The Strange Woman at the Cinema Who Used Me as a Footrest

I have a habit that almost no one would understand, which is why I never talk about it. On weekends I go to the cinema alone, always to the last showing, always to the emptiest screens. I don’t go for the film. I go hoping to find a woman who will rest her feet on the back of my seat, who won’t mind brushing me with the sole of her shoe, who will drive a heel into my shoulder without apologizing.

I like feeling someone’s weight on me. I like serving, even if they don’t know it. For years I learned to read the small signals: a foot peeking out between the seats, a woman slipping off her shoes when she sits down, someone stretching her legs looking for somewhere to rest them. The darkness of the auditorium allows everything, and I’m always watching.

Sometimes I slide my hand through the gap between the seats, palm up, waiting. Many women get startled and yank their foot away at once, whisper a clumsy apology and settling in farther forward. Others, though, realize they’re stepping on my hand and don’t move it. They let all their weight drop onto my fingers, sometimes for minutes at a time, as if they know exactly what they’re doing.

Once, a girl not yet thirty took off her shoes and rested both feet on my shoulders for almost half an hour. I stayed still that entire time, with my cock hard as a rock inside my trousers, delighted to be used as a footrest by a stranger who hadn’t even looked me in the face. Another night, a woman got so annoyed when I tried to slip my hand beneath her sole that she crushed it with a force I still remember. And even so, I went back the following Saturday.

What I like has a name, though it took me years to put one to it. The weight, the crushing, the idea of being beneath someone and accepting it. To serve as a rug, a bench, a thing. I don’t expect anyone to share it. I’m only telling you this because a few weeks ago I lived through something I’d wanted for a long time, and I need to get it out of me.

***

It was a winter Friday and I’d chosen a long, boring film I knew wouldn’t fill the theater. I arrived just on time, sat in a middle row, and left a couple of empty seats on either side of me. When the lights went down, I counted the silhouettes: barely six or seven people scattered through the entire auditorium. Behind me, in the next row, someone had just settled in.

The previews started and I noticed my seat moving. A soft, rhythmic push coming from the backrest. I turned my head just a few degrees, enough to confirm with the corner of my eye what I already knew: a pair of shod feet resting against the back of my seat, right at the level of my nape.

My heart sped up. I know that mix of impatience and fear of moving too fast and ruining everything. I forced myself to breathe slowly and began the usual game, that millimetric advance I’d practiced so many times.

I moved my head back, very slowly, until my hair brushed the tip of her shoe. I waited. She didn’t pull away. I leaned a little more, feeling the sole against my crown, and she still didn’t move. Good sign, I thought. She knows what she’s doing and she’s enjoying it.

Several minutes passed in which I barely paid attention to the screen. Then I noticed she took her feet away and set them on the floor. I froze, convinced she’d gotten bored or was about to change seats. I started calculating my next move, wondering whether I dared slide my hand backward.

I didn’t have to. Seconds later I felt something on my right shoulder. I didn’t dare look. I stayed perfectly still, like an animal pretending to be dead, holding my breath so I wouldn’t scare her.

It took me a moment to recognize what it was. A foot. Bare, covered only by a white sock, resting on my shoulder with an insolence that left my mind blank. An instant later I felt the other one, this time on my arm, the one I had resting on the armrest between the two seats. She had taken off her shoes and was using me, without asking, without hiding it.

I turned my head as slowly as I could, millimeter by millimeter, until I brought my cheek close to the fabric of her sock. The smell hit me before I touched it: a warm mix of detergent, fabric softener, shoe leather, and the sweat of the whole afternoon. For anyone else it would have been unpleasant. For me it was like stepping into another world. I closed my eyes and let my face rest against her foot while I felt my cock swelling inside my trousers until it hurt.

She moved her toes under the fabric, slowly, as if testing how far I was willing to go. She stroked my face with the sock, brushing my nose, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. I didn’t move. I was afraid any sudden gesture would break the spell and drag me back to the reality of a half-empty cinema.

Then I heard her voice for the first time. A low, firm whisper, very close to my ear, speaking to me from the row behind.

“Do you like the way my socks smell?” she said. “Would you like them on your face? Or in your mouth? Is your cock hard, pig?”

I didn’t know what to answer. My throat was dry and my pulse was racing. The only thing that came out of me was a choked “yes,” repeated, almost a plea. Yes, yes. I don’t remember ever wanting anything so clearly in my life.

“Then behave and don’t make a sound,” she murmured. “And don’t even think about looking at me. Open your mouth when I tell you to and stick out your tongue like the dog you are.”

***

I obeyed. I kept my gaze fixed on the screen, pretending to follow the movie while she pressed the full sole of her foot against my face. I felt her heel on my jaw and her toes over my eyes, covering me, marking my skin through the damp cotton. She pressed a little, released, pressed again. Every time the pressure increased I felt that familiar jolt, the one from finally being beneath someone who decides for me, and my cock throbbed against the zipper, wetting the fabric with a little trickle of hot pre-cum.

With her other foot she found my hand, the one still resting on the armrest. She stepped on it without mercy, gradually loading her weight until my fingers cracked against the plastic. It was exactly what I’d been looking for in that theater for years. I closed my eyes and endured it, grateful for every gram of pressure.

“Still,” she repeated when she noticed my fingers tightening. “That hand is mine tonight. And that cock too. Don’t even think about touching it without permission.”

I barely nodded, not daring to speak. She slid the sock across my lips, slowly, over and over. I parted them, and when her toes brushed my mouth I didn’t pull away. I sucked them through the fabric, salivating the cotton, feeling the taste of sweat fill my tongue. She pushed farther in and shoved all five toes into my mouth until I felt the arch of her foot against my teeth. I gagged a little, tears sprang to my eyes, and I still kept sucking.

“That’s it,” she whispered, almost voiceless. “Suck that foot like it’s a cock. Swallow it whole, pig.”

I lost track of time. The film kept playing on the screen and I had no idea what was happening. All my attention was on her feet: on the weight of her heel against my cheek, on the smell that grew stronger the hotter the fabric got, on the constant brush against my neck, my lips, my chin. She kept moving them, tracing slow circles over my face, withdrawing for an instant only to come back harder. Every time she shoved her toes into my mouth I sucked them with hunger, sucking between them, licking the spaces, swallowing the stale sweat as if it were semen.

At some point she took off one sock. I noticed because the contact changed: bare skin, warm and a little damp, against my lips. The smell turned more direct, rawer, sharper, animal, and I didn’t care who might be watching in the dim light. I kissed the sole of her foot, the arch, the toes, with a devotion I had never felt for anyone whose name I knew. I licked the entire sole, from heel to toes, tasting the salty flavor of sweaty skin. When I reached the gap between her big toe and the next one, I pushed my tongue in there and she noticed, because she pressed down, smashing my nose against the top of her foot.

“Good boy,” she said, and those two words made me tremble more than any caress could have. My cock was leaking inside my briefs, soaking them. A hot patch spread through my trousers and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Then her other foot, the one still covered by a sock, came down from my shoulder and slid over my chest, my stomach, until it found the hard bulge between my legs. She crushed there, with the same coldness with which she had stepped on my hand, and I had to bite my lip not to moan out loud. The socked sole rubbed my cock through the fabric, up and down, pressing my balls, squeezing the tip with her big toe.

“Do you notice how small it is down there?” she murmured. “It fits completely under my foot. I could pop it right now if I wanted to.”

I nodded with her bare foot still in my mouth, slobbering over her toes, groaning softly against the warm flesh. She kept stepping on my cock while she made me suck her foot, increasing the pace, squeezing harder and harder. My balls burned. My cum was rising up the base of my cock and I couldn’t stop it, and she noticed by the way my whole body tightened.

“Don’t even think about it,” she hissed. “Hold it.”

I held on as best I could, with my nails dug into the armrest and my teeth clamped around her toes. She eased the pressure on my cock just in time, leaving me on the edge, trembling, my breathing cut off. Then she brought the bare foot back up to my face and rubbed it all over my mouth, my nose, my forehead, marking me with her smell.

We stayed like that for nearly an hour. At times she crushed my hand to the limit of what I could bear; at times she stroked my face with a softness that contrasted with everything else. At times she stepped on my cock again through my trousers and drove me to the brink only to withdraw at the last second, leaving me panting, with the patch of pre-cum growing. That alternation, that shift from slight pain to tenderness without warning, that forcing my mouth open with kicks only to then stroke my cheek, had me completely surrendered. I existed only to serve as a surface, a support, a useful thing beneath her feet.

In the end, after I don’t know how many minutes of holding back without coming, with my cock throbbing painfully against the zipper, she stepped on the bulge again and turned her heel slowly, looking at me from behind in the dim light.

“Now,” she whispered. “Come. No hands. Just with my foot on you.”

That was enough. My orgasm exploded inside my briefs in long, hot waves, soaking me all the way to my thigh, while I bit down on the bare foot in my mouth so I wouldn’t shout. I felt every spurt of semen come out in punches, my briefs sticking to my skin, my cock throbbing on its own beneath the weight of her sole. She kept pressing throughout the whole climax, squeezing it out against the fabric as if she were milking me, not letting a single drop escape.

“That’s it. All of it. Get it all out for me.”

When I was done, I was left limp, trembling, with wet eyes and my trousers soaked. She removed her foot from my cock, then the one from my mouth, very slowly, her toes shining with my saliva. She rested them back on my shoulders and left them there, still, while I caught my breath beneath her weight.

***

When the credits began to roll and the theater filled with that faint end-of-film light, she pulled her feet away sharply. I heard the sound of shoes being slipped on, the rustle of clothes as she stood. I remembered her order and kept my eyes fixed on the screen, not turning around even though I was dying to see her face.

She passed by me on her way to the aisle. Only then did I allow myself a sideways glance: a silhouette with her hair tied up, a long coat, a calm walk. She didn’t stop. But as she passed she dropped something into my lap without a word and kept going toward the exit without looking back.

It was the sock she had taken off. Still warm, still damp with my saliva on the part that had been in my mouth.

I stayed seated until the lights came fully on and the theater emptied. My hand ached, my face was marked by the pressure, my briefs were soaked with semen sticking coldly to my skin, and my heart was pounding as if I’d run for miles. I tucked the sock into my coat pocket like someone hiding a treasure, and I went out into the cold street with the feeling that I had finally lived something I had only ever imagined.

I don’t know who she was. I don’t know her name, or where she lives, or whether I’ll ever see her again. But now, every Friday, I go back to the last showing at the emptiest theater, sit in the middle, and leave the seat behind me free. I wait for the soft push against the backrest, the weight of feet on my shoulders, that voice telling me to behave and open my mouth.

And in the meantime, I keep her sock in the drawer of my nightstand. Sometimes, before sleeping, I take it out, bring it to my face, breathe in the last of its smell, and give myself a slow hand job while remembering her. It was, without a doubt, one of the experiences I most want to repeat.