The Day I Finally Tasted My Co-worker’s Feet

This happened in 2013, when I was fully immersed in an English course. I had a decent level, so I took the placement exam before starting; they put me in intermediate, but I preferred to begin from the beginning to solidify the basics and, as a bonus, not rush myself.

The first day was quiet. I met my classmates, all of us following that tacit rule of speaking only in English; if anyone switched to Spanish, we pretended not to understand a thing so we’d force ourselves to practice. There were only nine of us in a room meant for twenty.

Classes were twice a week, two hours each. During the first week, one student was absent, a girl whose existence I didn’t even suspect. She only showed up in the second week, and everything changed without my knowing it yet.

I always arrived early, half an hour before class. That morning I greeted the receptionist, sat at one of the tables in the lobby, and opened my notebook. Class started at nine and it was only eight-thirty, so I went to the machine, got myself a coffee, and went back to reviewing.

Then I saw her walk through the main door. Short, just over five foot three, straight dark hair, brown skin. She was wearing open sandals and, without meaning to, the first thing I looked at was her feet. Curiosity prickled through me at once.

She went to reception and then came straight over to my table. She said good morning and I answered in kind. She sat down, asked me which group I was in, and it turned out we were in the same class.

—I’m Mariana —she said, offering me her hand.

We talked for ten minutes, no more, because the schedule was announced almost immediately. I told her what little we’d covered the previous week and we went into the classroom. Those feet had already burned themselves into my mind.

I wish everything had been quick, but it wasn’t. I learned that patience is everything. I couldn’t let myself look eager: I needed to win her over, build a friendship solid enough to get a moment alone. So I set about doing exactly that, methodically.

It took me almost three months. It wasn’t easy: Mariana was reserved, hard to open up, and more than once I was on the verge of giving up. My intention was never a serious relationship; the only thing I wanted was to get closer to those feet, and for that I had to become her best friend. I did it, though it cost me.

During those months I learned how to read her. I knew when she crossed her legs under the desk, when she slipped one sneaker off halfway because of the heat and left her heel bare, when she rested one bare foot on the instep of the other while taking notes. Each one of those gestures was a little torture that I masked by looking down at my notebook. The friendship advanced; so did my obsession.

When I finally felt the trust was there, she surprised me herself. One day, in the middle of class, she leaned over and whispered to me —in English, of course, though I’m translating it so it can be understood.

—Can you come to my house today?

I froze; I hadn’t expected it. Of course I said yes. Even so, when the loaf of bread is big, even the saint gets suspicious, so I asked what for, but in a tone that meant, “Do you need help with something?” without sounding like anything else.

—It’s about class —she said—. I’m having a hard time; I didn’t imagine it would be this difficult.

We agreed on that, and when class ended we went to her house together.

***

We took the bus and talked the whole way. When we arrived, I met her mother and younger brother; I greeted them and we stayed in the living room while the woman finished preparing lunch. For a second I ruled out any possibility: we were never going to be alone.

The four of us ate. After lunch, her mother announced that she was going out with the boy and would be back later. The hope I had buried suddenly came back to life.

As soon as the door closed, Mariana took out the books and we started studying. Half an hour reviewing verbs, and she was still wearing her sneakers. I could think of nothing but how to get her to take them off.

I decided to go straight at it, but with an innocent excuse. I asked if she was tired, if she wanted me to give her a foot massage.

—I am tired, yes —she said—, but no, my feet must smell bad.

Just that one sentence made everything hard and sent my heart racing. I pressed cautiously, without giving myself away, and even so she said no.

I changed tactics. I offered to do all her English homework in exchange for letting me massage her feet. She hesitated for a long while.

—All right, since you’re so insistent, I’ll let you —she gave in—. But I’m warning you: they smell.

—No problem —I answered, pretending to be indifferent.

She went to take off her sneakers and I stopped her.

—Leave it, I’ll do it. Put your feet on my legs.

We were on the sofa. I placed a cushion on my lap, supposedly so she could rest her feet on it, really to hide the erection that was already too tight in my pants. She lifted both feet and I started undoing the laces on one sneaker, slowly, without any hurry. I wanted to stretch every second out.

I took one sneaker off and, joking, asked her if they really smelled. I brought my nose close to the foot covered by the sock and inhaled. Yes, it smelled, and that drove me crazy. I smelled it again. She looked at me strangely, with a crooked half-smile.

—Is it good? —she asked, half amused and half wary.

It was, oh yes it was, but I didn’t answer. I kept going with the other sneaker, just as slowly. Then I pulled down one sock and revealed the brown foot: toenails painted in a neutral shade, soft sole, heel just barely marked. Exactly how I like them. I was in heaven and she had no idea.

I took off the other sock and started the massage. I finally did it, I thought, pressing my fingers into her soles.

About fifteen minutes passed. I was dying to go further, so I took a risk.

—Mariana, you have gorgeous feet, did you know that?

—Really? I don’t think so… —she said, incredulous.

—Of course you do. Gorgeous.

—Thanks —she murmured, lowering her gaze.

My heart was pounding in my chest and my erection was straining against the fabric. I was blinded by desire. I had to ask for it.

—Would you let me kiss them?

—Huh? Why? They’re sweaty…

—I don’t care, really.

—Better not…

—It doesn’t cost anything —I insisted.

She didn’t pull her feet away. She only shook her head, with that awkward smile that was already beginning to soften.

I went for it anyway. I started with her toes, then the sole, lifting her foot to kiss the side. She watched me, not knowing what to say.

—What are you doing? Do you like feet? —she asked at last.

I didn’t answer with words. I turned so I had her soles in front of me, buried my face in them, and breathed deeply, running my nose over every inch. Mariana looked at me with embarrassment, but she didn’t look away or move her feet.

I started licking from heel to toes, three, four times. When I looked up, her expression had changed: there was no surprise left, there was something darker and more curious.

I moved on to her toes. I put my thumb in my mouth and sucked on it like candy. Then I heard a soft moan, almost a sigh. I didn’t stop. One toe at a time until I had all five in my mouth.

Another moan, even softer. I looked at her: her head was resting on the sofa arm, her lips caught between her teeth and her eyes closed. That was when I knew I could stay like that for hours.

I didn’t stop. I sucked each toe, licked her soles and the sides, bit her heel. That salty taste seemed marvelous to me.

I pulled out the cushion, freed myself from my pants, and started masturbating while I kept her foot in my mouth. The sensation was brutal, an arousal I didn’t remember ever feeling before.

I took her other foot and ran it over myself. Mariana opened her eyes, looked at me, and without saying a word, let me know she was going to take over.

What came next was incredible. With both feet she started rubbing me from top to bottom with a kind of ease that didn’t seem beginner-level at all. The contrast of her warm, soft soles against my skin, the exact pressure of her toes, the way she crossed one foot over the other to wrap around me completely… there was no way I could hold out much longer.

Within minutes I felt myself right on the edge and warned her. Far from stopping, she started teasing me.

—That’s it… enjoy it, enjoy it on my little feet, come on, just like that…

I came. I came harder than I had in months, emptying myself completely, breathing raggedly and staring at her feet.

***

After a few minutes I went to the bathroom to clean up. When I came back, she was still on the sofa, her legs tucked up and a new smile on her face.

—I’d never seen anything like that —she said—. I never imagined getting your feet sucked could feel that good.

—I loved doing it —I replied—. And I’m glad you enjoyed it. We can repeat it whenever you want.

—Of course I want to —she answered, biting her lip—. But next time I want something more.

She didn’t need to explain what. I understood perfectly, and I was left waiting, patient once again, for the next encounter.