A quiet day after yesterday's excitement, I have nothing special planned. I wake up lazily, feeling nicely sweaty and sticky inside my latex top. I do my morning pee like last night, squatting down and feeling it squirt out from the sides of the rubber, dribbling down my thighs into the bowl I've placed there. I take a shit directly onto the floor, then since I'm wearing tights I can't resist squelching my feet into it, feeling the thick warmth slither through the nylon and between my toes, massaging my feet together as I sit on the toilet (it does have some uses!). I rub a finger between my cheeks and lick it clean, still quite a taste from the curry, and yummy anyway. I pad out to my kitchen leaving little shitty footprints, relishing the slitheriness between my cheeks, and pour the piss onto a bowl of cereal. It's not quite what Mr Kellogg intended, but the slightly soggy crunchiness mingled with the sourness of morning piss is one of my very favourite mouth sensations. I'm tempted by my own delicate footprints on the wooden floor, and kneel down to lick them up, one by one. They don't really taste of anything, just a slight fleshy sourness, but I love the idea and it really turns me on. I'm still pottering about like this when the phone rings. It's Michelle asking if I'm free for lunch, which I certainly am even though it means I'll have to clean myself up and be respectable. I've just stripped off for the shower when it rings again, this time it's Brian from the pub asking if I can work this evening. So what was an empty day has suddenly become quite full. The morning whizzes by and it's time to leave before I think about getting dressed to go out. I'm afraid I'm going to disappoint my readers, I dress very conventionally in jeans and a shirt. It's true that when I was a student I never dressed in anything but old leggings and sweatshirts - or of course fetish gear - but these days I can afford to look nice in a conventional sort of way when I want to. I do add a nice pair of black leather high heels, another present, and since it's a chilly day I'm wearing a really slutty pair of old laddered tights, not washed for ages, but nobody can see them - nor smell them, I hope.
I know Michelle from clubbing, so she knows all about me, but today we're just a couple of friends having lunch together in a bistro kind of place near where she lives in North London. We share a bottle of wine, and feeling slightly tipsy we head for a new fetish boutique in Holloway Road (how come this dull suburban street has suddenly become a fetish mecca?) I'm tempted by a few things and make some notes for possible future presents, but all I buy is an interesting variant of a cock-and-ball strap to try on some unfortunate slave. Then we drop by The Little Shoe Box to see what's new, and I end up coming away with some high-heel strappy sandals which I'm sure will be much appreciated.
By the time I get home it's after four, and I've promised to be at the pub at six-thirty or so. I want to wear my new sandals, they're perfect, high enough to be sexy and a bit uncomfortable, but not impossible, paying attention to every single step, arrows-through-the-heel uncomfortable. But to wear my sandals, I need painted toenails. And to paint my toenails, I need a slave. I could paint them myself, obviously, but what a terrible waste. Toenails are meant to be painted by a slave, with the brush in their teeth, with nipple clips and butt plugs and ball straps and all the rest making them sweat in pain, every second. What to do? I call instep, a foot fetishist I've known for years. I tell him that if he can be here in half an hour I can give him a real treat. Luckily he's free, and half an hour later I'm relaxing in an armchair, my feet on a stool, and instep naked on his knees with the brush between his teeth painting my toenails in whore-bright scarlet. He is strictly a foot-fetishist, he's not into pain (shame), nor really into messiness. But his cock is rock-hard anyway as he struggles to paint perfect edges around my nails. Once he's finished, while I wait for the varnish to dry hard, I caress his cock with my toes, squeezing him until I feel and hear him close to coming. Then I let him wank over my feet, squirting his cum over my toes and my new shoes, and when he has finished he licks my shoes and my feet until there isn't a square millimetre that hasn't felt his tongue. I love the feeling of his tongue on me, licking my instep where the shoes are narrower than my feet, teasing my soles, darting between my toes, worshipping the hard skin around my heels. After a while he is hard again and I open my legs and invite him into me, his foot fetish forgotten briefly as we kiss and writhe together until we both come explosively. Heaven. Then, his cum already running down my thighs, I dress for work. Tonight I have a pair of Spandex pants, better than naked, nearly as good as rubber (which would never do for the regulars of the Browen Arms), and a man's cotton shirt (a quid from the charity shop) unbuttoned just perfectly to make the best of my nice titties, and loose over my bottom. Instep has already begged me to let him stay and polish all my shoes, and how could I say no? I remind him that clean shoes have the soles licked to immaculate perfection, and point to a couple of pairs that have gum and other dubious stuff stuck to them.
It's a quiet evening at the pub. Brian wanted me there because one of his part-timers was sick, or skiving, but he could have managed on his own. Things pick up around nine-thirty, and the regulars are glad to see me - I only work there these days from time to time, to help out, but they've known me for years, since I was a student. They've all had a chance for a good look, a few of them a bit more out the back among the barrels and the crates. They're a wonderful bunch. Just as well they don't know what else I get up to! Their idea of "kinky" is doing it with the lights on, or knickers with something rude written on. I serve them their beer, and tease them, and let them get a good eyeful of new my new shoes and my newly-painted toenails. The shoes are the perfect example of strappy sandals, a thin strap across the toes, stiletto heels, and a thin strap that loops around the ankle. There's a young guy, barely old enough to drink, who can't keep his eyes off. I bet he'll be wanking himself at the thought of my feet for weeks to come. Maybe one day I'll suggest that he kisses my toes and see what happens.
Towards the end of the evening, one of the regulars, a little shit called Darren, makes me some kind of crude proposition, you know, "Fancy a bit, then darlin'?" So to his surprise, I say yes, and lead him out among the crates at the back and let him give me a knee-trembler, my pants pushed down around my thighs. I know he puts it around whenever he can find anyone daft enough (or kinky enough in my case) to want him. And even though he's a little shit, cum running down my thighs is still nice. My heels are becoming seriously uncomfortable now, and my bladder is full and I'm saving it for later, and everything feels rather good.
Eventually it's closing time. As usual I volunteer to clean the toilets. The gents is as bad as I could hope. After the third pint men become incapable of aiming, so the floor is a sticky, smelly mess. Listening to the little voice in my head, I kneel down and lick it, savouring the bitter saltiness of dozens of unknown men. In one of the two dirty stalls, someone has thrown up, and not been too accurate, so there is puke on the floor and around the toilet. I lick it clean, tasting the bile and the beery acidity and the remains of an unappetising meal. I finish up more conventionally, with a cloth and a mop, and make my way to the ladies. I hear a strange noise, and one of the stalls is closed. I call out, "hey - anyone here - I'm cleaning up". I hear the lock move, and from the stall emerges a tearful face, still sobbing.
"That little sod Darren, I caught 'im wiv someone else. 'E was supposed to be wiv me."
Ouch. Hope she doesn't recognise me...
"It was that little cunt Brigitte, I'd know 'er anywhere, I went out the back for some fresh air an' I saw the two of 'em, 'e was feelin' 'er up an everyfing".
Phew. Brigitte was in earlier. I'm not surprised he did her too, randy little shit. I take hold of the girl's hands and sympathise with her. I've never seen her in the pub before. She's called Bianca. She's about eighteen, and she's really a caricature of the Essex Girl. She's wearing a short lycra skirt, barely covering her cunt, and a tight tank top showing off her skinny belly and her pierced belly-button. No tights, and best of all, a wonderful pair of white stilettoes, shabby and worn out. The toes are scuffed, revealing the cheap plastic, there are dirty marks all round, the tips of the heels are badly damaged, and the heels are scuffed where someone has worn them to drive. I know what I have to do. While we're talking I put my arms around her, then listening to her shrill complaining voice, I start to kiss her and nibble her. Soon she is responding, but when I start to rub her tits (small, but nice), she suddenly stops and thinks.
"'Ere, you're not some kind of lezzy or sumfin, are you?"
I reassure her, of course not, she's had a terrible shock, it's only natural for one girl to comfort another when she's upset. That Darren, I tell her, he's no good for her, she's a nice girl and she deserves someone who'll take care of her, and so on and so on. And meanwhile, my hands are on her bottom, and her thighs, and pushing up her skirt and under her tiny thong, feeling her wetness. More than wetness, I can feel cum, and I bet Darren gave her one too before they came to the pub, the randy so-and-so. I start to rub her clit, I bet she's as confused as anything but her body is responding well enough. When she starts gasping and thrusting I push her down onto the toilet (how I'd love to watch her shit... but maybe later) and press my face into her, sucking and licking until she suddenly screams, one short yelp and then a series of moans, I love the way every woman comes differently.
"'Ere, you are a lezzy, ain't you?", she protests. It wouldn't help to tell her that she is too, now, so I just reassure her and comfort her, and kiss and nibble her. Like most girls with her background, she's ready for anything but just so bound up by what's conventional and what's permitted, it's so sad. With a little encouragement I can sense her getting ready to try something, and sure enough, she says, "'Ere, I'm not a lezzy or nuffin, but, you know, I mean, can I, you know, wiv yours, you know, try it?" Of course - we change places, and I push my pants down and spread my legs, and her face is on me, her tongue working on me. It's obvious she's never done this before, I can feel her exploring with her tongue, trying to find the places she only knows from her own body. But she quickly homes in on my clit and is giving as well as someone with years of experience, and I am soon squirming and thrusting and holding her head to me. My orgasms are much noisier than hers, I'm glad the place is closed and there is nobody around, apart from Brian snoring in the flat upstairs. Then I stand up and kiss her. I've just turned her life upside down, but for the better, I hope.
"Why don't you come back to my place for a coffee and a chat?", I ask. She nods and follows me out to my car, her scruffy heels tippy-tapping on the pavement in rhythm with mine. Once we're in the car I remember to warn her that there's someone in my place, that he's a bit unusual but not to worry, he's a good friend of mine. When we arrive, there's no sign of instep, he must have heard our voices and be cowering in the bedroom. That's fine by me, I make some coffee and we chat for quite a while. I explain to her that my visitor really loves feet and shoes, but that he's a great guy and nothing to be frightened by, then I go to fetch him. My bedroom has a wonderful smell of shoe polish, and a faint background of cum. I bet he's been wanking over my shoes all evening, the pervert. I hope so, anyway. I take a look, they're all gleaming and the soles are all perfectly clean too, even the gum has gone.
"You've done a good job, and I bet you've enjoyed yourself too". He smiles sheepishly. "Well, I've got another big treat for you. I hope you can still get it up". He looks down, plays with himself a bit, and I don't think we're going to have a problem there. I throw his underpants to him, and lead him just barely modest back to the living room. Bianca is a little surprised, but no more. I say to her, "Instep here wants to worship your shoes and your feet, lick all that dirt off your lovely white high heels. Don't you, instep?" He nods, he doesn't really need to answer, even with his pants on. "Will you let him, Bianca?" She blushes, rather fetchingly, and nods. "I s'pose so, I mean it's a bit kinky, but if 'e enjoys it an' stuff. I mean, it takes all kinds, dunnit? Yeah, go on then." So instep kneels down and goes to work with his tongue. Her shoes are filthy and they soon look a lot cleaner, although the scuffed imitation leather will never really look like anything better than it is. He's good at it, I know, and from time to time he lets his tongue stray to her skin and I see her gasp a little. "Bianca", I say, "why don't you rub yourself while he does that?" She isn't sure, she hesitates, she actually asks me if it's really alright, but then she does, obviously not for the first time. She licks her second finger, slides her thong out of the way, spreads her lips, and starts a gentle circular rubbing. I see her nipples firm up, and her breathing changes, and all the while instep is licking at her shoes and - more and more, I notice - at her feet. I slap his bottom and say, "Instep, shoes clean first, feet afterwards". Bianca isn't really paying much attention to me any more. When she is close to coming - and instep is rock hard, but he has been all along - I say, "Bianca, stop a sec, my love." She's surprised, but she pauses in mid-caress. "Now, I have an important question for you. Instep would love to toss himself off over your feet and shoes, and give them an extra-special polish with his tongue afterwards. Or if you prefer he'll fuck you. Which do you think is best?"
She looks up at me, demurely. "I dunno, noone's never asked me nuffin' like that before. But, well, my pussy's a bit sore, you know, where Darren did it before" (as I'd suspected), "an', well, it's sort of kinky, innit, him tossing himself all over my shoes. Yeah, go on. But I can keep playing wiv meself, can't I?" "Of course", I answer. So instep gets his cock out, and she starts to rub again, and with perfect timing he squirts his cum all over her feet just as she squeals out with another orgasm. There's loads of cum, I don't know where he gets it from since he's surely been wanking himself silly over my shoes all evening. Bianca slouches back, relaxed, and instep goes to work with his tongue again, spreading his cum around and licking it up, until it really is all gone and he has no excuse any longer.
Once they've got their breath back, I tell instep to talk to Bianca about himself. Quite soon they're chatting away about all sorts of things. Bianca is very sweet and very pretty, with long dyed-blonde hair (of course) and a cute little nose and chin, and nicely made-up. She has kicked her shoes off now, so instep can play with her toes as they talk, and she does have exceptionally pretty feet. It's time for bed for me, I'm tired after working all evening, so I suggest that they spend the night at my place in my spare bedroom. It's my dungeon too, so Bianca will be in for a bit of a shock if she gets nosey. Anyway, they accept. Off to bed for me, naked for once. I can hear them chatting until I fall asleep.