I Got on My Knees Before a Stranger at the Airport

The flight landed after one in the morning. I hadn’t asked anyone to come pick me up at that hour, so I booked private transport for four and resigned myself to spending the dead three hours in the international terminal, almost empty, with the hum of the fluorescent lights as my only company.

The waiting area was a desert of metal seats and dim signs. Only four or five passengers were left, scattered around, each in their own bubble of exhaustion. And her.

I saw her as soon as I sat down. A gorgeous Latina woman, with features I guessed were Colombian from the accent I would later hear. She had something goddess-like about her: dark hair pulled back without effort, full lips, a way of crossing her legs that took up space as if the entire terminal belonged to her.

But what made me lose my mind were the boots.

She was wearing winter boots with thick soles and a little heel, nothing sexy at first glance, practical for the pre-dawn cold. And yet I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Imagining what was inside, the feet trapped in those socks after hours of travel, turned me on in a way I struggled to hide. My cock got hard just from looking at them, pressing against the seam of my jeans.

I have to explain it, even if it embarrasses me a little. One of my strongest fetishes is having a woman step on me while still wearing her shoes, or letting a woman rest her feet on my lap while I serve her. The more ordinary the situation, the harder I get. And that empty room, at that impossible hour, was the perfect setting for a fantasy I almost never dare confess.

I sat right across from her, a few meters away, and I couldn’t look anywhere else.

Our eyes met once. Then again. The third time, she frowned and shifted in her seat, uncomfortable. I understood I was making her nervous and lowered my gaze.

But I didn’t lower it just anywhere. I lowered it to her boots.

Knowing sooner or later she’d catch me again, I discreetly took out my phone and snapped a couple of photos of the boots, pretending I was typing a message. My heart was pounding as if I were stealing something.

—Why do you keep staring at my feet? —she said suddenly, without beating around the bush, in that singing accent that melted me.

I went blank. The only thing I could think to stammer was a clumsy excuse.

—It’s very cold tonight —I said, as if that explained anything.

She studied me for a second and, to my surprise, nodded.

—My feet and hands are freezing —she replied, hugging herself.

And there, without meaning to, she had opened the exact door I didn’t dare knock on.

—If you want —I blurted before thinking— I can give you a foot massage. To warm you up.

She looked at me with a mix of disbelief and amusement.

—How? Where? Here? —she asked, raising her eyebrows.

—There’s almost no one here —I insisted, nodding toward a corner in the back, beside some columns, far from the few people left—. We can move over there and be more sheltered.

She didn’t answer right away. She took her phone out of her bag and started typing. Impatience gnawed at me: I thought my proposal had offended her, that she was calling security, that I had ruined everything. But after a couple of minutes she looked up and pinned me with a different gaze. Darker. More calculating.

—Are you a foot fetishist? —she asked directly—. One of those who die to kiss feet and lick soles? One of those who come in a woman’s socks if she lets them?

I swallowed. My cock jerked inside my pants hearing her say “come” in that voice.

—It’s not that extreme —I half-lied—. I’d like to feel useful. Hold your feet with the boots on, take them off afterward, massage them, kiss them. Right here.

—And in private? —she asked, tilting her head.

—In private, whatever you want —I said, my mouth dry—. I hardly refuse anything.

Something changed in her face. A slow, self-assured smile.

—Come —she ordered, patting the seat beside her—. Sit closer.

***

I sat next to her in the corner she had chosen, almost hidden behind a column and a row of luggage carts. Without asking permission, she lifted her legs and rested the boots on my jeans, dragging the soles across the fabric of my pants and then across my T-shirt, as if she were cleaning them on me.

The gesture took my breath away. What she had in mind wasn’t a massage. It was something else. Her right sole stopped right over my bulge, pressed, and I felt the heel mark my cock through my jeans. A low moan slipped out of me.

—Want to continue? —she asked in a low, husky tone that seemed reserved for me alone.

—Yes —I replied, and heard myself add something I never say out loud—. Yes, my goddess.

She liked the word. I saw it in the way her eyes lit up.

I took my hands to the zipper of the first boot, ready to remove it so I could finally reach the feet I’d been imagining for half an hour. But the moment I touched it, she yanked her leg back sharply and pushed my chest with the sole.

—Who the fuck gave you permission? —she said, amused and firm at once—. You’ve been eating my boots with your eyes for a while now. First you kiss them. Then we’ll see.

I froze. Fantasizing was one thing; doing it there, in a terminal, with the chance that someone could turn the corner at any moment, was something else entirely. I didn’t know if I’d be able to.

But I didn’t stop.

I leaned in slowly and kissed the toe of the boot. Just a brush of lips over cold leather. She sighed, satisfied, and I felt shame turn, second by second, into an arousal I had never felt before. My cock throbbed hard against my fly, soaking my underwear with a trickle of precum that was starting to show through the fabric.

—Again —she murmured—. Slowly. With tongue.

I kissed it again, this time letting the tip of my tongue out and leaving a shiny trail on the leather. And again. The toe, the instep, the side. Every kiss was a small surrender. I licked the shaft of the boot from top to bottom, tasting leather and cold in my mouth, and I heard her breathing deeper above me.

Then she lifted her leg and turned the boot to show me the sole.

—If you want to touch my feet —she said—, this first. The whole sole. And I want to see your tongue flat.

I hesitated. Licking a sole is another matter. A completely different matter. I thought of a time years ago when I’d kissed another woman’s heels, but that had been a private, comfortable couple’s game. This was a stranger in an airport giving me orders.

And still I bent down and kissed her sole. Then I stuck out my tongue, pressed it flat against the dirty rubber, and dragged it slowly from heel to toe, feeling every groove in the tread scrape my taste buds. I swallowed saliva mixed with terminal floor dust and licked again.

—And the other one —she said, raising her second foot—. Just as well, or I won’t let you touch me.

I kissed the second one too. I licked it from end to end, long and slow, while she watched me from above with a slow owner’s smile. The taste of leather and floor dust should have disgusted me. It didn’t. I had her at my mercy and we both knew it. My cock was harder than it had been in years, all because of a pair of soles.

—Much better —she said, finally relaxing—. Now yes.

She let me take off her boots. I pulled at the zippers carefully, almost reverently, and slid one foot out and then the other, still wrapped in thick wool socks. As soon as her feet were bare from the boots, she rested the sole on my groin and pressed.

I let out a muffled groan. I was rock hard, my cock outlined under my jeans, and she noticed instantly. She flattened me under the arch of her foot and started moving her heel up and down, dragging the rough wool against my pants, against the tip of my cock, against my balls.

—Wow —she said with a smile—. You really like it. You’re rock hard. You’re going to show a stain on your jeans if you keep this up.

She kept her foot there, pressing slowly while she watched me enjoy it, wiggling her toes over the fabric as if she were kneading my cock through the sock and all. Then she brought the other one closer to my face.

—I think after so many hours on a plane my socks must smell amazing —she said—. Breathe in. Deep. Mouth open. I want to see you.

So I did. I brought my nose to the wool and inhaled deeply, lips parted. The warm, intimate smell, mixed with a trace of her perfume, left me completely numb, unable to do anything but obey and enjoy it. She pressed the sock against my mouth and made me lick over the wool, feeling the fabric dampen against my tongue.

—Good boy —she whispered—. Now take it off. With your teeth.

I caught the edge of the sock with my teeth and pulled back, very slowly, until the foot was bare. She brought it to my face herself so I could smell it again, this time the naked skin, and without warning she slipped her big toe between my lips.

—Suck —she ordered—. Like it’s something else.

I closed my mouth around her toe and started sucking it slowly, pulling it in and out, running my tongue over the pad and between the toes. She watched me with her mouth slightly open, and at some point she pushed three toes in at once and moved them around inside my mouth until I nearly choked and drooled all over her foot.

—That’s it. That’s how you suck —she said softly—. Like a cock.

With her other hand, she grabbed my coat, which was resting on the backrest, and threw it over our legs to cover what we were doing.

We were hidden beneath the fabric. I had the sole of a boot pressed against my cheek —I don’t remember when she got it back on— and the other foot, now bare, rubbing and crushing my cock over my pants with a slowness that drove me insane. I could feel her toes searching for the tip, squeezing it, roaming over my length.

—Kiss —she ordered, pressing the sole against my face—. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Kiss it and then lick it. You were probably imagining this while you looked at my boots, with your cock as hard as it is now, about to soak yourself while you licked the mud off the floor.

And she was half right. What I’d imagined was kissing her feet, holding them, licking them. The soles hadn’t been in my head until she put them there. But it no longer mattered what I had imagined. What mattered was what she decided.

I licked. My tongue flat, long, all of it. Top to bottom. Side to side. And while I licked, she squeezed my cock with the bare sole of her other foot, a rhythmic push that threatened to make me come in my jeans like a teenager.

—Careful, baby —she whispered, noticing the tremble—. Don’t come yet. You haven’t done half the work.

***

I don’t know how much time passed. The terminal stayed silent except for the occasional distant announcement in a language I didn’t understand and the hum of a coffee machine in the back. Under my coat, the world had been reduced to her feet, her voice, and my own ragged breathing. My cock was leaking inside my briefs, soaking the fabric.

—Are you this obedient in everything? —she asked after a while, after taking off my other boot and trapping my nose between the fingers of her bare foot, squeezing until I could barely breathe.

—Pretty much —I admitted against her skin, without a shred of pride and without missing it.

My answer seemed to be exactly what she expected.

She took one of my hands —I still didn’t dare move it without permission— and guided it slowly, under the coat, toward the inside of her thighs. She stopped it right there, in the heat between her legs, and pressed my fingers against the fabric of her jeans. The shape of her lips was visible through the pants, and a warm dampness was soaking the seam.

—And this? —she asked, looking into my eyes with a calm that made me tremble—. Do you want this too? To put your tongue in my pussy until I come in your mouth? After you finish the feast of feet and socks, of course.

I couldn’t answer. I only nodded, with the sole still on my cheek and her foot setting the rhythm on my cock, while I thought there were still two hours left before my transport and that never, in my life, had I wanted a flight to be delayed so badly.

To be continued.