They Fall at My Feet and Don’t Even Realize It

There are mornings when I wake up knowing, before I even open my eyes all the way, that the day is going to bend in my favor. Today is one of those. I have an important meeting with a client I’ve been cultivating for months, a new product line on the table, and an order that could be huge. But that’s not what woke me with a tingling between my legs. It’s that his new Head of Purchasing is attending, a man I still don’t know, and the chance to have a stranger in front of me, someone I can size up from the very first handshake.

My name is Renata. I’m tall, slim, with long legs I’ve earned through the gym and discipline, and I have no shame in admitting I know the effect I have on men. I like it, it amuses me, and above all, it turns me on. It’s not vanity: it’s a work tool I’ve learned to sharpen until it’s dangerous.

I get out of the shower and start the ritual. I smooth cream over my whole body, unhurriedly, and let my hands do whatever they want a little longer than they should. My nipples harden the moment I touch them, and I pinch one between two fingers until a gasp escapes me. My other hand goes on its own, slips between my thighs, and I find my cunt soaked, swollen, throbbing. I slide my middle finger between my lips, up and down, smearing my clit with my own wetness, and I clench my teeth. I finger-fuck myself with two fingers, slowly, feeling them go in and out wetly, while with my thumb I draw circles over my little bud. I’m about to cum standing up, eyes closed, when the bathroom clock pulls me back to reality.

Stop, Renata, you’re getting carried away and you won’t make it.

I pull my fingers away from where they shouldn’t be, take them to my mouth and suck them one by one, tasting myself. I keep going down over my thighs, my calves, all the way to my feet. Feet are my weakness and my best weapon. I care for them like a work of art, with immaculate pedicures and white-painted nails, because I know exactly what they provoke in a certain kind of man. I can recognize those men with just one look into their eyes. And I know exactly what to do with them.

***

I choose my lingerie with the same care a surgeon uses to choose instruments. A black lace bra with sheer panels, lifting and enhancing. Matching thong, semi-transparent, slipping between the cheeks and leaving more to the imagination than it shows. And then what really gets me going: black stockings with a back seam and a matching lace garter belt.

I sit on the edge of the bed and lift one leg into the air. I pull the stocking on slowly, first the toes, then the sole, careful not to snag it with my nails, and I work it upward, making sure the seam stays straight like a line drawn with a ruler. I repeat with the other leg. I stand up, turn my back to the mirror, and check that both lines climb perfectly until they disappear under the skirt.

I love what I see. I love the feel of the nylon, that constant pressure on the skin, like someone is caressing me all the time. It turns me on to think about the looks that seam is going to steal today, about how a few men are going to pretend they’re not following it with their eyes when I cross my legs.

I finish dressing. White blouse, light, a little fitted, with two undone buttons hinting at the lace of my bra and the start of my cleavage. Pencil skirt with a side slit, hugging the waist and shaping everything else. A short fitted jacket, covering just enough for the rest to shine. And the shoes: twelve-centimeter heels, black, always half a size bigger than I actually need.

That detail is deliberate. A shoe that doesn’t pinch is a shoe that can slip off with one movement of the toes, that I can leave hanging from the tip of my foot, swinging like a pendulum. I’ve seen grown men lose the thread of an entire sentence just watching that sway.

I paint my lips a dark, almost intense red, and accentuate my eyes with a touch of shadow. Discreet pearl earrings, a ring on my right ring finger. Nothing on the left: let it be clear there’s no wedding band, no ties. I’m not married and I don’t want to be. The only ties I care about are the ones I put on myself, when, how, and with whom I decide.

A dab of perfume behind the ears, on the wrists, at the neckline. And, while I’m at it, a little on my legs too. You never know whose nose is going to be close enough.

***

I grab my handbag and the leather briefcase with the laptop and head out into the hallway, my heels clicking against the floor. Clack, clack, clack. I know the guy in room B is spying on me through the peephole, betrayed by the shadow cutting the light under his door. He’s nineteen and turns into jelly every time we cross paths in the elevator. I’m sure he spends a good part of his free time thinking about me, wanking himself silly while imagining my feet in his face and my cunt over his mouth, and I won’t deny I love the idea.

Every now and then I give him a little treat. A little extra leg when I get into the car, a foot out of my shoe in the elevator while I move my toes inside the stocking and say, in a tired, falsely innocent voice:

—I can’t wait to get home and take these heels off. I’d do anything for someone to give me a proper foot massage.

And I leave before he does, since he always lets me go first “like a gentleman” to get half a second more of the view. Today I don’t even need to open the door: the tap-tap-tap of my heels fading away is enough for him. First gift of the day delivered. Let him jack off thinking about me, that’s what he’s for.

Downstairs, the car I ordered is waiting. For these meetings I prefer not to drive: that way I don’t get nervous, I can review the figures, and if needed, touch up the outfit. I get in, cross my legs, and let the heel dangle, almost rehearsing the movements I plan to use in a little while. In the rearview mirror I catch the driver stealing glances at my legs, so I give him a little joy: I pretend to check the seam of the stocking and the garter clip, slowly, so he has time to look properly. He swallows. A little bead of sweat shines at his neck. I’m doing great.

***

The client’s building is glass, elegant, in the good part of Valencia. I get out of the car putting one foot out first, heel leading, then the leg, then the rest, and I notice several heads turning in the marble lobby. That gives me energy. I walk in with purpose, letting every heel strike echo and carve a small silence in my wake.

The elevator is packed. I’m the last one in and let my body press against that of an intern who barely lifts his eyes from his phone. It doesn’t take long before I feel the poor boy’s cock against my ass, hard as a stick through his trousers, and instead of moving away I shift just enough, a minimal sway of the hips, rubbing myself against his bulge so he feels it grow even more and doesn’t know whether it’s an accident or whether I’m teasing him on purpose. I hear him breathing through his mouth. I get off on my floor and leave him there, red to the ears, calculating how many floors he still has left before he can hide in some bathroom and wank with my smell still on him. I smile wickedly as the doors close.

I’m greeted by the familiar faces of the usual team, people I get along with very well. And beside them, a man I don’t know. It’s him. Fifty-something, immaculate white shirt, blue blazer, light trousers, neatly trimmed gray beard. Bald, but in that elegant way some men wear better than any mane. He has an alert gaze and a smile that arrives before his words. He extends his hand.

—Good morning. Renata, I assume. I’m Marcelo, the new director. They’ve spoken very highly of you. I hope we keep doing good business.

—The pleasure is mine —I reply, holding his hand a second longer than necessary, just enough to see whether he looks away from my eyes.

He doesn’t. And that, paradoxically, is what gives him away. The ones who are truly relaxed look elsewhere; the ones with something to hide cling to your eyes so they don’t have to drop their gaze to where their head wants to go. Marcelo hasn’t looked at my legs because he’s holding himself back. And a man who holds himself back is a man who has already started to lose.

***

The presentation goes brilliantly. I know the numbers, I know the room, and while I talk about margins and delivery schedules I do my other job in parallel, the one nobody puts in the minutes. I sit down, cross my legs toward his side of the table, and let the slit in my skirt do the rest. Every so often I let the heel drop off the tip of my foot and lift it again, that slow swing I know hypnotizes them.

Marcelo holds up well. Better than most. But I catch him twice: once following the stocking seam to where it disappears beneath the fabric, and once when the shoe dangles and takes a while to return to place. Both times he lifts his gaze in time and finds mine waiting for him. Both times I smile faintly, just at the corner of my mouth, saying nothing. And both times I see him swallow.

We close the order. Handshakes, congratulations, coffees nobody is going to drink. The team disperses back to their offices and, when I go to pick up my briefcase, Marcelo comes closer with a textbook excuse.

—Do you have a minute? I’d like to go over the timelines for the second phase with you. In my office, if that works for you.

—That works for me —I say. Of course it works for me.

***

His office is spacious, with a glass wall overlooking half the city and a door that, I notice, has a latch. I lock it myself with a dry click before sitting down, and I hold his gaze while I do it so he understands exactly what just happened. I sit across from his desk, cross my legs, and let the silence work for me. He talks about deadlines for a while longer, but there’s no conviction left in his voice. The conversation is the alibi; we both know it.

—Marcelo —I cut in softly—. You’ve been staring at my feet all morning and pretending you haven’t.

He goes very still. For a second I see the calculation on his face, the consequences, the new position, prudence. And then I see all of it surrender.

—I’m sorry —he says, his voice lower than he intended.

—I didn’t tell you to be sorry. —I uncross my legs slowly and let the shoe slip off my right foot, now hanging from the toes wrapped in nylon—. I told you that you were doing it.

I drop the shoe to the floor. The dull thud against the carpet sounds louder than it is. I stretch my leg and rest my foot on the edge of his desk, among the papers we were pretending to review a minute ago.

—Come here —I say. I’m not asking. I’m ordering, with the same calm voice I used to close the order.

And a man in his fifties, a director, probably married, used to ruling his little kingdom of offices, walks around his own desk and kneels on his own carpet without me having to repeat it. This is what really turns me on: not sex, not yet, but this exact moment when a man decides all on his own where he wants to fall.

—Hands —I say.

He takes my foot carefully, almost reverently, and starts massaging it. He knows how, or desire teaches him on the fly. He presses the instep, works the arch with his thumbs, and I let out a sigh that is half real pleasure, half calculated reward for him. I close my eyes for a moment and focus on the texture of his hands over the stocking, on the way the heat passes through the nylon, on the tickle climbing up my leg and going straight to my cunt.

—You still have the same look as before —he murmurs, never stopping the massage—. The look of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.

—And you have the look of someone who thought he was in charge —I answer—. Shut up and keep going. And now, the mouth.

I bring my foot to his lips and there’s no need to repeat myself. He opens his mouth and sucks my big toe through the nylon, nibbling gently, and I see him close his eyes as if he’s the one being favored. He runs his broad, hot tongue all over the sole, soaking my stocking, and the wet sensation on my skin tears a genuine moan from me. I shove all five toes into his mouth at once, all the way in, and I fuck his throat with my foot while he tips his head back to let me in. He’s getting himself filthy with drool and with the red lipstick that’s smeared from how much I’ve been biting my own lip. Better.

—Take my stocking off with your teeth —I tell him, yanking my foot away abruptly.

He runs his hands up my calf, hooks the edge of the nylon with his teeth, and starts pulling down slowly, dragging the stocking down my leg, over my ankle, over the arch, until my foot is bare. He offers me the stocking balled up, and without me asking he slips it into the inner pocket of his blazer like someone hiding a relic. Good. He’s understood.

—Now yes —I murmur, and put my bare foot straight into his mouth.

He sucks it like a devout man. One toe at a time, between each one, the sole, the arch, the heel. He sucks and licks as if his life depended on every centimeter, and I watch him from above, arms crossed, my skirt riding up to mid-hip because I’ve settled deeper into the chair. My thong is soaked. It shows. And he smells it: I can see his nose veering a millimeter every time he drops toward the arch of my foot, searching for the air coming from higher up.

—Are you hard? —I ask.

He nods with my foot still in his mouth.

—Take it out.

He unbuttons his trousers without stopping sucking me, in a clumsy way that makes me want to laugh and melt at the same time. He lowers the zipper, pulls out his cock, and shows it to me without letting go of my foot. It’s a good cock, thick, with the head already shining with pre-cum. Harder than a twenty-year-old’s.

—Wank yourself while you keep eating me —I order—. And don’t you cum until I tell you to.

He starts jerking himself with his right hand, slowly at first, while with his left he keeps holding my ankle and devouring my foot. I can see the vein on his cock standing out, the foreskin sliding back and forth, semen already beading at the tip. I put my other foot, still in its stocking, on his balls and squeeze gently upward with my toes. He moans with my foot in his mouth and that muffled sound shoots straight through me like a shock.

I uncross my legs fully, hike my skirt up to my waist, and move my thong aside with two fingers. I show him my cunt open, pink, shiny, dripping. His face is a poem: dilated, mesmerized, with my foot still half a meter from his mouth.

—Look what you’ve provoked —I tell him—. Look how you’ve got me.

I slide two fingers inside and pull them back out soaked. I bring them to his mouth and he lets go of my foot to suck them, and he mouths them with the same devotion I’ve just seen him give my ankle. He tastes my cunt on my fingers and lets out a low growl from deep in his chest.

—Good boy —I grant him. And I give him his reward—. Now yes. Eat me. But only what I let you.

He lunges at my cunt like he’s been in the desert for months. He parts my lips with his tongue, works his way from bottom to top, and when he reaches my clit he sucks it in whole at once, with the mouth of a professional cocksucker, and a long moan slips out of me that nearly gives me away. I grab his bald head with both hands, pull him tighter against me, and fuck his mouth with my pussy, grinding my hips against his face, smearing his beard with my wetness. He licks, sucks, gets his tongue as deep as he can and comes back up, never stopping wanking himself while he eats me, all at once, panting against my cunt like a dog.

—Two fingers —I say through my teeth—. Put them all the way in while you suck my clit.

He obeys instantly. He plunges two thick fingers into me and curls them upward, searching for the exact spot, and finds it on the first try. He starts fingering me while keeping my bud in his mouth, and I feel the orgasm rising from my thighs, from the soles of my feet, from somewhere I don’t know where. I press my heels into his back, yank his head against my cunt, and I come with my mouth open and unable to make a sound, swallowing a scream that comes out bitten and sharp. My walls clamp down around his fingers, my cunt soaks his hand to the wrist, and he keeps sucking through the whole orgasm, milking me to the very last contraction.

I slump in the chair, legs spread, gasping. He stays kneeling, his beard shining with me, his cock still in his hand, looking up at me and waiting for the signal. He’s almost there. His jaw is trembling.

—Not yet —I tell him in a hoarse voice, and he squeezes the base of his cock to hold on.

I’m thinking it over. I could let him cum right there on the carpet and walk out with my skirt down and a smile. But I’d rather teach him another rule.

—Stand up —I order.

He gets to his feet awkwardly, cock pointing at the ceiling, red and throbbing. I stretch out both feet, one bare and the other still inside the stocking he left behind, and I trap his cock between my soles. I start stroking him with my feet, up and down, pressing firmly between the arches, while he bites his fist so he won’t moan too loudly. I rub the head with the big toe of my bare foot, caress his balls with the other, and he holds on as best he can, neck veins standing out, staring at my feet like a man looking at an altar.

—Cum —I say at last—. On my feet. On both. And not a drop anywhere else.

He cums in three pushes. A long, thick spurt hits the instep of my right foot, and then another, and another, leaving my skin and the stocking soaked in hot semen. He lets out a rough moan that he swallows halfway, and his legs nearly give out. I keep squeezing his cock between my feet until the last contraction, wringing him dry, not letting a single drop escape.

When he’s finished, I pull my feet away slowly and rest them on his desk, among the papers, dripping with him.

—Clean me —I say.

He kneels again. He lowers his head and licks his own semen off my feet, off the instep, from between the toes, off the soaked stocking. He swallows every bit without complaint, eyes closed, and I watch him work with a new calm, the calm of a hunter who already has the prize hanging.

I let him work for a good while, alternating feet, rewarding each success with a sigh and correcting each excess of initiative with a dry word. I allow him nothing more than this. Not today. The first session is never the big prize: it’s the frame, the one that teaches him the rules, the one that leaves him craving the next one with a force no rushed fuck could ever give him.

When I decide it’s enough, I pull my feet back, retrieve the shoe from the floor, and put it on slowly while he remains kneeling, straightening his shirt, tucking his still-wet cock back into his trousers, trying to put the face of a director back together with his beard full of me and of him.

—The second phase —I say, standing and smoothing my skirt— we’ll go over another day. In private. And next time you come to my place. With that stocking of mine in your pocket. Without it, you don’t get in.

—Whenever you want —he answers, and for the first time all morning he lowers his eyes completely.

—We’ll see about that. —I pick up my briefcase, sling my handbag over my shoulder, and before leaving I turn back—. Good work, Marcelo.

I slide the latch open, close his office door, and walk toward the elevator, my heels clicking, clack, clack, clack, with a smile painted on my red lips, my bare right foot inside the shoe still feeling the sticky damp between my toes, and a pleasant heat rising inside me. Another ideal candidate located. Another man who knelt convinced the idea was his.

Today I woke up horny and knowing the day would bend in my favor. As usual, I wasn’t wrong.