Lula Lisbon's Diaries of a Dirty Dancer: 2: Foot Fetish Lapdance
Three years as an exotic dancer left author Lula Lisbon with a head full of steamy stories! In this semi-autobiographical entry of Dirty Diaries, Lula has a shy customer named Jay who’s always dreamt of worshipping a dominant woman’s feet, but previous girlfriends had only been disgusted by his fetish. He’s never had the chance to live his fantasy, until Lula takes full advantage of the situation. More
Three years as an exotic dancer left author Lula Lisbon with a head full of steamy stories! In this semi-autobiographical entry of Dirty Diaries, Lula has a shy customer named Jay who’s always dreamt of worshipping a dominant woman’s feet, but previous girlfriends had only been disgusted by his fetish. He’s never had the chance to live his fantasy, until Lula takes full advantage of the situation.
“Hmm?” I demanded, pinching the point of his chin to bring his attention back to me. I couldn’t make out the whispered answer. “I can’t hear you!”
“I want to kiss your feet,” he repeated. The blush was deeper on his cheeks, his whole body a disclaimer of his abject humiliation. I smiled, a shark circling its prey.
“I want to kiss them… lick them… suck your beautiful toes, feel them on my face, my chest, my—” he stopped himself.
“Your h@rdon?” I provided helpfully. He plucked at his sleeve once more, saying nothing. His discomfort, strangely enough, both melted me and turned me on. I wanted to change that about him, to make him revel in his desire instead of fear it.
“Get on your knees,” I ordered. “Unstrap my heels and place them neatly to the side. If you’re good, you might just get what you want so badly.”
His eyes jumped to mine, wondering, questioning. He read only cool intent in my face, none of the disdain he seemed to expect; and with that, he visibly relaxed. He dropped into a kneel, bending his head over my ankles as he reverently undid the tiny buckles and slid each elegant size 7 off — first one, then the other, leaving me in just my sheer black stockings. He rubbed one crimson-polished toenail through the fine nylon with his thumb, hips jerking almost imperceptibly, but I was watching for it.
The perspiration had evaporated from my skin by this point, but my stockings were still damp. I wanted to see how far I could take the scene, and I was determined to test his limits. When he started to massage my foot, though, I was surprised at how good it felt, especially at the end of a long shift. Momentarily distracted, I moaned a little, sinking deeper into the couch. He squirmed, glancing up at my face, and his fingers paused in their movements.
“Don’t stop, it feels amazing.” Jay smiled a little, resuming the massage and tracing the high arch of my foot with the balls of his thumbs, then with his knuckles. As he worked, I ran my other stockinged foot along his arm, down his side, and across his lap.
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