Description:

You work in the same office as me and were intrigued by my arrival from the UK. For weeks we've been exchanging coy looks from across the aisles. You dress in nice skirts and wear heels and pantyhose, and I crane my neck to watch you walk in every morning. We're both kind of shy, but underneath we are magnetized by sexual curiosity of one another. I try to make it obvious that I like you, and compliment your outfits, but I get tongue-tied because all I want to do is rip open your blouse and pantyhose and pin you up against the wall of the coffee room, cradling your soft arch in my hand, face-deep in your hot little snatch. You know I'm always sneaking glances at your feet and pose them ever so slightly in full view of my desk. You're stunned at their effect, how I blush and can't stand up. One day I pass you in the cafeteria and you smile and beckon me over. You ask me what it is about feet I like so much, and whether by expert standards yours are cute. I am completely taken aback and can't believe I might be on the brink of finding someone who understands, whose naivety is so ludicrously seductive. I tell you that normally a girl's soles are the best part for me, but that I have never found anyone's so appealing by dint of their heels and pantyhose alone. So you make me a proposition: 'join me on webcam tonight and tell me how nice my feet are. I can tell how into feet you are and want you to see them objectively, without work getting in the way. If they're really as nice as you think they are, tell me tomorrow that you'll be my boyfriend. I like nice respectful boys who'll pay me attention. That night, I get way more than I bargain for. You start in cute pajamas, and prop your slippered feet up in front of the camera. Before you take them off you make me promise that if they are, after all, what I'm looking for then you want me to show you every day, and you in turn will do all you can to keep them looking primped and soft, and indulge me in them, and play games at home together. You've never met a guy into feet but you know it's like being a princess, having them pampered completely, and would be so grateful if it turned out your prince was an Englishman too. You slowly, knowingly, remove each slipper to show me your soles, the soles I told you I've been imagining since I met you, in as much detail as possible, and tell me you think how they wrinkle-up is cute. You show them off in celebration, because you know they're 'it' and anyone would be lucky to worship them, but you only want me. Tonight it is just you and me, our first date, and your feet curl and flex, rapturously happy that we finally made it here. You know showing them off is just for starters, and bring out some baby oil, drizzling them liberally, telling me that you love the sight of your oily soles, asking if I do too. You keep pouring it and pouring it on until they're dripping and the show is a fireworks display of arches and wrinkles, catching the light in heart-stopping glory. You ask me if I've been masturbating to them, and smile delightedly. You hoped I would. You tell me that you can't wait to see me tomorrow, and hope that your feet were everything I'd imagined. It's nearly the weekend, so maybe I should come over ... my choice.