My Barefoot Sister-in-Law Teases Me Every Time We’re Alone

My wife’s sister knew almost from day one what kind of man I am. She didn’t need me to tell her in words: it was enough to see the way my eyes dropped to her feet every time she slipped her shoes off. Carla is petite, slim, very fair-skinned, with blond hair and green eyes. She wears a size thirty-five, just like her sister, and she has the habit of kicking off her sandals as soon as she sits down, as if the floor were hers and no one were watching.

I was watching. Always watching.

Back when I was still my wife’s boyfriend and spent afternoons at my in-laws’ house, Carla would wander around in flip-flops or open sandals that left every toe, every curve of the instep, every inch of those soles that seemed like velvet, exposed. She’d sit in front of me, cross her legs, and let one sandal dangle from the tip of her foot while she talked about anything and everything. To her it was an innocent gesture. To me it was a provocation I could barely hide.

One day, when we happened to be alone in the kitchen, I couldn’t take it anymore and told her.

—Your feet should be illegal —I blurted out, staring at them shamelessly—. They’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

She froze for a second, surprised, and then burst out laughing.

—So that was it —she said, glancing down at the bulge I wasn’t even trying to hide—. I should be more careful with you around. I don’t want my sister blaming me for your sins.

But she wasn’t careful. Quite the opposite.

***

From that afternoon on, every time we were alone the same ritual repeated itself. I’d take one of her feet, slip off her sandal if she was still wearing it, and massage it slowly while she watched me with a half-smile. She never stopped me. At first she just let my hands roam over her instep and heel, but over time I began kissing her toes, one by one, and running my tongue along the entire sole, lingering over that impossibly soft skin.

—I don’t do anything special, you know —she told me once, amused, while I was kissing her arch—. I’ve always had them like this.

She said it as if it were nothing, but her eyes were shining. She knew exactly what she was doing. When she noticed I was starting to breathe differently, when I could no longer think about anything else, she pulled her foot away and stood up.

—Don’t even think about finishing here —she said, laughing—. You have to save that for my sister’s feet.

And she’d leave me there, burning, while she put her shoes back on as if nothing had happened. Once she confessed to me, almost sadly, that her husband had no idea what he had in his hands. That he had never touched her feet, that it didn’t even occur to him. What a waste, I thought. And I told her so with my eyes.

***

A few weeks ago they invited us to dinner at their house. My wife and I arrived on time, and the first thing I saw when I walked in were Carla’s sandals: a single thin strap between the first two toes, nothing holding the heel, with a high heel that forced the foot into that arch that drives me crazy. She moved through the living room swinging them, letting them slip halfway off her heel, and every time she did she’d catch my eye to make sure I was still hooked.

After dinner we sat on the sofa and talked. Her husband on one side, my wife on the other, and her across from us, a glass in her hand. At one point she took off her sandals, put her feet up on the edge of the sofa, and started rubbing her husband’s leg with them, absentmindedly, while she looked at me out of the corner of her eye. He didn’t even flinch. To him it was just some affectionate gesture. I, on the other hand, felt like my heart was about to burst out of my chest.

—I’m going to the bathroom for a minute —I said, standing up as discreetly as I could.

—I’ll come with you; this house is a maze —she replied at once, barefoot, before her husband could offer.

She walked ahead of me down the hall, knowing I was watching the soles of her feet with every step. When we reached the bathroom door, she turned around.

—Let’s see you don’t leave the floor a mess —she murmured, holding back laughter.

I was about to go back to the living room when I grabbed her arm, bent down, and lifted one of her feet to my mouth. I sucked her toes hungrily, ran my tongue over the whole sole, completely lost. She let me for only a few seconds before pulling it away.

—Have you lost your mind? —she whispered, glancing down the hall—. My sister and my husband are ten meters away. If they hear us…

—Carla, I swear right now the only thing I want is to finish on your feet —I told her, barely recognizing my own voice.

She looked stunned, shook her head, and went back to the living room as if nothing had happened. I locked myself in the bathroom for a long while, trying to calm the impossible. For the rest of the night she didn’t take her sandals off once. She had learned her lesson, or maybe she just wanted to leave me half-starved so I’d keep thinking about her.

***

On the way home, my wife surprised me.

—You spent the whole night staring at Carla’s feet —she said, with an uncomfortable grimace—. And she knows it. That whole little act of taking off her sandals was to tease you, wasn’t it? You were lucky my brother-in-law didn’t notice anything. But be careful.

—It was nothing —I lied—. I didn’t do anything. It’s just that… your sister has pretty feet. Like yours —I added, trying to smooth it over.

She looked at me sideways with a crooked smile.

—Yeah, sure. Don’t change the subject. Tonight you’re going to show me all that devotion, and you’d better not be thinking about my sister’s feet while you’re with mine.

I kissed her and promised I’d only think about her. That night I kept my promise. Or almost.

***

But what really changed things happened a few days later. We were all at my in-laws’ house and, in the middle of the afternoon, a plan came up to go shopping at a mall. The others, including Carla’s husband, had left early for a tennis tournament. She said she preferred to stay and watch a movie she’d started. I, using the excuse of a computer job I couldn’t leave half-finished, said I wouldn’t go either.

As soon as the car disappeared down the street and the house fell silent, I waited about ten minutes just to be safe. Then I went into the living room.

Carla was on the sofa, legs stretched out and her feet wrapped in a pair of high, cutout heels that left the base of her toes showing. I didn’t say a word. I knelt in front of her and started taking off her shoes.

—Careful, someone might come back —she said, without moving, without pulling her foot away.

—No one’s coming back for hours —I replied, and kissed her instep.

I caressed her feet slowly, kissed them, licked them all over, sucked each toe calmly because for once we had all the time in the world. When I couldn’t hold back anymore, I pulled out my hard cock and started rubbing it against her soles. She watched me with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity, but not once did she try to stop me.

—Are you really crazy? —she asked quietly.

—Crazy as hell —I admitted—. I want you to massage me with your feet until I finish on them. I was left wanting the other night at your house.

She tilted her head, thinking, and began moving her feet. First her toes, sliding them up and down my cock with a delicacy that stole my breath. Then her soles, those soft, warm soles I’d been imagining against my skin for years.

—Do you do this with my sister’s feet? —she asked, never stopping—. Does she like it? Does she turn you on the way I turn you on?

—Always —I confessed between gasps—. And she loves it.

Something in my answer ignited her. She pressed her feet against me harder, set a firm rhythm with her toes, and when she felt I was about to explode, she didn’t ease up. I came over her instep and her toes, trembling all through, while she watched me biting her lip and smiling.

I cleaned her feet myself, carefully, almost devoutly.

—Did you like it? —I asked.

—More than I should have —she admitted, still breathing hard—. My husband has never touched my feet. It doesn’t even cross his mind.

—You’ve got a husband who doesn’t know how lucky he is —I said—. Marrying the owner of feet like that and not taking advantage of them. What a waste, sister-in-law.

She laughed and stretched out on the sofa like a cat.

—Well —she said, looking at me through narrowed eyes—, from now on that problem is solved. I’m counting on you to appreciate them the way they deserve.

—Whenever you want —I replied—. That’s what you have me for.

I went back to my computer before the others returned, with my heart still racing and the certainty that what had happened wasn’t an ending, but a beginning. And while I listened in the background to the movie she was still pretending to watch, I thought about how strange desire is: how women find ways to tease us in the most impossible situations, and how, over and over again, we’re willing to lose everything for just one more caress.