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by Viola Black 13 days ago in fetishes

The Joy of Tootsies

I turned the tiny plastic bottle downwards, and squeezed.

Thick, gelatinous blobs of eucalyptus-infused gel thudded onto the palm of my hand with a series of gentle 'plops.' The tiny hairs in my nostrils flared with the sudden arrival of the minty aroma, my favorite smell in the world.

The strong, restorative scent also signified that play-time was about to begin. My body hummed, and tingled with excitement at the prospect.

I put my hands together, and gently rubbed them, coating my palms, and fingers in the lotion.

"I’m going to begin now,” I announced, looking up at Anton.

Ordinarily, I would have my patient lying flat, on one of the therapy tables. It gave me greater access to their calves, as well as their feet. You’d be amazed how many people come to me, complaining of pain in their feet, only to discover the real cause of their discomfort lay in a tight Achilles, or even in the muscles further up in their legs.

But, Anton was different; he always sat in 'the chair.'

Thickly padded, and covered in a dull, black leather, it was a decadently expensive item of furniture. However, given the depth of the pockets belonging to the club's new owners, they didn't flinch when I requested the twenty thousand pound chair. Less than forty-eight hours after I'd first asked for it, I'd arrived at the training ground one morning to find it had already been installed in my treatment room.

I really shouldn't have been surprised: A few months before that, I'd suggested to the recently-enthroned chairman that the old, damp, tiny, antiquated treatment room, secreted in the very bowels of the stadium, could do with a make-over. The light-green paint of the walls had been peeling, and mottled, and a permanent, stale aroma of embrocation hung in the air. Lit by a single light-bulb, it was more like a dungeon that a place for recovery.

Three days later, I was consulting with an architect about what shade of white I'd like the tiles in my new, state-of-the art workplace to be.

A few days after that, construction had begun on my new treatment room, on a sizable patch of ground, close to the training pitches. My days of being confined underground were gone, and my old treatment room was now a store-room, where the match-day programmes were housed.

Given that my new treatment room was the size of a car showroom, and as modern as anything to be found in Silicon Valley, the chair should not have come as any surprise.

It looked like a dentist's chair, and, as it was articulated in three places, it enabled me to position the patient according to their treatment. I wouldn't normally use it for a foot massage, but, if I did, I could easily lower it flat. However, for Anton, the chair was always kept upright.

He looked to look at me whilst I worked on his feet.

Well, I say 'feet'; to be honest, I rarely got the chance to massage both of them. Things always seemed to... let's say, escalate before I got my hands on the other foot.

In turn, I sat close to the ground, on a low, high-backed, metal stool. It wasn't the most comfortable arrangement, but it created a thrilling air of subservience.

With Anton looming over me, I felt gloriously submissive.

I wrapped my hands around his left foot, and 'playtime' began.

As usual, I started with ‘Warm-up Twists’, the standard way of preparing a foot ready for the more strenuous massage that followed. I placed my palms either side of Anton’s stunning appendage, and, using my thumbs, gently pulled the right side of his sole forward, while pushing the left side back back.

Once my thumbs had extended to the limits of their natural reach, I gently twisted them in a tiny circle, and reversed the action: My thumbs now pulled the left part of the sole forwards, while pushing the right side back.

Effortlessly, I fell into a rhythm, back and forward, back and forward, with his gorgeous foot my anchor point…

As ever, the sight of his foot overwhelmed me.

As a professional footballer, Anton was, naturally, a big man, standing at six-foot four. Sometimes, looking at his naked body, I wondered if he’d been carved out of granite, as opposed to sculpted by countless hours in the gym. He was huge, impressive, imposing.

And his large feet were suitably proportionate. The bridge was gloriously wide, and long; anatomically perfect for a man his size. But, it wasn't just the size; it was the design. Every aspect, from the bridge, to the insole, to the ball, to the heel, was clearly defined. A mass of aesthetically-pleasing, wondrous curves.

Some men's feet were little more than a shapeless, jumble of flesh and bone: Anton's looked as if they'd been drawn by da Vinci.

Back and forwards; back and forwards…

As my kneading grew more strenuous, I could feel my heart-rate quicken, and my nipples harden. A thin layer of moisture had already coated my pussy.

I was already aroused.

Even by my standards, that was quick.

In addition to his foot’s beauty, it was also surprisingly soft.

Given the amount of occasions they'd been stamped on, given the almost infinite number of times he'd used his feet to smack a ball, his feet should have been fleshy, deformed wrecks. The damage that had been inflicted on them should have rendered them misshapen, hard, calloused.

But they remained soft, and supple. A miracle given the array of occupational hazards they had endured.

Gradually, I increased my intensity, pushing my thumbs down more firmly into the soft skin of his sole. In response, Anton mumbled approvingly. I briefly looked up, and, pleasingly, could see the outline of his huge, erect cock pushing against the fabric of his shorts...

My concentration was shattered by someone rattling the door-handle.

The door was locked, just as it always was for Anton's private 'sessions.'

Normally, I kept the door open during treatment, but Anton's treatment wasn't 'normal': Privacy was strictly necessary. I'd also lowered the blinds on the bank of huge windows that looked out onto the training pitches. If the door was closed, and locked, and the blinds down, that ordinarily signified I wasn't in.

However, I worked with professional footballers; apart from my current patient, intelligence was in short supply. A locked door, and closed blinds, were not subtle enough hints that I was presently not available.

I watched as the large, anatomical poster of the human skeleton, pinned to the back of door, vibrated, as the person on the other side tried the door handle again.

Then silence. I heard the tell-tale 'clip-clop' of a pair of sliders move off down the corridor. They were gone.

I could resume.

"Victoria?” Anton asked, lazily. “Do you ever worry what will happen if we get caught?" Although articulate by footballer’s standards, his accent retained a tang of his native South London.

"Not really," I replied, employing the matter-of-factly, matronly professional tone I normally reserved for misbehaving patients. As I spoke, my fingers re-commencing their exploration of his left foot. "You're the team's best player, and I'm the best sport's masseuse for miles around. I think we're unlikely to be sacked; it'll hurt them more than it'd hurt us."

I wasn't being entirely truthful. The fact is, getting caught, terrified me.

Anton was famous; potentially, this could be a scandal that would have him mocked from the stands for the rest of his career. And, yes, I was good at my job. But, that was unlikely to save me if the truth emerged of what really took place here every Tuesday morning after training.

I’m not a pervert; I didn’t train to be a sports masseuse simply to get my hands on men’s feet. It’s my fetish, and I’m not ashamed. But, I only became aware of it after I’d graduated. Thanks, largely, due to Anton himself.

And those works of art he walked around on.

However, I was well aware that’s not how it might look; professionally, it would destroy my reputation.


At the same time...

The risk of being caught was deliciously exciting. What was at stake if we were only made it more so.

I re-focused on the foot.

Anton’s wonderful foot.

Having ‘warmed-up’, I now moved onto the much more demanding ‘Arch Rubs.’ Like the warm-up rubs, the technique itself was simple: Holding the ball of the foot in my left hand, I pushed down into the harder skin by his heel using the first two fingers from my right hand - continuing to apply this consistent pressure, I ran my fingers the length of the arch. Once I’d reached the ball, my fingers swiveled, and I ran them back towards the heel.

Back, and forth. Back, and forth…

As I massaged his arch, I could feel my earlier sexual excitement return.

My breath shortened as I imagined my tongue taking the journey my fingers currently had the privilege of making. I visualized licking the foot. I could almost taste the eucalyptus gel…

A quick glance up, and I could see Anton felt the same level of arousal I did: His hard-on had returned.

Soon. Soon...

It was time to move on Anton's favorite: 'Foot Spreading.'

I cradled my fingers, and gently dropped his foot into the crib. I pressed my thumbs down firmly into the middle of his bridge, and then moved my digits towards the edges of his foot, pulling the skin, and muscles outwards. Once I'd reached the edges, I lifted my thumbs, and returned them to their starting position in the center of his bridge.

I could feel tiny muscles popping and loosening through the tips of my thumbs as they traversed the width of his glorious foot.

I heard him emit a deep, satisfied sigh.

And, with that, my own heart-rate quickened just a little more.

Ordinarily, the movements of my hands and fingers were in perfect synchronicity with my breathing; under normal circumstances, I'd exhale as I spread the skin of his foot, and inhale as my thumbs returned back the middle.

But, with Anton, my hands and breathing were never in tune with each other. Despite trying to maintain a rhythmic consistency with my fingers, my breath was always a few beats faster, a discordance that only grew as the massage progressed.

As my thumbs completed another journey across his soft skis, he sighed again. A zesty hit of the eucalyptus gel filled my nostrils, and my breathing shortened even more.

Our weekly 'sessions' had been going on for a year now. When he'd first arrived at the door to my treatment room, he'd done so having just recovered from injury.

The injury was a common one, but one that had only entered the popular consciousness when David Beckham had suffered the same injury; a broken metatarsal. In Anton's case, the fourth one, next to his pinky toe.

Ordinarily, such an injury heals without the need for treatment; simple rest was the cure.

However, although the tiny bones in his foot had knitted themselves back together as well as could be expected, the brawny defender was still experiencing discomfort, especially when striking the ball. As a result, he had changed how he kicked, using a different part of his foot that he ordinarily used, trying to avoid the tender area.

But, by doing so, he'd lost his ability to control his clearances, and passes; they weren't exactly hitting row Z, but they weren't always finding a team-mate. And, playing in a league where one bad performance could cost you your place on the team, such failings were immeasurably fatal.

Massage would have been impossible early on in his recovery; the risk of inflicting more damage on his delicate bones would have been too great. But, with the fracture now healed, it was safe to begin working on the muscles around those bones.

Perhaps my magical hands could help ease the pain he still experienced? Maybe, with my help, that tender area could be made less so, and he could find his way back into the manager's plans?

After a few session, my talented hands had indeed been able to help. Gradually, the tender area became less so, and Anton was not only able to force his way back in our starting eleven, but reclaim his place in the national team as well. My work was done, but...

He still came back to see me each week.

Every week.

I didn't complain. I've always known I had a 'thing' for feet. It's my kink, and I wasn't going to turn down the chance to have Anton's wondrous specimens in my grasp. However, as it transpired, I wasn't the only one with a foot fetish...

I was pulled back into the present by his gentle voice.

"You can kiss them now," he said, staring at me.

My tummy muscles tightened, and I felt my insides broil as a burst of electricity zinged throughout me. "If you want to, that is."

I didn't need a second invitation.

I raised his leg, and lifted his foot towards my mouth. I pursed my lips, slowly leaned forward, and started to lavish tiny, gentle kisses on Anton's big toe. I flicked my gaze upwards; his hand was now inside his shorts, massaging his erection.

My lips travelled the length of his foot, planting delicate kisses. I was overwhelmed by the pungent smell of the eucalyptus. Leisurely, my mouth explored every tiny hair, every infinitesimal bone, every minute muscle. I stopped when I reached his ankles, and my lips slowly retraced their journey.

Back towards the toes.

His beautiful, long toes.

Starting with his pinkie, I kissed each toe.

One by one, my lips pecked at the appendages. Slowly, deliberately. My heart was racing, and my breathing was growing more and more shallow. But I maintained my sedate pace; I wanted to savour this.

I wanted to enjoy every soft, beautiful millimetre.

Finally, I arrived at his big toe.

Forming an 'O' with my lips, I inserted Anton's toe into my mouth. Gently, delicately, I began sucking.

I'm not adverse to cock, but I'd always prefer a toe. Especially Anton's. A blow-job is fun, but it can’t match sucking a toe.

My head moved back, and forth, sucking at delicious digit.

“Stop,” he said.

I looked at him, my lips still around his toe. Provocatively, I kept sucking.

“Please, just for a second.”

I did as he asked, mock pouting.

He lifted his backside into the air, and pulled his shorts down. His cock was now free. My nipples stiffened even more at the sight of his generous dick.

“Carry on” he said, as his body slammed back against the chair, which started to vibrate more wildly as he pleasured himself more forcefully.


I leant against the back-rest of my stool. Firmly, I wrapped my hands around his left ankle, and pulled him towards me. The leather squeaked as he slid down the chair, closer to me. His hand didn’t leave his cock.

I kicked off the shoe on my right leg, and raised it, extending my foot towards Anton's groin.

I nestled my toes under his balls, letting the sac balance on my brightly-painted toe-nails, which I’d varnished in the same hue of blue as the team’s home kit. Although Anton had yet to savour my feet, I knew he got a thrill from both looking at them, and when I employed them. I wriggled my pinkies, jangling his testicles gently, causing him to omit another groan.

The long, languid strokes of his cock had given way to frenetic tugging. The drowsy look in his eyes told me he was already close to cumming.

Holding his left foot in my right hand, I lifted it to my mouth again. Feverishly, I started sucking his big toe again. Echoing the speed he was masturbating himself, I was now suckling it hungrily.

I was gorging on him, devouring him.

As I did, I feasted my eyes on the foot ahead of me. It dominated my view, and was all I could see.

I reached my left hand down, and placed it inside my sodden panties. The pads of my fingertips scooted across my labia, before arriving at my protruding clit. Furiously, I began rubbing. There was no need for any gentle preamble; I just wanted to climax.

And I wanted Anton’s foot in view as I did.

And in my mouth.

My body tensed, and my breath caught in my throat, as the orgasm hit me. Overwhelming me. I came with a mighty rush, my legs weakening. Involuntarily, I gently bit down on his toe.

Anton emitted a deep sigh, then climaxed. Cum covered his hand, and sprayed up his abdomen.

At last he let go of his dick, and crumpled back into the chair.

Delicately, I removed his foot from my mouth, and, holding the back of his calf, leant forward, and gently rested his leg against the base of the chair.

I slumped against the back of the stool. Spent.

I sat there, still transfixed by the foot. It was wet, covered in my saliva, but still awe-inspiring. Beautiful.

If I didn’t have the team’s captain arriving in twenty minutes for a back massage, I would have happily gobbled it up again.

Or, maybe, I would’ve turned my attentions to his virgin right foot.

However, twenty minutes…

“I should clean myself up,” Anton said drowsily.

“Not yet,” I said, leaning froward, and lifting his right leg. “I think I’d like to sample the other one for a change.”

“Victoria, please,” he began. “I need to…”

He was silenced by my lips enveloping the big toe on his right foot.

Greedily, I started sucking…


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Viola Black
Viola Black
Read next: A Night at the Theatre
Viola Black

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