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How a kind lady helped my nylon and foot fetish

When I was 16, our cleaner caught me wanking and went on to help me with my stocking and foot fetish
I thought I would share something that happened to me when I was 16, that has stayed in my memory for years.

We lived in the north of England when I was growing up. And although not rich we had a cleaning lady who came during the week, she looked after me during the school holidays while my mum and dad were at work. I thought things might change as I got older, but they didn't trust me to be in on my own all day, probably get into trouble or something. I was an only child, and I've always thought that made me a bit precious, and them a bit over-protective.

At the time the events in this story took place I had just turned 16. I think Jean, the cleaner, must have been about 40 or so, maybe a little younger. She was a nice smiley lady, not very tall, almost too skinny, and, to be honest, a bit plain but with beautiful shiny long dark hair. She was always very friendly to me but what really sticks in my mind now is the way that Jean dressed. She always, like it was a uniform, wore a tight black sweater, black knee length pleated skirt and lovely tan nylons which crinkled enticingly behind her knees and around her ankles when she bent down. I fancied her so much though, probably because she was there, and probably because she was friendly to me and just maybe a little bit flirty. She made a nice cup of tea anyway.

At 16, I wasn't exactly hard to please as far as women go. I fancied all of them if they looked even half attractive. I've also loved nylon stockings and feet for as long as I can remember, on the legs obviously, but more importantly the way they caressed ladies feet making them warm and soft and beautiful to look at and, I imagined, to touch. Although I can't recall ever actually having an excuse to touch a pair of attractive nylon covered feet when I was young. If only.

But Jean always wore nylons, even in a heatwave, and I literally dreamt about slipping one of her silky stockings, fragrant after a day hard at work, over my head for some reason. It seemed the ultimate act of intimacy. Jean also had several pairs of really pretty shoes, open toe wedges, ankle boots and soft black high heeled court shoes. Each morning, she would slip off her shoes, and put on a pair of flip-flops to do the housework in. The flip-flops pulled the nylons tightly between her long perfect soft brown nylon toes - always with red nails - painted the same colour for the years we had her working for us.

She must have seen me staring at her feet countless times when she was talking to me. Sometimes I wasn't listening to what she was saying to me. Most of the time I imagined her 'asking' me to kneel down and kiss her feet and tell her how beautiful they were. We all have fantasies about women doing things that they are not in the least likely to do unprompted in real life don't we? I have since spoken to women who have not the slightest idea that so many men are fascinated by their feet, stockings and shoes. They think them rather ordinary fashion items, rather like skirts or hats. Preposterous!

This has always made me think thus: If a woman lavishes so much care on her feet, smoothing them, painting the nails, wearing ankle chains, sheer stockings, impractical high-heeled shoes and boots, some with with peep-toes (peep-toes for fucks sake, a fetishist's charter1). They surely 'must' do it because they know someone is looking. These fussy girls have always been 'my kind of girls'. They seem to understand the lure of the beautifully turned out foot.

But these days, it is my wife who keeps her feet soft and pedicured for me, lovely woman. I am only too happy to satisfy her desire to buy pretty shoes and boots. Always the dearer makes of shoes though, only good quality leather gives the foot the truly divine sexual fragrance when it is slipped off. And leather holds onto the smell of the warm foot forever, encouraging those with a mind to, to hold the shoe over the nose and mouth and breathe in the heavenly scent of soft warm nylon covered feet.

At the best of times, with the wearer watching this peculiar fetish unfolding in front of them. My wife watches me smell her shoes, and claims it turns her on. It might do I suppose. I went out with a girl once who was happy to wear stockings all the time (she even liked to sleep with one over her head sometimes) but who thought expensive shoes were a waste of money, when cheaper synthetic shoes 'looked' just as good. She came in from work one very hot summer day and slipped her tarty red shoes off in my lap - So far so good - but the awful way her cheap shoes had made her feet smell nearly made me throw up. Ladies, please only buy nice leather shoes if you want your man to kiss your feet. However, I digress…

We shall return to Jean though, and my rather obscure fetishistic desires regarding her. The real start of the tale is that when she took off her shoes each morning before starting work she would leave them downstairs in the laundry room by the back door, and when she went upstairs, and I could hear her doing the vacuuming I would always have a good sniff of her freshly worn shoes or boots, and most times have a quick wank while I had them tightly pressed over my nose.

For as long as I could hear the vacuum cleaner whirring away upstairs, I was safe. Thinking about her soft nylon feet and those shiny red nails teasing me, thoughts of her, with a stocking pulled over her head, urging me on to lick her feet and press my face into her soft warm nylon soles, meant it never took long. This was a pretty bizarre and remote fantasy, but they're the ones that really get the juices flowing.

One morning she turned up early. Me, still half-asleep in my dressing gown, her, smiling and beamingly chatty as usual.

"Yes Jean, it is a lovely morning. No I haven't got anything specific in mind to do today. Yes Jean, I would like a cup of tea. No Jean, I won't use all the hot water. etc etc."

But in my 16 year old fevered imagination it was, "Jean, is there any chance you could make me your slave for the day and let me worship your beautiful feet before dragging me up to bed and demanding that I satisfy your pent up sexual urges once and for all. In fact Jean, why don't you just say to me, I've always fancied you Peter, now get down on your knees and suck my sexy toes before you fuck me you naughty boy."

I can feel a boner coming on thinking of this while she's standing in front of me, and I start to worry that I'm wearing nothing under my dressing-gown. I haven't worn pajamas for years, only a T-Shirt in Winter. Aaaargh! Winter, snowmen, sledges, Christmas trees, Father Christmas, reindeer - Think of anything to make this hard-on go away. It's not like she ever seems to notice this sort of thing anyway, I quite often have quite an impressive bulge in my jeans when she's talking to me and I'm drooling over her legs and feet.

I'm beginning to think she might be completely uninterested in sex at all really sometimes. I've always thought a bit of Mrs. Robinson action would be nice, and I think am a good looking boy, though I say it myself, but from Jean, nothing - It's all about the tea now. Nothing much was actually happening in our house these days, and the school holidays were starting to drag and become a little tedious. But Jean, oblivious to my latent urges, started to talk about needing some more dusters.

Mum went out to work, and when the front door shut, Jean made us both a cup of tea as usual and then went upstairs with the vacuum, leaving her dainty soft bright red ankle boots in the back kitchen. All of her shoes were quite expensive and she had a pair of peep-toed black leather wedges that held her scent better than any of the others, but they must have cost a packet - so did her husband not think this an extravagance? Maybe not, maybe he was like me?

I had a good smell of Jean's boots and shoes whenever I could, sometimes just in passing like a drug addict, managing not to have a wank. But as the endless wanking and sniffing went on over the weeks, I got a little bit more daring, took more risks and sometimes took one of my mother's stockings out of the laundry basket and slipped it over my head, wishing it was one of Jean's, but enjoying the perfumed softness anyway. If the vacuum cleaner stopped, I would quickly put the shoe or boot back with it's pair and whip the stocking mask off. Never a problem, there was always plenty of time to look innocent and hide my stiff cock.

Today, as I said, I was only wearing my blue dressing gown and I went through the usual routine - Listen for the vacuum to start, all clear - then I knelt down by Jean's soft red boots, slipped the nylon stocking over my head and holding her right boot tightly over my nose and mouth inhaled the scent of her lovely sweaty feet and took and myself in hand for a quick wank. The nylon on my face, the thought of her polished toes winking at me through her stockings, the smell of her feet and the leather of the boot always made me come quickly. My latest thought of her gasping with delight as I sucked her toes was getting me right to the edge in record time, and then the door opened…

I looked up and Jean was there in the doorway. She had come downstairs without bothering to switch the vacuum off. Looking wide-eyed right at me, pumping away, smelling her pretty little size 5 boot, which I dropped, and as she walked towards me I could only focus on her feet, her skinny painted toes and her silky nylon legs and I couldn't hold back - I came in my hand and tried to hold onto the mess of come, but it trickled through my fingers and some dripped onto her boot. The shame! I pulled off the stocking mask and then I just froze and felt sick. I can't remember who said what first. I was saying that I was sorry, sorry, sorry, Jean please don't tell anyone.

She just said, "Peter. What do you think you're doing? What on Earth do you think you're doing?"

I stood up and thought she might possibly not have seen everything I'd done, but she wasn't actually angry or anything, just totally shocked I think. After all, I was only a boy she'd known for ages, not some old pervert, and she was a grown woman. I do know she had a couple of teenage sons and a daughter, so looking back I expect she knew about young boys wanking all the time. Two times a day, sometimes three, sometimes just because I'd seen a fit woman on TV with nice legs and a pair of sexy shoes on. Afternoon TV was always good for that. No wonder I was tired all the time.

"If you're going to make a sticky mess like that, you really ought to clean it up and not leave it for me to do - Don't you think Peter?"

She was pretty firm and businesslike about it, and I felt two inches tall. She stood quite still and just looked on with a rather blank expression, while I knelt back down and started trying to wipe my come off her boot with my mother's stocking. With my own mother's stocking! I was trembling, and actually felt quite tearful, but then she just turned around and went back upstairs. And now she would tell my mum and dad, probably leave the job, leaving me in a world of trouble and shame.

I could hardly speak to her again, but she came and went as usual, and after a few days I gathered that she hadn't and probably wasn't going to say or do anything. My parents didn't act any differently towards me. Not that I felt too good, I couldn't speak to her and tried to avoid her as much as I could. When I saw her shoes by the back door, I felt sick, remembering coming all over her boot, kneeling in front of her with a nylon stocking over my head. I didn't wank at all for a whole 24 hours after that!

But thankfully she was quite friendly to me shortly after it had happened, and looking back once more, I can see that it was probably no big deal to her, she seemed to have forgotten about it anyway - Jean may have been flattered in a funny way. Was that even slightly likely? My reasoning behind thinking this is an incident that happened two weeks after 'the biggest mistake I ever made'. I was sitting at the kitchen table finishing my morning cup of tea, when a pair of hands clapped over my eyes, I knew it was Jean, her hands smelt of polish, and she was laughing just as she always did.

"Surprise Peter! - Who is it?"

"It's you Jean"

I was so pleased that she seemed to have forgotten things and that I wasn't going to be exposed to my parents as a sick deviant foot fetishist who smelt women's shoes and masturbated wearing one of his mother's stockings over his head. It sounds bad doesn't it? I'll leave it off my CV. This sort of thing isn't really for public consumption. Probably make the papers in a small northern town. Perish the thought.

But when I looked round at her, she had one bare leg and one stockinged leg. I don't think I'd seen her bare feet before, her bare foot was pink and lovely, the red nails gleamed. I kept on looking up and I saw that Jean had taken off one of her own stockings and pulled it down over her head, just as I had done, and she was giggling and looking at my shocked face.

"Do I look nice Peter? Does this look pretty? Do you like this? Hand over the money!"

Her face was all squashed up under the stocking, just as it was in my dreams, and she just stood there smiling through the nylon at me, looking really weird and kinky. And for her that was it, her little joke was over, she put up her hand to take the stocking off, and I remember this as if it was yesterday, not twenty years ago, with a shaky dry mouth I said, "No, please don't Jean, please don't take it off, please."

And she didn't, bless her, she let it slip back down over her face, and she sat down next to me and put her hand on my arm.

"Well alright Peter, but this is very strange. I can't sit here like this all day, if your mum comes home she'll think there's a burglar."

It was such a weak joke, but I'm sure she only said it to defuse the situation. Mum had only been gone an hour or so anyway, she wasn't back till late in the afternoon. Jean looked down and noticed my dressing gown twitching at the front, and my smooth slim pink cock popped out embarrassingly.

"Oh Peter, you naughty boy," she teased, "This was just my silly joke, just a joke to show we're still friends, but look at what it's doing to you!"

I started to cry, tears of pent up frustration and embarrassment ran down my cheeks, but Jean just squeezed my arm tighter and said "I'm confused now, why are you crying? Tell me what it is that you want Peter. Is it just my boots? Or do you want to do something else with my feet, or do you just want to sit with me like this?"

"Jean, please leave the stocking on, can I just kiss your feet and smell them."

And she laughed, but not in a mocking way, "Is that it, just smell my feet? Well I'm sure they probably smell a bit stinky after being in my boots all morning. I wouldn't want to smell them, and I can't imagine why you would want to kiss them, but yes, you can if you like."

This was it, the dream becoming real. My cock jerked violently when she said this, and she sounded so incredibly soft and understanding. Then she leant back and lifted her stockinged foot onto the table right in front of my face, slipping off her flip flop, and twiddling her silky brown nylon toes - she was right, it was a strong smell of sweat and leather and the perfume of the softener that she must use to wash her stockings in but it was heavenly, so I put my face closer to her foot and breathed in deeply. I looked round and she was watching me with a curious look on her silky nylon covered face. I finally got my courage up, I leant forward and kissed her big toe.

"Ooh, no-one has ever done that before Peter, that feels so strange. Do you want to do anything else to my feet, I really don't get it Peter, but if you are enjoying yourself just doing this you can do it some more. Other men just want to see my breasts, do you?"

No, I really didn't, but what a delightful woman, so patient and calm, I slipped my mouth down over her toes and sucked, getting the taste of her feet, her boots and nylons. I couldn't help grabbing my cock and starting to pump it.

"Hey! Steady tiger, slow down a bit, I can help you with that. Your mum wouldn't like me touching you, but if you wait a minute, I won't have to."

And she went out into the kitchen and came back with her handbag, from which she produced a pair of very thin, very tight tan leather gloves. They were quite stained and a little bit longer than usual. She pulled them on and carefully teased the thin leather down over her fingers.

"Strictly speaking Peter, I won't actually be touching you, so there'll be no harm done will there?"

Jean, am I going to complain? Am I going to tell anyone? She reached down and put one warm leather hand around my cock and began to rub it so gently, expertly, holding it perfectly, not too rough and better than when I did it myself.

Looking into my face through her nylon mask and smiling kindly at me she said softly, "Is this what you need so badly, poor sweet Peter, will feet and nylons be your special thing?"

I couldn't speak, I was too choked up, and she wriggled her long perfect toes in front of my face while she stroked my prick up and down with her hand. It was almost too much for anyone, I had thought of things like this for ages, but in a few minutes it was all happening to me for real.

I quickly came all over her leather covered hand, and she wiped her gloves clean with one of mum's yellow dusters. And then she sat there, not moving her foot from in front of my face, with her gloved hands in her lap, not touching the mask which was still pulled tightly over her face. My cock just wouldn't go down, it stayed so sensitive and stiff and I tried to cover it up with my gown.

"Why do you love my feet so much Peter, I don't understand, can you tell me? I have thought about when I saw you smelling my boots for weeks now, why would you like to do that so much, was that the first time?"

I was sobbing big tears of some emotion or other, Freud would have had a field day, and the tears rolled down my face. My cock had stayed absolutely rock hard, and I felt none of the relief a good wank normally gave me. I couldn't even begin to answer her, I didn't even know the answer myself, only that I had an outpouring of love towards her for being so gentle and kind and calm towards me. Trying to understand me and making me feel like the crushing burden of these weird fetishes wasn't so bad after all - Maybe there would be other women in the world as understanding?

"Your penis is still so hard Peter, so stiff and painful looking, If I don't do something for you, it may never get soft again, and then how would you put your trousers on?"

Another weak joke, but she was totally in charge and so what could I do? I was breathing hard, my heart was racing and I just blurted out, "You are so beautiful Jean I have always loved you…"

"Stop it Peter, don't use that word, you don't love me and I am certainly not beautiful, but thank you for the thought - I like you very much and I always have, I only want to free you from the pain of not being able to have what you seem to need so badly. I must do this one thing for you, Shhhh, be quiet now."

Jean knelt down in front of me and opened her mouth, and she let my cock push the thin nylon of her stocking mask into her mouth. I was whimpering, this was so good. Too good to be true. Jean closed her warm mouth around my cock which ached and throbbed because I had only just come and was hardly ready to come again. But she sucked my cock gently, every so often telling me that it was lovely and tasted good, massaging my buttocks with her leather gloved hands - She was in no rush as she kept on sucking as if it was a delicious treat, she started to moan softly, and that was too much. My penis pulsed into her mouth sending thin warm sperm into it, the second come after the first was so much more intense and hot and more watery. She swallowed my come and looked up at me and smiled again.

"You have a lovely penis Peter, I hope your girlfriends will all appreciate it when you get older. Never be afraid of asking for what you really want from a lady. You never know your luck and you may find they enjoy these things as much as you do. I haven't ever put a stocking over my head before, but it feels nice, I will do it for my husband to see if he likes it next time we are in bed. I certainly never knew anyone could love feet so much, especially my feet, I think they look odd."

All women say this I've found, what the fuck did she mean, her slim soft feet were every foot fetishist's wet-dream? I stood there shaking in front of her.

"You will never forget me, or today Peter - I know that I am your first and you never forget your first. But what I have done to you is wrong, I am married, and you are so young, but I hope I have helped you. You must understand that this can not happen ever again, it's just that when I saw how much you desired me I just got carried away, I don't think I have been wanted so much by anyone before."

"Please Jean, don't say never," I begged.

"No Peter, I am very fond of you but I have gone too far, think of me as your angel - If it makes you feel happier I will do something special for you. When I take my shoes or boots off in the morning I will leave them for you to 'play' with behind the door in the loo downstairs from now on, you can lock the door and no-one will disturb you. Put your hand inside them, and you will find the pair of stockings I was wearing the day before - I saw what you do with one of them, you can put the other one over your cock to stop you making a mess on the floor for me to clean up. I am really glad you like my feet so much and seeing you wanking over my boots and smelling them did give me a thrill I admit, but I'm married and I love my husband and won't betray him"

"I think I understand. Thank you so much Jean."

And I leant over and pressed my lips against her nylon covered cheek and gave her a last kiss. My cock had finally wilted a bit, but if she had waited a few minutes I am sure I could have managed all over again, Now I was feeling a little bolder, more of a man, I wanted to fuck her and hear her moan, wrapping her legs around me and begging me to make her come. But that was in my mind again, and it really wasn't going to happen any day soon. She had been like a nurse, not a lover, a nurse sorting out my problems for me, and I did feel better.

I think I also told her I loved her again, or thank you again or something I can't recall as I was in a state of shock in all honesty. She slipped the stocking off her head and went out of the room to put it back on the traditional way. She wasn't trying to seduce me, she didn't want proper sex with me, I think she wanted to be part of my strange world for a little while and to leave her mark on another person in the world who would never forget her.

And nothing like that ever did happen again. I always hoped it would, and I dropped some clumsy hints about playing at burglars, but Jean never took the bait. Just smiled. But as she said, she left her shoes by the loo door for me, with a pair of rolled up stockings in them every day. And every day I would smell her shoes or boots and have a wank and be grateful that there are people in the world like Jean. If she caught me coming out of the loo she would smile a broad smile and ask if I felt better.

On several occasions when we have been talking she has slipped her flip-flops off and rubbed her feet in an obviously sensual way, moaning and sighing and saying that they were aching and hot. And then, when she saw how flustered I got she would say, "Perhaps you need to use the loo Peter?"

And I would go and get my hands on her shoes, slip her stocking over my head and wank myself into joyful oblivion. Once she knew the key to my soul and what buttons to press, she was a complete tease really, but then what more could she do to keep her conscience clear except tease? What more could I ask for anyway?

When I turned 18 we had to move down to Exeter in the South of England for my Dad's work, and I was heartbroken that I wouldn't see Jean again or get my hands on her shoes or see her beautiful skinny painted nylon toes again. But I do see them, when I shut my eyes I see them, and her, and the day she sat there talking to me through her stocking mask, wanking me and sucking me off, trying to understand my wishes and what makes me tick.

Dear sweet kind Jean, I hope life was always kind to you. The girls I have had in my life, and my dear wife have all indulged me in all my fetishes, even the one with smelly feet, (My wife is quite happy to sit wearing leather gloves and a stocking mask watching me smell her boots and pleasuring myself, bless her. As long as we are both happy, what's the problem she says) , maybe it isn't really a big deal for them and men are just strange creatures? We often make love and sometimes it's kinky and sometimes it's not. But my wife is like Jean, patient, calm and happy to give me the things that make me happy. And I do the same for her.

Today my wife was wearing some tan mid heeled leather boots, even though it was a warm day.

"I need your help to take my soft leather boots off Peter, they have got so sticky and hot and sweaty that I just can't pull them off myself"

This isn't true, it's how she turns me on and she knows it - When I slip them off, she has very sheer pantyhose on and her red nails wink at me as I take in the warm sweaty scent of her feet.

"Oh dear, my feet ache so much, I really think you ought to kiss them to make them feel better Peter. Then we can have a lie down upstairs"

She understands me too - Ecstasy.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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