is just enough of “I know not what” contained within that “Ohhhhh” to make me lift my head and inspect the face that gave birth to such trembling disappointment.
Outside the sanctity of my booth is a near empty bar with plenty of seating. She can have her pick of the room. Sit anywhere. In fact, barring a mismatched straggle of three seasoned male drinkers who seem permanently attached to their barstools, the place is quite empty.
I cock my head to one side and study her as she stands uncertainly before me tightly grasping a half pint glass filled with amber liquid which, from its colour and plentiful bubbles, I decide is draught cider. It’s obvious she doesn’t know where to place herself; can’t meet my gaze, keeps flicking her eyes about the room as if assessing the alternative seating options, her teeth nibbling at her bottom lip, her knuckles white as her fingers strain against the glass and just the slightest hint of flushing skin playing about the small inverted triangle of flesh visible atop her primly buttoned and crisply efficient work blouse.
“There are lots of other places to sit …”
I’ve modulated my tone; softened it, made it more amenable and sympathetic though the message is still the same.
“… I’ve had a very long week; wouldn’t be good company at all, and really I just want to have a little quiet time whilst I drink my wine.”
I try to capture her eyes with mine in an attempt to show her the seriousness of what I’m saying, but they slip away once more, darting down and across to rest their gaze on my still wiggling foot, causing her fringe to fall across her face and forcing me to strain forward slightly in my seat to hear what she is saying.
“Of course … Yes … Sorry … You’re right … I just … No … I’ll sit somewhere else … It’s just …”
Again she stutters to a halt, her thoughts imperfectly translated into words and still she makes no movement towards finding herself some other table to sit at.
She isn’t going anywhere. She is going to stay there looming over me, kneading her glass, averting her eyes until “somebody” invites her to sit down and that somebody can either be graceful about it or be a deliberately malicious and difficult bitch.
I manage to ensure that my sigh is inaudible, take a delicate sip at my wine and then prompt her into giving me the reason I should allow her to join me.
“It’s just. You were saying “It’s just.” It’s just what?”
She blurts; the words falling over themselves in rapid succession as if she is trying to get them all out before I change my mind. Yet despite their urgency she does her utmost to pluck every emotional string in my unconcerned heart.
“I’m never comfortable sat on my own; you never know what might happen.”
The evil that is men.
“You really can’t trust them …” hand flung expressively towards the trio of hapless innocents propping up the bar exhibiting no greater concern than whether there is enough coinage in their pockets to replenish near empty glasses.
“And us women really do need to look out for one another.”
And finally … Friendship
“It’s not like we don’t know each other … well, I know you and we were both at the Spinning Vinyl Night about a month ago. I certainly remember you dancing.”
This is more than I do, because it can’t have been a pretty sight. At best; by which I mean mildly sober; I shuffle and sway in an approximate time to the beat, but fill me with too much alcohol and the songs play distorted in my brain as I gyrate wildly convinced that I might be Beyonce’s elder sister. To tell the truth, I do remember that night but only up to the point where somebody mentioned tequila, after that my only lasting memory is my inability to crawl out of bed for the majority of the following day.
Maybe she got to see the restrained, rhythm aware me: though I seriously doubt it. Nonetheless, I am required, am obliged, am obligated to honour the responsibilities of shared experience and invite her to join me, regardless of whether I would really prefer my own company.
“Oh, do sit down!”
It sounds churlish but it is the best I can manage and regardless of my tone she doesn’t require a second invitation. Barely have the words left my mouth than she has her rounded buttocks perched prettily atop the padded bench on the opposite side of the booth’s table.
Slowly and regretfully I rotate my still tapping toes and gorgeously shod foot out of view and beneath the hideousness of the tabletop, fix an ‘interested’ look across my face and watch the incessant movement of her lips as her mouth runs wild.
Gosh this girl can talk: what about I am not completely sure because I am little more than a nodding dog drowning in the deluge of her chatter. Head and eyes acknowledging her words as my mouth provides the requisite “Oh’s” and “I know’s” and “Oh yes’s” that her monologue requires and all the time my foot rotates beneath the table top and my insistent and perfectly pedicured toes tappity tap at their cruel yet utterly gorgeous confines.
At least the rampant electrons in my brain have shuddered to a halt beneath the onslaught of her words, hanging uncertain for the briefest of moments before collapsing to the floor of my brain in insignificant piles of dust.
Yet there is a quivering, or at least the merest possibility of one, fluttering between my tightly clasped thighs. A tingling sensation that now I come to focus on it pulses rhythmically in time to the endless wriggling of my toes and the steady rise and fall of my foot as it runs along the fleshy curvature of her inner calf.
I stop moving my foot suddenly aware of my actions, gradually allow it to fall away from her skin and, with slightly guilty eyes, adjust my vision to pay proper attention to her face. Words still cascade from her mouth in a never ending stream and there are no signals of embarrassment playing about her cheeks or resonating in her eyes.
Slowly my tongue rolls along the twin ridges of my teeth revelling in the sharp randomness of their undulations as wickedness teases at my mind. My lips spread wide as a grin captures my mouth causing dimples to form in my cheeks, my buttocks and thighs squeeze about the suddenly damp and heated flesh of my sex, and my eyes fix themselves intently on the innocent visage before me.
My prettily shod foot touches her skin betwixt ankle and calf and deliberately strokes its way as far up her leg as my pivoting ankle will allow.
Maybe, there was a slight catch in her breath. Just possibly her eyes widened a little.
My foot starts its steady return back down to its start point and this time I am certain that her chatter falters slightly and, delight of delights, a small flush settles about her neck.
Grazing, teasing, the firm edge of its sole and the soft velveteen upper stroke with increasingly persistent intent along her pretty flesh. Flesh, that now I think about it, is unburdened of even the finest denier hosiery, is wondrously naked and gloriously available to my tender affections.
I rotate my foot slightly; a soft squeeze of my thighs sending dreamy palpitations through my dribbling pussy; the rounded toes of my shoe sliding along her, pushing harder, seeking higher, trying to reach the sensitive flesh behind her knee so it may delicately kiss at the underside of her thigh, and forcing her pale trembling legs a little wider to allow me unfettered access.
Silence engulfs us. My mouth splits into an evident smile; the pink tip of my tongue visible as it traverses the sharp enamelled points of my teeth; a pinkness that is but a tiny reflection of the colour consuming her face; eyes wide and staring, mouth agape, nostrils quivering as her too rapid breath rushes from her heaving chest.
I straighten my leg, moving it to the horizontal, pushing upwards at the somewhat untoned fleshy undersides of her thighs, with my toes pointed forward like a ballerina as my foot wiggles against her flesh. Our eyes lock onto each others’ faces; I can’t be certain what she is seeing in mine, predatory mischief perhaps, but hers is full of disbelief and uncertainty. Her pupils seem expanded, her lashes almost trembling as her teeth nip persistently at her bottom lip. Inexorably I push my toe further into her forgiving flesh, pressurising her into parting those shivering thighs so that my foot might slide beneath her completely respectable charcoal work skirt and tease at her undoubtedly panty clad pussy.
For an instant everything is still. For an instant we are captured tottering on the pivot of our uncertain future. For an instant all I can do is watch the pull of the buttons between her breasts as her chest heaves and her body sways betwixt adventure and retreat.
I adore her breasts even though they are contained and hidden from my sight. Gorgeous fleshy mounds, soft pale pillows squeezed into an undeserving bra and wrapped in cheap lightweight cotton that seems stretched beyond all that is scientifically reasonable. I ache for her to be braless, to splash my wine across her chest, to have her dark areolae and engorged nipples pressing and revealed beneath sodden, thin fabric, and for her lungs to be so filled that her straining buttons catapult under the pressure and skitter noisily across the floor.
Adventure or retreat?
Finally she expels the breath that seems to have trembled in her chest for all eternity and, as her visibly shaking fingers reach towards her still fizzing drink, I feel her thighs part and the velveteen extension of naughty little me slides upwards and forwards to rest tantalisingly close to the cotton protected entrance to her Neverland.
No retreat, only surrender.
The perfect curvature of my shod foot presses forward into the softness before me; strokes itself diligently down the length of her hidden mound as she grips the side of my foot with her thighs. Silence has engulfed us; eyes locked in attentive inspection as my foot pivots about its slender ankle and grazes its way across her uncertain flesh.
I pick up my glass; rotate the stem between my fingertips causing the contents to swirl about the bowl, before bringing it up to rest against my mischievous lips. Tension trickles visible along the line of her shoulders as persistently, inexorably, my tippy toes caress along the inconvenient gusset trapped between her and I.
Her eyelashes flicker; the weight of her eyelids seemingly too much for her to bear. Her mouth parts slightly, teeth and tongue revealing an inviting vision of pink and white, the sound of her inaudible breathing visible from across the tabletop. My toe pushes forward, slides down, and I can feel her slumping against it; thighs loosening their grip, fleshy sex pressing into the velveteen extension of me.
Assertively I press onwards, eyes feeding hungrily on her features; the olive toned skin, the near ebony hair forming a halo about her rounded cheeks and falling across her forehead, the fullness of her lips vibrating wonderfully as her breath plays across them, the flare of her nostrils, the wetness at the corner of her mouth, the shadowy hairline atop her upper lip, the mocha richness of her near closed eyelids, and the too evident exclamation marks of her eyebrows.
A sudden gasp breaks free of her panting lips as her trembling frame twitches spastically and the undulation of her disappointingly trapped breasts becomes enticingly evident. I push my sole to that spot, burrowing into delicious her, rotating my heel as I grind down on what I hope to be the engorged, throbbing nub at the centre of her pleasure, and I am rewarded as her hips rock, as she skewers herself on excitable, sodden, pulsing me.
Oh yes, I am quite wonderfully soaked. My own body overheated and quivering with the possibilities of now as my mind races ahead to the adventures that surely must come.
I grind into her causing her near ragged breathing to alter pitch. I can feel her thighs shaking near uncontrollably against me; tension gripping at her thrusting groin. The flower of her sex mounted on the stamen of my demanding, attentive, insistent, foot.
Juices trickle between my squeezing thighs to glisten across the surface of my wriggling buttocks.
Exquisitely fleshy breasts heave before me; eyes squeezed shut; mouth agape; a bubble of saliva glinting at the corner of her kissable mouth.
I really must pluck those eyebrows.
I feel it; the shudder of her body traversing the length of my extended leg, the vibration of her need echoing through the alcohol infused air, the explosion of want and desire poised against the tip of my constantly caressing toe.
Her eyes splay wide-open starring in near disbelief at my grinning, predatory mouth as it soundlessly forms that most wondrous word of command.
I reach for my glass. Bring it once more to my lips. Leave it poised there as I admire the sight of her glorious, squirming pleasure play our in near silence across her flushed face.
I do so hope we are catching the same train.
I’m certain we will be.
This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com
with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
<a href="http://www.lushstories.com/stories/lesbian/playing-footsie.aspx">Playing Footsie</a>