As yet unnamed foot fetish story.

    You’d think, working in a strip club one of two things would happen to a guy.  Either he would spend as much of his life as possible fucking all the coworkers he could or he would be so sick of naked women he would lose any sex drive he ever hoped to have.  Either way, you would not expect a bartender at a strip club to have a girlfriend. But Dan has a girlfriend.  And he swears to that girlfriend that the girls he sees naked every day never really catch his attention.  And if it wasn’t for Darla that would be true.
    Darla dances barefoot on the bar.  It should disgust him.  The bar is filthy.  Her feet are wet and sticky and pick up grime from god knows what.  Her soles are darkened, the arch rising up white out of the dirt.  It shouldn’t turn him on but it does.  A lot of things turn him on that shouldn’t.  The fact that she’s not his girlfriend being one of them. 

  He can’t cheat with her.  There’s something dangerous about her.  Something he can’t quite place.  He knows almost nothing about her.  He doesn’t know where she grew up, what her parents are like, what moments changed her life.  But he knows that if he fucked her, it wouldn’t be once.  He knows that if her fucked her he would love her.  It wouldn’t be fucking.  It would be possession, obsession, maybe even love. 

   Because the way she dances betrays her.  It shows her for the sensual, romantic creature that she is. Her rhythm is fluid;  incapable, almost, of  masculine staccato.  Her dance is vulnerable yet forceful and full of rampant sexuality that she gives herself to so fully you know that it’s only the tip of the iceberg.  Her dance is intelligent.  Her body is intelligent and the few times she speaks to him prove that her intelligence extends beyond her body.  The vocab words she drops like so much clothing stun him every time.  No hooker with a heart of gold, no “I don’t talk so good” shyness for her.  This girl is smart in a way that comes to her like breathing. 

  All this shows in her feet.  Her weight stays on the balls of her feet.  It keeps her movements unpredictable and lithe.   Her contracted toes, her tiptoed dance let her spin, twirl and kick with total ease and without warning.  Her hips are the heart of her dance, its rhythm, its sex.  But her feet are the brains.  They keep her dance fresh, revealing, capricious.  He loves her feet.  He loves her feet and every inch the unbroken line of her legs leads up to.
    She slides to her knees, crawls to him, and asks for a glass of water.  He quickly pours it for her, eyes darting from the exposed pads of her feet to her high arched ass to her rosepetal lips wrapping around the straw and greedily sucking up his water.  She caps the straw with her fingertip and leans back on her knees.  Pulling the straw to her throat she removes her finger and gasps as the cool water drips a path down her torso from the tendon of her neck to the bony plane of her chest and the soft crevice between her breasts.  It’s all he can do to not use his tongue to stop the droplets on their journey to her pussy, just slightly visible through her g-string.  
    Christ how he wants her.  He wants her so much he can’t help but wonder if it would really be cheating to take hold of one of those dainty feet, like Cinderella’s prince, one hand wrapped around her ankle the other holding her calf, and reverently kiss her foot.  That, itself, would not be cheating.  Most definitely not.  No one could fault him for that.  But he knows it wouldn’t stop there. 

  His lips, once touching the bony plane of her foot would seek more, hungrily covering each inch of skin with ardent kisses.  He would press the foot into a flex and press the sole to his face, breathing in deep.  His tongue would trace a slow and cautious path along that proud white arch, along the firm fleshy ball of her foot and slide into the deep crevices of her toes.  At the touch of his tongue she would gasp in delight and the curtain of her hair would fall around to flank her face as she smiled down at him.  
    She has an honest smile that animates her whole body.  She would smile at him and her toes would curl slightly against his face.  His eyes locked on hers he would suck her toes and watch her revel in the sensation.  His hand would make its automatic way to the bulge in his jeans and she would laugh slightly, the way she reacts to a sudden compliment.  Or maybe she would just enjoy her effect on him.  She loves to tease him.  The way she did with the water.  The way she does dancing barefoot on the bar.  He would look up as her, eyes long lashed and swollen pupiled, glistening in the half light of the bar, then look down at her foot, eyes lustily dimmed.  He would suck her foot deep into his mouth, her polished skin running across his teeth and tongue.  He would suck and rub till desire overtook him and he joined her on that bar.  He would kneel at her feet, pants open, hand held firmly around her ankle, pressing her foot against his exposed cock.  The sole of her foot would be smooth and hard like a stone in a river, but warm to the touch.  He would press her foot fast against his cock, moving it urgently up and down his shaft, the insistence of friction moving his hand at breakneck speed.  He would drink her in.  Her honest smile and regal breasts, the smooth curved hollow of her stomach and her impossibly long  graceful legs tapering gently to the perfect curve of her ankle.
    Her toes would be curled slightly, creating more contact with the head of his cock and he would beg her as he’s been wanting to for a year now
    “Please.”  He would choke out.  “Please let me come for you.”  
    Her smiled would widen and her lips would form the most perfect word she has ever said.
    “Yes.”  And his come would gush between her toes, sticky and satisfying.

    But he realizes that somewhere in there he would be crossing the line over into cheating.  So he adjusts himself behind the bar, sticks a dollar between her toes, and goes back to work.


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