I knelt before the shoe store customer

Selling shoes is not a job that stirs passions. Boots in winter, sandals in summer, the occasional insole and a bit of polish that I manage to put on before the customer gets to the register. That’s what my boss, Don Heriberto, expects of me every month: move merchandise and keep the shop spotless. I take care of the rest.

That July afternoon the heat was crushing the street and no one had come in for hours. I had the store ordered down to the last pair, the mirrors spotless, and the fitting stools lined up. I stood with my arms crossed behind the counter, bored to death, watching the fan stir the hot air without cooling anything.

Usually I’m too busy to pay attention to who comes in. I stack boxes, take payments, restock the window display, and hardly look up when someone asks for a size. But that afternoon time had stopped and I had nothing better to do than look.

And then she appeared.

She pushed the door open with her shoulder and let in a rush of heat before the air conditioner won out again. She was wearing a thin strappy top that hinted at a generous chest, a short skirt that showed off firm thighs, and flat sandals that framed two well-cared-for feet, their nails painted a deep red. I straightened up without even realizing it.

I have to confess something I don’t tell just anyone: I like feet. A lot. I’ve always been drawn to beautiful bodies, yes, but there’s something about a well-cared-for foot that undoes me. And since there was no one else in the shop, I decided that customer deserved very personalized attention.

She made a slow turn, running her gaze over the shelves. She stopped in the party section, where I keep the high heels and thin-strap sandals. She chose two pairs and sat down in one of the low armchairs at the back, away from the window display, half hidden behind a shelf.

—Could you bring me these in a size 38? —she said, and there was a calmness in her voice that did not match the way she looked at me.

—Right away —I answered, and went to fetch them almost at a run.

I came back with the boxes and knelt in front of her, as I always do, only this time I took my time. I let the boat neckline of my top slip a little as I leaned down, just enough for her to get a good view of my breasts, which that afternoon I had decided to wear without a bra. It was no accident.

I took off one of the sandals and held her bare foot in my hands. I lifted my gaze to her face and our eyes met. Only for a second, but there was a knowing smile in her blue eyes that said everything. Her skin was soft, her nails neatly filed, the arch of her foot delicate. It was exactly the kind of foot I dream about.

—I’ll try the strappy sandal first —I said, just to say something.

Before putting it on her, I massaged her heel for a moment. I parted her legs a little and she offered no resistance. Where her thighs met, I could see the wet shadow of her arousal marking the pale fabric of her underwear. And she, from above, could see perfectly well what her shape was doing to my hard nipples beneath my top.

—They’d look beautiful with a party dress —I murmured.

—They’re for a wedding. They have to match the dress —she replied, never taking her eyes off my hands.

My fingers moved up her ankle and calf, stroking skin as smooth as I had imagined. She liked the massage; she didn’t complain, didn’t pull her leg away, didn’t take her foot out of my hands. She only leaned a little farther forward, trying to see more of me, as much as my light clothes would allow.

But she didn’t touch me. It was my hands that explored her foot, sliding between her toes, stroking the sole and the arch. She waited. She let me decide how far to go, and that, far from stopping me, turned me on even more.

Silence gives consent. Since my caresses were still being well received and we were completely alone, I dared to go further. I brought her foot to my mouth. I sucked each toe one by one, slid my tongue between them, traced the sole with my lips, and wet it with my saliva. Her foot tasted like summer, like clean skin, and like something else I can’t name.

Her smile widened when the tickling almost made her laugh. But she was enjoying it: the gasps slipping from her throat confirmed it. I rested her wet foot between my breasts, over the bare skin of my cleavage, and with it I lowered the fabric until I exposed myself completely. At the same time I moved my tongue up her calf, up the inside of her thigh, getting closer to where both of us wanted me to get.

She lifted her hips a little off the armchair, just enough for me to hook the edge of her underwear with one finger. I had no patience to slide it all the way to the floor. I yanked it away and dropped it into one of the empty boxes, out of the way.

I pulled her legs until her ass was at the edge of the armchair and put her knees over my shoulders. I brought my face to her sex and kissed it with all the desire I had been building since I saw her come through the door.

When my tongue ran over her folds, a shiver went through her body and a short, muffled moan escaped her. She spread her legs wider, giving me full access. Without using my hands, only my tongue, I found her clit and circled it slowly, then faster, until I felt her trembling against my mouth. Her wetness was running down my chin while she rolled her skirt up to her waist and pressed my ears between her thighs with every jolt.

Suddenly she stretched out one leg and I felt her fingers on my belly. They slid down over my navel, farther still, until they brushed the minimal fabric that covered me. Luckily I was wearing a short skirt too. Barely a scrap of fabric separated her fingers from my own sex, shaved and already soaked.

We had only exchanged a couple of sentences about heels and I already had my face between her legs, and she was searching for mine with her foot. Things had gotten away from us, and at any moment someone could walk in and find us. The thought of being caught, far from frightening us, only made us hotter. The two of us, apparently, had a little exhibitionist streak in addition to our devotion to feet.

I moved my skirt aside to let her through. She was skilled: with a gentle movement of her big toe she pushed the fabric to one side and I immediately felt her foot stroking my lips, searching for my clit. She found it right away. I started moaning against her sex, no longer able to hold back my gasps, while I kept licking her.

—Come for me —I said, almost out of breath.

—Almost, almost… don’t stop —she answered.

But she had already come, more than once, as I could feel. Now she only wanted to take care of me. My first orgasm came with a ease that scared me. Her foot on my sex was driving me crazy, and I had to rest my forehead against her thigh so I wouldn’t lose my balance.

—Now I want to see yours —she said, pulling her foot away—. Stand up.

—Mine aren’t as pretty as yours —I played modest, though the truth is I’m proud of my feet. I take care of them, I always wear my nails painted, and if no one else will stroke them, I stroke them myself.

***

I straightened up and took the chance to get rid of my underwear, which by then was nothing but a wet rag between my thighs. I took off one sandal and, when she patted her knee, I rested my right foot on it. Her hands immediately went to it, stroking it slowly, with a delicacy that raised goosebumps on my skin. I still had my breasts out and I kneaded them to give myself even more pleasure.

—It’s beautiful —she murmured, running her fingers between my toes the same way I had done with her before. She stroked the arch, tickled the sole, moved up my ankle and calf.

—Will you let me eat it? —she asked.

—I’ve been dying for that —I said.

I sat down beside her so we’d be more comfortable and I could bring my foot closer to her face. It was enough to feel her tongue tracing the sole for my breath to catch. When she sucked my toes I thought I was melting, and when she slipped her tongue between them I came again, soaking the armchair on which perfect strangers try on shoes every day. And she hadn’t even touched my sex.

I slumped into the armchair, panting, trying to catch the air I was missing. My breasts were bare, one foot was naked with the sandal thrown on the floor, and the other rested on the backrest. My legs were completely open, the skirt rolled up to my waist, exposed entirely to her eyes and her tongue.

She leaned over me, ready to keep going. I thought I was spent, but I still hadn’t felt her mouth where I needed it most. When she finally did, I discovered I had no idea how much pleasure a body could take. I strung one orgasm onto another, and when she lifted my legs and her tongue reached the most hidden place, I completely lost my mind.

It was madness, and the excitement made me stop caring about anything else. We were in a corner away from the window display, hidden by a shelf, but it was perfectly possible that someone could see us from the entrance. If that happened, I suppose the show pleased them, because no one said a word and no one interrupted us.

Afterward, while we put our clothes back together with low laughter, she told me her name was Marisol and that she lived three blocks from the store. She bought both sandals without haggling over the price.

I’ve seen her several times since then. I had never been especially attracted to women, but it isn’t easy to find someone who shares your exact fetish. Much less someone capable of giving and receiving pleasure like she does. Don Heriberto is delighted with my summer sales. He has no idea why.