I Surrendered at Her Feet on the Flight to Vienna

It had been a long time since I’d sat down to write, but this story deserves to be told. I have an obsession I learned to manage patiently, almost methodically: women’s feet. It’s not something I confess at dinner. It’s something I cultivate in silence, in waiting rooms, on train cars, in the back rows of cinemas. Wherever there’s a woman who loosens her shoes and stops thinking about them, that’s where I am, measuring distances.

That afternoon I had a flight from Madrid to Vienna and arrived at the terminal two hours early. Not because I was afraid of missing the plane. I got there early because the airport is my favorite hunting ground: tired people, open sandals, heels that hurt and sooner or later come off.

I saw her right away.

She was seated in one of the rows by the gate, a closed book on her knees and her phone holding all her attention. She looked to be in her early thirties. She was wearing emerald-green ballet flats that hung just a little off her heels, and she’d propped her feet on top of her carry-on like someone putting them on an ottoman. The lounge was packed: three flights were boarding almost at once and not a single seat was free for several rows around.

There wasn’t a seat beside her. But the floor, in front of her suitcase, was clear.

I went over unhurriedly, pretending to look for an outlet to charge my phone, and dropped to the floor a little more than half a meter from her feet. I took out my charger, plugged it in, put on the whole act. Make it seem casual. Make it seem like I don’t see her.

She noticed the movement. She drew her legs in a little, tilted the suitcase, and put her feet back up, this time setting the suitcase on its side so she could rest them higher. She didn’t look at me. But she didn’t leave either. In this game, staying put is the first answer.

The problem was the distance. With the readjustment, her feet were far away again. I waited. Patience, I’ve learned through trial and error, is the only thing that pays off: if you move too soon, you ruin everything. When a group of travelers rolled past with suitcases just in front of me, I took advantage of the commotion to scoot a few inches over, as if getting out of their way, and ended up close to her again.

She noticed. I’m sure she noticed. But she didn’t move her feet.

I left my knee brushing the edge of her suitcase, calculating the angle: if she lowered her foot, her ballet flat would touch me with the toe. That was exactly what I wanted. And then it happened. After a few minutes, she let her foot slide down slowly until the sole rested on my thigh. It wasn’t an accident. It was a question.

Don’t move. Don’t look at her. Let her decide how far this goes.

Five, six minutes without moving. Her foot rested on my leg with all its weight, the green ballet flat gleaming under the terminal’s cold lights. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her watching me, waiting for me to turn my head and meet her gaze. I didn’t give her that satisfaction. I discreetly took out my phone and snapped a couple of pictures of her foot on my thigh, which I immediately saved in a hidden folder, just in case the conversation later went bad. Under my pants, my cock was already pressing against the fabric, hard, insistent, making a bulge I had to cover with the charger so no one would see it. Just the warm weight of her foot on top of me had me on the verge of coming like a teenager.

I needed to change position; my back was stiffening, but any sudden movement could scare her off. I placed my hand on the floor, very close to the suitcase, and the motion made her lift her foot. I cursed myself inwardly. A second later I felt a soft step on the back of my hand: she had lowered her foot again, and when she realized where it had landed, she quickly pulled it back to the suitcase.

Then her phone rang.

She took it to her ear, distracted, and while she talked she put her foot back down, this time directly on my hand, stepping on it without any pretense. I took advantage of the fact that she was absorbed in the call to finally turn my head and look closely at what I’d been wanting to see for half an hour. The skin on the top of her foot was soft, neither pale nor brown, clean, moisturized, crossed by fine veins that showed just slightly. I imagined her toes inside the ballet flat, the smooth sole, the arch. I imagined licking them one by one, sucking them to the knuckle, and feeling the first drop of pre-cum leak into my briefs. I sat there dazed, my head in the clouds.

When I came to, she had crossed her legs and now had the other foot a hand’s width from my face. So close I could make out the warm smell of cream and, beneath it, a more intimate scent, of skin trapped inside, almost like pussy from some other kind of hiding place. Is this real, or am I making it up?

The loudspeaker snapped me out of the trance: they were announcing my flight’s boarding. It remained to be seen whether hers was too.

***

The call ended and she stood up. As she did, the foot that was still close gave my shoulder a little tap. She bent down, still with one ballet flat half on, and apologized for the bump. She said it in broken English, with an accent from somewhere in Eastern Europe. I waved it off, and as soon as she straightened and headed toward the line, I got up to follow close behind. If I could get a seat near hers, the afternoon might get interesting.

I wasn’t that lucky. A few passengers cut into the boarding process and I lost her in the line. Inside the plane, I saw her settle into a window seat several rows behind mine. I got another window seat, one row in front of hers, but on the opposite side of the aisle. I could only catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye. Disappointed, I took out my headphones, reclined my seat as far as it would go, and prepared to sleep the rest of the way.

We’d been in the air for a while when I turned my head toward the window to look at the clouds. And there, on my armrest, was her green ballet flat.

She had stretched her leg through the gap between the seats until it reached my row. I stared at it without daring to breathe. If this is what I think it is, this is going to be a long one. I waited. Ten long minutes. Until I felt a little nudge on my arm and the tip of her foot sought a resting place against my forearm.

I turned just enough to shield it from the eyes of the aisle with my body. I slid my hand beneath her foot, carefully, and she helped me by lifting it just enough, letting me fit my palm under the arch. That removed any doubt: she knew exactly what she was doing, and she wanted me to do it.

Now her foot was resting on my arm, a couple of centimeters from my face. It smelled of cream and of something else, of skin spent all afternoon inside green leather. I leaned in and gave the tip of the ballet flat a small kiss. Then another. I don’t know whether she saw it or only sensed it, but she didn’t pull her foot away. Her foot was on my turf, and we both knew it.

The next move took my breath away. She dragged her heel against my arm to slip off the shoe and let the ballet flat fall onto my seat, next to my leg. Her foot was bare, the pale skin shining in the cabin’s dim light. The five toes stretched out in front of me, one after the other, as if offering themselves for whatever I wanted to do with them.

For a moment I was afraid the game was over, that she’d reclaim the shoe and that would be the end of it. She didn’t. So I took the ballet flat with both hands, buried my nose in it, and filled my lungs with that smell: leather, warm sweat, a woman’s skin. My cock turned to stone at the first breath. I ran my tongue slowly along the inside, savoring the damp leather where her sole had been all afternoon. I licked the insole like I was licking a pussy, tasting the salty flavor left behind, and when I pulled it away there was a thread of saliva hanging from my lip. It was a stolen, silent intimacy, one no one aboard could have guessed.

I set the shoe down and focused on the foot. I lifted it carefully to mouth level and started kissing her toes one by one, holding every movement back so as not to draw the other passengers’ attention. I took her big toe entirely into my mouth and sucked it like the tip of a cock, working it with my tongue all around it, up to the knuckle. She flexed her foot sharply and stifled a gasp behind me, so softly only I heard it. I moved on to the second, the third, taking them in two at a time, sucking the four smaller toes together, letting saliva run over the top of her foot. The position was horribly uncomfortable, my neck twisted, my back against the armrest, but I wouldn’t have traded that corner of the plane for anything. Every time I nipped the fingertip gently, I felt a small tremor run through her foot, a tiny response that confirmed she was as deep into this as I was. And my cock was dripping inside my pants, marking a wet ring on the fabric.

I ran my tongue over the arch, over the heel, then back to the toes. She flexed her foot against my mouth, setting the rhythm, wordlessly telling me where to stop and where to keep going. When I licked the whole arch from heel to toes in one long stroke, I heard her bite her lip to keep from moaning. I opened my mouth wide and fucked my face with her foot, letting it thrust slowly against my tongue, in and out between my lips as if she were stuffing a small cock into my mouth. I brought one hand down to my fly without taking off my pants and squeezed my cock through the fabric, pressing it against my stomach so I wouldn’t come right there and then. She was the one in charge from her seat, invisible, and I was the one obeying with my face hidden, sucking her toes like a dog. I had never felt so dominated by someone whose face I had barely even seen.

With my tongue between two toes, I took out my phone with my free hand and quickly snapped a photo: her bare foot entering my mouth, the green ballet flat tossed on the seat, and my shirt sleeve in the background. I saved it where no one would ever find it. Then I caught her foot with both hands, turned it so the sole was against my mouth, and licked from heel to toes, very slowly, very close, feeling each groove of the skin against my tongue. She pushed the sole into my face, flattening my nose, and I opened my mouth as wide as I could to lick every inch of it. I took all five toes in at once, crammed together, and sucked them all at the same time, choking a little, eyes closed and cock on the verge of bursting through my pants.

And then, all at once, she pulled her foot away.

I froze, a thread of saliva hanging from my chin and my cock throbbing in my briefs, soaked through. I looked up and saw the flight attendant standing in the aisle, eyebrow arched, pushing the drinks cart. She said nothing. Nor was it necessary. I adjusted my seatback, pretended to look for something in the seat pocket, and let her pass. I could feel the dampness of my own spit on my lip and the dark stain in my fly, and I didn’t even dare move.

The game was over.

***

But the adventure wasn’t.

There was still an hour and a half left before landing, and I was too worked up to sleep. My cock was hard, pinned against my belt, and my hands still smelled of her feet, of leather, of dried saliva. I spent the rest of the flight turning over one single idea: how to approach her when we landed, what to say, how to keep the game going on solid ground, how to finish what she’d started, with her cunt now, with her mouth, with her ass, with whatever she wanted to give me. The green ballet flat had somehow found its way back onto her foot, and she was looking out the window as if none of what had come before had happened.

When the plane touched down and the lights came on, I looked for her through the bustle of people retrieving their luggage. She stood up, took her suitcase from the overhead bin, and, before moving toward the exit, turned her head just enough to catch my eyes. For the first time all afternoon, we looked straight at each other, without sidelong glances or pretense. And she smiled, slowly, with her tongue peeking between her teeth, as if she knew exactly the state she’d left me in.

It wasn’t a goodbye smile. It was an invitation. The flight was only the beginning.