The Stranger in the Mall Put Me at Her Feet

My name is Adrián, and for the past year I’ve been alone again. Forty-two years old, a doctor, freshly divorced, living in a flat in Valencia that still smells of paint and unopened boxes. People think divorce mostly takes away companionship, but for me it gave back something I’d spent fifteen years pretending not to have: a very specific desire, entirely my own, that my marriage never wanted to understand.

I’m mad about stockings. Nylon stretched over a leg, the soft sheen of black sheer fabric, the shape of an ankle beneath the material. And above all, feet wrapped in that second skin, their shape, their warmth, their smell when a woman has been walking for hours. I didn’t choose it; it’s just there, like my eye color. For years I hid it. Now I live without hiding it.

That Saturday I wasn’t looking for any of that. I was looking for a sofa.

The flat was still half empty and I’d promised myself I’d start filling it, so I got dressed up — I’ve always liked being well dressed — and drove to the mall on the outskirts. I left the car in the parking lot and went up to the department stores, where the furniture sale was advertised. It was on the escalators, a few steps above me, that I saw her.

A woman of about thirty, blonde, with that kind of elegance you can’t buy. She was wearing a tight black dress of fine silk that ended mid-calf and clung to a body of exact proportions. Nothing else was needed. Her long, slim legs disappeared into sheer black stockings and ended in leather ankle boots with slim heels. I stood there, rooted, staring. And when she headed into the furniture section, exactly where I was going, I felt my stomach turn over, as if something in me already knew what was coming.

I followed her at a respectful distance, pretending to be interested in shelves I had no intention of buying. She wandered among the sofas without hurry, stopping, running her hand over the fabrics. I watched her from two aisles away, already half hard just imagining those feet wrapped in nylon, convinced it was nothing more than a visual whim.

Then she stumbled.

It was on the leg of a low table that was barely sticking out from the display. Her ankle twisted and she fell back onto a chair. I reacted without thinking and reached her side before I even realized what I was doing.

—Are you all right? Let me help you —I said, taking her by the arm.

She got up leaning on me, her face flushed and her expression tight with pain. She was limping. I looked around: no one. The aisle was deserted, the saleswoman was busy far away, music was playing somewhere on another floor. That corner of the sofa section was an island.

—Sit here —I told her, pointing to the nearest armchair—. I’m a doctor. If you’ll let me, I’ll take a look at that ankle.

She studied me for a second too long before nodding.

—Go ahead, doctor —she said, and there was something in the way she said it that wasn’t innocent.

I crouched in front of her and took her foot carefully by the heel of the boot. I started to unzip it slowly. She shifted in the seat, bit her lip, and apologized under her breath.

—I should warn you, it’s very hot today and I’ve been in these boots for hours —she murmured—. The smell may not be the most pleasant.

If you only knew what you’ve just done to me.

I cleared my throat and told her not to worry, that in my profession I was used to bodily intimacy, that it didn’t affect me at all. I lied in every word. I finished unzipping the boot and took it off her, and when I brought my face close under the pretense of examining the bone, her smell hit me: intense, warm, penetrating, a dense scent of skin trapped for hours inside leather. I should have pulled away. I did the exact opposite. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with that smell, and felt my cock harden against the zipper of my trousers until it hurt.

I closed my eyes a second too long. When I opened them, she was looking at me.

Her foot was small, perfect, the stocking darkened by moisture on the sole. I rested my fingers on the arch and felt the heat come through the nylon. I started pressing, massaging, under the pretext of easing the sprain, but we both knew the ankle had nothing to do with it anymore. She stopped complaining. Her breathing changed.

I dug my thumbs into the sole and slowly moved up toward her toes, one by one, feeling them shift beneath the fabric. The stocking had grown almost liquid with heat over the instep, and each time I squeezed a little harder she parted her lips slightly. My heart was in my throat. My face was so close to her foot that I breathed in her scent with every inhale, and that smell — skin trapped inside leather, hours of walking, the smell of a woman’s cunt already beginning to sweat somewhere else — had gotten into my blood and would no longer let me think clearly.

—What hands —she said softly—. Do you spend this much time on all your patients?

I didn’t know what to answer. My fingers kept tracing her foot, moving up to the ankle just a little, then back down to the toes. And then I noticed her gaze had left my face and settled, without any attempt at disguise, on the bulge tightening my linen trousers. My cock was outlined completely against the fabric, thick, impossible to hide.

She smiled. A slow smile, the kind worn by someone who has just realized they hold all the cards.

—Well, doctor —she whispered—. Looks like you’re enjoying the exam more than I am. You can see your cock clearly marked there, you know that?

I tried to explain myself, stammered something, but by then she had already changed. Slowly, never taking her eyes off me, she uncrossed her legs and slid her bare foot free of my hand. She lifted it. And she set it, flat and firm, right on my crotch.

I held my breath. The heat of her sole through the fabric was almost unbearable. I felt her instep press against my cock and run up and down it, measuring it over my trousers.

—Don’t move —she ordered, with no trace left of the flustered woman from a minute ago—. Still. I want to feel it properly.

I obeyed. Kneeling among the sofas in a department store, with her foot pressing slowly, setting a rhythm that ran up my spine like a current. She arched her toes, closed them around my cock as best she could through the linen, and started fucking me with her foot, sliding up to the tip and down to my balls, pressing a little harder each time. A rough groan escaped me that I barely managed to swallow. She reclined in the armchair, crossed her arms, and watched me enjoy her control with a calm that completely disarmed me.

—This is your thing, isn’t it? —she said—. Feet. Stockings. I saw it on your face the moment you unzipped my boot. Your trousers are soaked, look at you.

I looked down. A dark, round stain had formed in the fabric right at the tip of my cock. I was leaking pre-cum against the linen like a teenager. I nodded, no longer able to pretend anything. Her foot increased the pressure a notch and another rough sound escaped me that I had to swallow.

—Good boy —she murmured—. Very good boy.

She pressed once more, with her heel against my balls and her toes squeezing my glans through the fabric, and for a second I thought I was going to come right there, with my trousers on, in the middle of the furniture section.

***

Footsteps sounded at the end of the aisle, voices, the squeak of a cart. She withdrew her foot with the same calm with which she had placed it there and, in one motion, retrieved her boot and slipped it back on. By the time the saleswoman turned the corner, the stranger was once again just another customer checking the price of a sofa.

I got up as best I could, face burning, cock painfully hard and my whole body protesting the interruption. She stood, tested her ankle — which, of course, was perfectly fine — and came close until she was a breath away from me. She pulled a card from her bag and slipped it into my shirt pocket, giving it a pat.

—Thanks for the massage, doctor —she said—. But a half-finished cure is useless. Call me this afternoon. At my place we’ll finish what you started. You’re going to come when I tell you and how I tell you.

And she walked away down the aisle, not limping at all.

***

I called her at six. Her name was Carla, she lived fifteen minutes away, and she didn’t let me finish the polite opening I’d rehearsed.

—Up you come. Fourth floor. And before you come in, get one thing into your head: I’m in charge here.

Her flat was the opposite of mine. Warm, full, not a box in sight. She opened the door barefoot, wearing a short silk robe that barely covered her thighs and brand-new black stockings, immaculate, held up by a garter belt that I could just make out beneath the edge of the robe. She led me into the living room and pointed to the floor in front of the sofa with one finger.

—There. On your knees.

I knelt. I didn’t even think about it. I’d been thinking about it for hours, with my cock hard under my trousers since I’d left the mall.

Carla sat on the edge of the sofa, crossed one leg over the other, and extended a foot to rest it on my chest. She slowly brought it up to my face, dragging it over my neck, my jaw, until she rested it on my nose.

—Smell it —she ordered—. Deep. I want to see you enjoy it.

I took her foot with both hands, as if it were something fragile, and buried my face in it. The nylon, the heat, the concentrated smell of a whole day locked inside leather: I lost myself in it. I inhaled with my eyes closed and felt my cock contract inside my trousers. I kissed the arch through the stocking, traced each toe with my lips, sucked the big toe whole, taking it into my mouth up to the knuckle, and she let out a long sigh, pure satisfaction at being in command.

—That’s it, doctor. Suck them good. One by one.

I ran my tongue over all five toes, biting the tips through the nylon, while I felt the stocking dampen in my mouth with my own saliva and the sweat of her skin. I massaged her heel with my thumbs, spread her toes with my tongue, licked the arch from bottom to top. The faint taste of nylon mixed with the sweat of her foot was exactly what I had spent fifteen years imagining in secret.

—Slower —she ordered—. Like that. Don’t be in such a hurry to get there.

She kept me like that for a long while. Switching feet when she felt like it, pushing her toes all the way into my mouth, setting the rhythm, pulling away each time she sensed I was speeding up too much, forcing me to start again from the beginning. Every refusal tightened me a little more. Every permission I received like a gift. Never, in fifteen years of marriage, had I felt so completely at someone’s mercy, and never had I wanted it so much.

At one point she opened her robe without taking her eyes off me. Underneath she wore nothing, only the stockings and the garter belt. I saw her cunt, shaved, shining, and smelled the air change: the sweat from her feet now mixed with the hot smell of her wet sex.

—Keep going with the feet —she warned when she noticed my eyes drifting downward—. I haven’t given you permission for anything else yet.

She brought one hand down and touched herself slowly, two fingers on her clit, while the other foot stayed in my mouth. Then she brought those fingers to her lips, sucked them, and smeared her juices onto the ones she’d just used.

—Now suck. That’s what you need to learn to taste if you want to come back.

I licked the toes of her foot, soaked in her juices, tasting cunt mixed with nylon, and I thought I was going to come inside my trousers without anyone even touching me.

—Look at you —she said at some point, with a calm that admitted no reply—. A doctor in a white coat, on his knees in my living room, sucking my feet like they’re the only thing that matter in the world. Are they?

—Yes —I answered, and my own voice sounded strange to me, surrendered.

—Tell me again. Slowly.

—They’re the only thing that matter —I repeated—. Your feet. Your stockings. Fucking however you want.

She smiled. She slid one toe over my lips, rested it on my tongue for a second, then pulled it back.

—Take it out.

I unbuttoned my trousers without standing up and pulled them down to my knees along with my underwear. My cock sprang free, hard, with the head shiny with pre-cum. She looked at it for a moment, head tilted, the way you look at something you’re about to buy.

—Pretty cock, doctor. Shame it’s not going where you want today. Give me your feet.

I offered them like a dog. She closed the soles of both feet around my cock, trapping it between the stockings, and started moving her feet up and down. The warm nylon, slick with my own saliva and pre-cum, sliding up and down the shaft. A long groan escaped me. I’d never felt anything like it: the silk of the nylon tightening around me, her toes seeking out my glans, her up above with her hand between her legs, touching herself for me while she jerked me off with her feet.

—Don’t come —she warned—. Not until I tell you. If you come before, you don’t come back.

I clenched my teeth. She sped up for a moment, then slowed, then sped up again, punishing me. I watched her stomach tighten, saw her mouth open wider, saw the fingers she used on herself grow wet, and I knew she was coming too, very slowly, never taking her eyes off me.

When at last she lowered one leg and planted her foot, flat and firm, where she had placed it between the sofas that morning, crushing my cock against her belly, there were no voices or footsteps left to interrupt us. Only her gaze fixed on my face, her smile of someone who knows exactly what she has in front of her, and her low, calm voice giving me permission at last.

—Now. Come. On my feet. And don’t take your eyes off mine.

I didn’t. I wouldn’t have been able to even if I’d wanted to. I grabbed my cock with my hand and jerked myself off fast, against the sole of her foot, with the nylon brushing my glans on every stroke. It lasted five seconds. The orgasm shot up my spine like a jolt and I came in thick spurts over her feet, soaking her stocking, spilling between her toes, over the arch, over the instep, while she kept her hand down below, finishing her own orgasm at the same time, with a slow smile that never left her face.

—Very good boy —she murmured when I finished—. Now clean them.

I leaned in again, still trembling, and licked my semen from the stocking, toe by toe, swallowing my own cum mixed with the sweat of her feet. She stroked the back of my neck with her other sole while I did it.

Later, once I’d pulled myself back together, while I was tying my shoes in her hallway, Carla leaned against the doorframe and looked at me with her head tilted.

—You can buy the sofa another day —she said—. But Saturday mornings are booked from now on. And bring an appetite.

I nodded. I stepped out onto the street with her smell still on my hands and in my mouth, and with the certainty that, for the first time in a long while, my new empty life was beginning to fill with what I truly wanted.