Indulge his filthy l*ttle habit without my knowledge. Silly boy, did he truly believe a woman of my experience, my refinement, wouldn't catch him red-handed, lost in the throes of worshipping my feet like the desperate foot sl*ve he is?

I pretended not to notice, a small smile playing on my lips as I heard the soft rustling of fabric, the gentle padding of his eager footsteps across my plush carpet. I could practically feel his hot breath on my skin before he even touched me, could sense the way his youthful c*ck stirred in his pants at the mere sight of my bare soles, unprotected and inviting.

He reached out a tentative hand, fingertips grazing my heel with the lightest of touches. I suppressed a shudder, schooling my features into a mask of slumber as he grew bolder, his palm now boldly cupping the back of my foot, his fingers splayed wantonly across the arch. I could hear his breathing, quickening, growing heavier with each passing second.

And then came the moment of truth, he moved his face towards my foot, hovering his nose mere inches from my toes. He inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering shut in bliss as he drank in my scent, no doubt savoring the musky, feminine aroma of a woman's foot that has walked a thousand miles in heels, that has been corseted and constrained for the pleasure of another. I knew, in that moment, that I had him. C*mpletely. Utterly. He was mine.

"What are you doing?!" I hissed, snatching my feet away so abruptly he nearly tumbled backwards. I sat bolt upright, glaring at him with all the fury of a betrayed queen. "I thought you were different, I welcomed you into my home, treated you like family. And this is how you repay me? Groping and sn*ffing like some kind of... some kind of foot creep?"

He stammered out a pitiful apology, cheeks flaming crimson beneath my withering glare. But I wasn't having it. Not this time.

As I tore into him verbally, I purposely kept my feet in his full view. I could see the way his eyes followed them, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, longing to touch, to feel. The pitiful thing was positively aching with thwarted lust for feet. With a wicked idea forming in my head, I decided to take ruthless advantage of his predicament.

He would remember this day...

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