What I Kept in My Feet All Day in Vienna

In first-world countries labor is expensive and, consequently, services are too. I learned that when I spent an hour and a half at the neighborhood spa getting a pedicure three days before taking my flight to Vienna: black toenails, square shape, soles worked until they were soft as new leather. I knew a month of walking was going to undo part of that work, so I wanted to make the most of the first few days, when everything was still perfect and he still trembled just from seeing them.

I woke up that morning in the hotel in the First District, still curled against his back. The room had that particular smell good hotels have: expensive bath soap, freshly washed sheets, and something that was completely him. I stretched my arm toward the nightstand, grabbed my phone, and opened the weather app. “11°C, cloudy, feels like 8°C.” Perfect. Cold but not impossible, just what I needed for my feet to spend the entire day enclosed, building up heat.

I got up without making a sound. He was still sleeping on his stomach, one arm hanging over the edge and his face completely calm. Eight years together and he still gave me that kind of aggressive tenderness I didn’t know how to name. I stood looking at him from the bathroom doorway for a second, then went in to brush my teeth and think about what I was going to wear.

I chose carefully, the way you choose when you have a clear goal. The white sneakers I’d been wearing for three days without letting them air out. The thick cotton socks that had made the flight and a full day of sightseeing two days earlier, washed only halfway. Tight jeans, waterproof jacket, scarf. Today my feet were not going to breathe until nightfall.

I don’t sweat too much, I know. But a full day sealed in at that temperature, with that much movement, was going to leave something. And that something was exactly the ingredient I needed.

We left after breakfast. We walked to Schönbrunn Palace, where I took photos of the imperial gardens while he waited for me with his hands in his pockets and that smile of his. Then we went down to the Naschmarkt, which by then was in full swing: vegetable stalls, Eastern spices, pickles, people haggling in five languages. We bought cheese and a jar of plum jam and ate them standing against a column. From there we went up to the Belvedere to see Klimt, came down Kärntnerstrasse among tourists and pigeons, crossed the Ring, and ended up in a café in the Neubau district where we had something hot before going back to the hotel. I figured we’d walked close to twelve kilometers, all over cobblestones and marble stairs, the kind of ground that tires your feet in a way asphalt doesn’t.

All the while I could feel them: hot, damp, trapped. I noticed the socks clinging to the soles, the slight friction of my heel against the sneaker lining. And on every block, amid conversations about Klimt and the market, I thought about the night.

Is he going to kneel in front of me as always? Is he going to suck them with that same needy face? Is he going to jerk off pressed up against my soles like last time?

That was what I liked most about this dynamic we had built without ever talking about it directly: it was completely voluntary on his part. He chose that position. He chose to get down on his knees in front of me and treat my feet like something sacred, suck them like they were a wet cunt, humiliate himself with his hard cock because of the smell of my sweat. I forced nothing. I offered him what I knew he needed, and he received it with a surrender that made my panties wetter than anything else he could do with his body.

***

At night we went to dinner at a small restaurant in Neubau, with exposed brick walls and short candles on the wooden tables. We ordered Tafelspitz and a bottle of Grüner Veltliner. The light was low, intimate. Outside it was cold, but inside everything was warm and smelled of stew and toasted butter.

When the wine arrived, he raised his glass and looked at me in that particular way he’s had for years.

—Cheers, my love —he said, brushing his glass against mine—. To this trip, to you, to every block we walked today.

—Cheers —I answered, taking a long sip while looking at him over the rim—. You know what I liked most about today?

—What?

—That I walked all day in the same sneakers I’ve worn for the last three days —I said softly, as if I were telling him a secret—. And with the socks from the flight. I didn’t air them out. My feet are a mess, love. Soaked. Stinking inside the sneakers.

He went still. The fork was halfway between his plate and his mouth.

—Don’t look at me like that —I said—. Eat. Dessert still hasn’t arrived.

—What dessert? —he asked, his voice a shade rougher than usual.

—Not the one on the menu —I replied, without lifting my eyes from my plate—. The other one. You’re going to eat the sole of my foot like the little dog you are. You’re going to lick every toe, suck between the spaces, swallow all the sweat from the day. And then you’re going to suck me until your jaw falls off.

His face flushed. I saw him shifting in his chair, uncomfortable with the erection growing under the tablecloth.

He kept eating in silence. More slowly than before. I went on with dinner calmly, talking about Klimt, the market, whether tomorrow the Danube boat tour was worth it. As if I hadn’t just announced something to him. As if that didn’t have him glancing at me every two minutes, his cock hard against his fly.

—How far did you walk today? —he asked eventually, pretending it was a casual question.

—Quite a bit. My feet hurt —I answered, crossing my legs under the table, feeling the damp heat still trapped inside the sneakers—. I’m going to need a massage when we get back. A massage with your tongue. And your mouth. And your throat, if needed.

He set down his glass very slowly.

—Yes —he said—. Of course.

We finished unhurriedly, but when I asked for the check he paid before I’d finished my last sip.

***

We got back to the hotel with that particular mix of urgency and calm that happens when both of you know exactly what’s coming. We closed the door and I leaned against the wall and kissed him slowly, with controlled hunger, sliding my tongue deep into his mouth. I grabbed his cock over his pants: hard as a rock, throbbing. I squeezed it hard and bit his lip.

—Look what you do to me —I whispered—. And I haven’t even really touched you yet.

Then I took off my jacket, my jeans, my bra. I stayed in my panties and socks. The panties were already wet from having him thinking about me through dinner.

I sat on the edge of the bed, crossed my legs, and looked at him.

—Come here —I said—. Kneel down.

He did it without hesitation. He got down on his knees in front of me, in the space between the bed and the window, with the city lights filtering through the half-open curtain. He took my right foot with both hands, rested it on his lap, and started massaging it through the sock. I felt his hard cock under the arch of my foot, separated only by the fabric of his pants and the cotton. I pushed a little with my heel. He moaned softly.

—Take them off for me —I said.

He slid his fingers under the elastic and began pulling the sock down very slowly. When he got it off completely, the heat came out along with that smell that builds up after hours of being trapped: intense, warm, with something slightly acidic that was completely mine, completely from that day. I watched him inhale. He buried his whole face against the sole and breathed deeply, eyes closed, shoulders dropping forward, like someone who has just found something they’d been looking for for a long time. Then he shoved the used sock into his nose, inhaled it like it was a drug, and let it fall to the floor.

—Good? —I asked.

—Perfect —he murmured against my foot—. God, you stink. You drive me crazy.

—The other one.

He took the second sock off with the same slowness, and inhaled it the same way. Then he went still, with both my feet in his hands, looking at them under the dim room light as if they were a relic.

—Look at the nails —I said—. I painted them thinking about this before we traveled. I thought you’d look at them while I fucked you with my feet. That you’d cum all over this black.

Shiny black, square shape. He looked at them as if they were something worth keeping.

—Massage me —I asked, leaning back on my elbows—. Very slowly. I want to feel you worship every inch of me. And then you’re going to suck them until I make your throat hoarse.

He put his thumbs on the arch of my right foot and started working: slow circles on the heel, firm pressure on the sole, his fingers tracing every tendon from ankle to the base of my toes. I moaned softly, closed my eyes, let myself go. I could feel my panties getting wetter with every squeeze. After several minutes I brought my foot up to his face, pressed the sole against his cheek, and rubbed my toes against his nose. I let him inhale all the smell I’d saved for him during twelve kilometers of Viennese cobblestones.

—Lick —I said.

He opened his mouth and started running his tongue over the sole, slowly, from heel to toes, pressing hard against the damp skin. I pushed my big toe between his lips. He sucked it without hesitation, all the way to the base, with a noisy pull. Then the second, the third. All five. I slid two in at once and he circled them with his tongue, looking for every drop of sweat between the spaces. He tasted everything with total concentration that completely undid me.

I pulled my panties down with my free hand and threw them in his face. They ended up hanging off his shoulder. Then I spread my cunt with two fingers and rubbed myself slowly while he sucked my feet. I was already leaking. The smell of my sex mixed with the smell of my soles, and he responded by moaning louder, sucking faster, nibbling at the pad of my foot.

—Look at my cunt while you suck my feet —I ordered—. Look at how wet this makes me.

He lifted his eyes without letting go of my toes. They were glassy, with that look of total submission he only achieved in moments like this. I slid two fingers inside myself and pulled them out shining with slick. I passed them under his nose.

—Suck.

He sucked my fingers clean and went back to my feet without being asked. Then he ran his tongue down the top of my foot to my ankle, up my calf, licked the inside of my thigh. When he reached my cunt I let him lick for thirty seconds, just the tip of his tongue against my clit, and I grabbed his head with both hands and lowered him back down to my feet.

—Not there yet —I said—. You get there when I say.

I got wet watching him like that: completely present, completely surrendered, using his mouth only to give me pleasure wherever I decided.

—Take your clothes off —I said after a while—. And lie down on your back.

He got undressed without getting off his knees, climbed onto the bed, and lay down. His cock stood up against his belly, thick, with the head red and a drop of precum sliding down from the glans. He was completely aroused, without my having done anything yet beyond giving him orders and offering him my feet. I sat at the foot of the bed and rested my soles on him.

I started slowly: the still-warm, damp sole sliding up and down his dick, squeezing gently. I felt his heat against my skin, the pulse of the thick vein, the way he tensed every time my toes brushed the glans. I ran the pad of my thumb over the tip and spread the sticky liquid all over the head. Then I wrapped him with both soles and started moving rhythmically, making a channel with just the right pressure, his cock squeezed between my arches like it was a cunt.

—Look at my black nails while I fuck you with my feet —I said—. Look at how your dick gets lost between my toes.

He looked. His eyes were fixed on the movement, jaw clenched, hands gripping the sheets. Every time I lowered my feet, the head of his cock showed above my big toes, red and shiny. Every time I lifted them, it disappeared completely between my stinking soles.

—Tell me you like it —I demanded, squeezing harder.

—I love it —he said, voice broken—. I love how you fuck me with your dirty feet. I love the smell. I love how your sweat smells on my cock.

—Don’t come yet —I said—. Wait until I tell you to.

He nodded without speaking.

I sped up a little, then slowed down. I lifted my right foot to his face and made him suck the sole while with the left I kept jerking him off. He stuck out his tongue and licked like a thirsty dog, moaning against my toes. Then I put both feet back on his cock, slowed the rhythm, let him breathe. I ran one sole over his chest, then over his balls, carefully squeezed his nuts between my toes, went back to the previous motion. I kept him there like that for several minutes: bringing him up to the edge, stopping just before, letting him breathe, starting again. Every time I saw him tense, every time I saw him close his eyes too tightly, I slowed down until he settled. A little puddle of precum started collecting in his belly button, one he had no control over.

—Do you want to come? —I asked.

—Yes —he said, his voice completely raw—. Please.

—Ask me properly. Beg.

—Please, my love —he said—. Please, let me come. I’m begging you. I need to finish on your feet.

I loved that moment. I loved having that kind of power, calm and clear, without violence or artifice, just with the body and the rhythm and the smell of my feet that I’d spent the whole day preparing for this.

—Where do you want to do it? —I said.

—On your feet —he murmured—. Please, on your feet. Over the black nails. On top of the sweat.

I pressed my soles together, quickened the motion, kept him firm and steady. I held his cock with my arches forming a tube and pumped him fast, without pause, feeling him swelling between my feet. I felt him go completely rigid, heard the muffled groan he makes when he’s right on the edge, the contraction in his thighs, and a few seconds later he came: hot, thick spurts that shot out hard and fell onto my right sole, between my toes, over the black nails, over the top of my foot. One hit his own chest. Another stained my ankle. I kept pumping slowly until I got the last drop out of him, milking his cock with my feet like squeezing a lemon. I went still, feeling the sticky heat against my skin, watching him breathe hard with his eyes closed and his lips parted.

—Good —I said softly—. Very good, love.

***

I lifted my foot to look at it: the sole shining, thick semen sliding slowly along the arch, pooling between my toes, white threads hanging from the black nails. I looked at him, and he was watching me from the bed with that expression that mixes exhaustion with something like gratitude.

—Grab the phone —I said—. Record me.

He reached toward the nightstand, picked up the phone, turned it on, and pointed it at me. He looked at me through the screen. I focused the camera for a second, then brought my foot to my mouth.

I started licking the sole slowly: the salty, thick taste of his cum mixed with my own sweat from the day, with the leather smell of the sneakers, with everything I’d accumulated walking twelve kilometers through Vienna’s First District. I gathered a thick spurt with my tongue and left it resting there for the camera. Then I closed my mouth and swallowed. I took my toes in one by one, sucked between the spaces, stuck out my tongue to show him how the semen mixed with my saliva. I sucked the big toenail until it was clean. Swallowed again. I didn’t look away from the camera once.

—This is for when we’re not together —I said, my voice barely audible—. So you remember me. So you jerk off watching your wife eat your load off her own dirty feet.

When I finished, I set my foot down on the bed and motioned for him to stop recording.

We stayed silent for a while, both of us lying on the bed, with the city light coming in through the curtain and the dense smell of the room —sex, sweat, semen, my feet— wrapping around us. I stroked his hair. He held my arm against his chest.

—You know what I want tonight? —I said, my face resting on his chest—. I want you to take me from behind. I want you to shove your cock in my ass and split me open in two. I want to feel you inside me before these vacations end.

He looked at me. Smiled. I felt his cock starting to swell again against my hip.

—We’ve got all night —he said, and with one yank turned me face down.

He put me on my knees on the mattress, with my face against the pillow and my ass lifted up. I felt his hands spreading my cheeks, and then his tongue: hot, wet, running slowly over my hole, pushing little by little until it entered. I moaned into the pillow. He licked my ass with the same devotion he’d licked my feet, until it was open and wet. Then he spat into his hand, lubed up his cock, and rested the head against my opening.

—Put it all in —I said—. All at once.

He pushed. I felt the familiar burn, the stretch, the pressure until his whole cock went in to the base. He stayed there for a second, his hands on my hips, breathing on my back. Then he started fucking. Slow at first, then harder, driving into my ass with his hips, making that skin-on-skin sound that filled the whole room. I slid my hand underneath and rubbed my clit to the rhythm of his thrusts.

—Harder —I begged—. Fuck me harder.

He grabbed my hair, yanked my head back, and drove his cock into me to the hilt with every thrust. The bed creaked. I screamed against the arm so I wouldn’t wake the whole floor. I came like that, with his cock in my ass and my fingers in my cunt, shaking all over while he kept fucking me without slowing down. A little while later he came inside me, pushing deep, moaning in my ear, filling me until I felt his cum leak out when he pulled free.

We stayed wrapped around each other, soaked, panting. Then we showered together, went back to bed, and he ate my cunt until I came two more times. At three in the morning I rode him on top, my hands braced on his chest, taking him slowly until I fell asleep underneath him with his cock still inside me.

And that was that. The night stretched beyond the plan, beyond Vienna and the cold outside and all those years we carried on our backs. That night in the hotel in the First District, the two of us knew exactly what we were to each other, without needing to say it out loud.