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DAVID TAKES WHAT HE WANTS…GETS WHAT HE DESERVES

By Victoria14xs

I’ve written about what a merciless tease I can be when it comes to foot-guys. After I discovered in my early-20s that there exists a certain subset of men who are hopelessly addicted to pretty feet, well, it’s been ‘game on’ ever since.

It’s a one-sided game. I’m blessed with cute feet, which, for reasons I’ll never entirely understand, act as my superpower in the presence of what I call “foot-guys.”

So my feet are my “offense” in this little game – my weapons if you will. I pretty much win all the time, armed as I am: almost-nude feet, cradled in strappy heels designed to display my curvy arches, those exposed toes, the smooth, soft white skin.

Sounds overstated right? But not to a foot-guy. Nope, to that sort of ‘opponent’ in the little game, the package I’m describing looks like a little present – a gift. A gift that just walks right into their fancy office (I work at a law firm) as if delivered from heaven above.

Anyway, it’s a powerful offense. It doesn’t hurt that I’m also pretty. Curvy but fit, I have big tits, a small waist. I’m a 5’4″, 125 pound, blue eyed, brunette. Even the most addicted foot-guy wants a pretty woman. I am.

My “defense” – essential to insuring the game never gets out of control – is … decorum. We all get inundated with anti-sexual harassment PowerPoints. Awhile back there was a nasty situation that blew up involving one of the firm’s Partners and a secretary. The result is that very few men even risk the occasional innocuous compliment these days. In terms of actual numbers, there are currently three for-sure foot-guys where I work. They behave.

So how do I know – like, with certainty – that these guys are hooked? Time. The summation of all those downward glances at the floor where my feet happen to be. The interrupted sentences as I breeze through their office door, or, once sitting, cross my legs. Or that slightly-too-long silent moment when I dangle a shoe playfully but absentmindedly (as if I didn’t even realize I was doing it). Sometimes they do risk paying a compliment (“I like your shoes”) before retreating to other subjects…

So, the situation at work is ideal for a cock tease like me. I love the interplay, the game.

Now in fairness, in a very real sense, everybody wins. I mean, knowing their hunger, I could very well just cover up or avoid them as much as possible. But I don’t. I instead choose to give them what they want. Yes, they desperately want more (to touch, to massage, to lick, to suck) but at least they’re getting something. They win. A little.

And what do I get? Well, I’m as certain as I can be that they stroke off to me. They probably do it in their offices behind their closed doors when they “can’t be interrupted.” Or in the restroom. Or alone at home. Or as they work up to a climax with their dicks in their wives’ mouths. All that.

It shouldn’t matter to me that I serve to inspire cocks. But it does.

I absolutely love the idea. Call me a slut, whatever. I’m being straight with you.

If you’ve read any of my other stuff, you’ll know that my sex life with my husband involves trading stories about other people that we’re hot for. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve blown my Tim as he talks about his secretary – and other women. He returns the favor. It’s what we do. He’s well-aware of my foot-guy tormenting.

So I very much get what I want out of all of this…

————————–

Enough general foot-girl background. I want to tell you about David.

David was/remains one of my foot-guys and I never in a million years would have thought anything would happen to pierce the safe little bubble of sexual tension that I’d cultivated with him over the span of a couple years.

He got the Çankaya Escort full treatment. The dangling. The shifting positions as I would sit in his office chair – moving subtly to insure he could get his looks from every conceivable angle. Once, I took off my mules and set them aside, complaining that they hurt my feet “…but aren’t they pretty David?” Then rapidly changing the subject as he struggled to answer, barely able to stammer out a weak “yes…”

Honestly, I don’t even remember every instance or every way in which I so casually tormented the poor man. I tease every new pedicure, every new pair of shoes.

About him… Attorney. Married, 40-something. OK looking, medium build. In pretty decent shape. Smart, like, really sharp. He could be funny too. Reminded me of Mike, a guy who had since left the firm. But not Mike. Not even close. Sorry, I digress.

I’ve always enjoyed chatting with David though. He gives good banter lol. As I’ve mentioned, the flirting was muted. But in that suppressed environment, the slightest little comment can be interpreted as a big thing.

A not-terribly dramatic example: Back from a vacation, he jokingly greets me with, “long time, no see” — which is fine — but added “missed you…” as his gaze locked onto my fresh pedicure in sexy heels (I knew he’d be back that day). The “missed you” comment sounds harmless, right? But the glance telegraphed what he “missed.” You had to be there I guess. The comment and glance evoked a little micro-burst of adrenaline in me and I guarantee in him too. No way his dick didn’t instantly get heavier when he said that. No way. In our world, that was crossing the line. Actually, that moved the line permanently a bit. Probably why I remember it so clearly. But the bubble remained intact – the sexual tension stayed, as always, the unaddressable elephant in the room.

So anyway, he was a good guy, an “office friend.”

Yet…

I got the sense that he lorded over his wife. Veiled, vague comments over those many months that hinted that he viewed her as beneath him – significantly so. I found it off-putting. He could definitely radiate a bit too much of that masculine superiority vibe around people – at least too much for my tastes.

But he didn’t do it *at* me, towards me. I put that down to his ability to read me. An intelligent guy, I suspect he could tell I wasn’t the sort of woman who would brush off or tolerate little doses of disrespect, the kind he aimed at his wife and other women. I have what he craves so he accommodates as it were.

He probably privately characterized me a a bit of a bitch. I wouldn’t have argued with him. But bitches who look like me tend to get away with it.

So we got along just fine – “office friends.” I certainly didn’t have David on some pedestal. He had his faults.

But as I’ve said, the sexual tension was there, for sure. Many’s the time that my husband – while eating me out – heard about my desire to suck off David right in his office. And I’m sure it would’ve taken virtually no effort on my part to get David to actually fuck me.

None of that was gonna actually happen. The status quo was just fine with me. Ideal even.

I’m perfectly happy being a cock-teasing bitch.

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I commute to work every day in sneakers. That’s to minimize the stresses that sexy shoes tend to put on my feet. What that means is, I have my work-appropriate shoes in my handbag or under my desk and I don’t put them on until I’m in the office. At any given time, I usually have three or four pair of heels, mules, flats under my desk, tucked away. It varies.

One day, I went to retrieve a pair from under my desk and I got the eerie feeling they’d been moved. Creepy. I brushed that off but made Keçiören Escort a mental note as to how they were arranged when I put them back at the end of the day.

I kept taking that daily mental snapshot for maybe a week – nothing untoward to report each morning – but then it happened again.

For sure, somebody had moved my silver heels. I felt violated and more than a little pissed. But why?

I mean, what the fuck?? There were three “suspects” – as I’ve mentioned – assuming it was a foot perv.

I calmed down though (mostly). If it was one of my foot-guys, well, I obviously contributed to this problem…duh. Still, whoever it was shouldn’t be crossing this fucking line. I just wanted it to stop and, more than that, I wanted to know who was doing it.

I got a small motion-activated camera. A USB thing. It had a small clip to hold it, glue on one side. I attached it under my desk.

Long story short…I got him – David. I couldn’t see his face on the clip, but I could see his cuff links and his Rolex. Yeah, David was a Rolex guy. There were two short video clips actually. He reaches in and takes my heels and seven minutes later he’s back, returning them. Seven minutes, I thought. They’re probably covered in dick DNA.

Armed with evidence, I vacillated for a couple full weeks, unsure what to do.

David acted normally.

Then it happened. I came in one morning and checked my little video trap and again, I got David dead to rights. This time it was a pair of mules that had been temporarily kidnapped for ten minutes. I bent down and pulled them into my lap. One of them was shiny wet. I instinctively ran my finger over the goop – as if to brush it away (I don’t know what I was thinking with that move!) – and got rewarded with…cold cum. It was obviously cum. I was stunned.

Ok, now I’m fucking actually mad.

Violated. Fuming. Then I realize I’m slowly, absently, making little circles together with the tips of my thumb and index finger – little circles with his slippery cum.

After – I don’t know how long – five minutes? – I had decided what to do. My decision was largely predicated on the fact that he’d made no attempt to clean up my shoe after he blew his load on it. I could only conclude that David wanted to get caught. Maybe only subconsciously, but I believe he needed his hunger to be known, no longer suppressed and hidden. Even if I was wrong, he deserved punishment.

I could absolutely get him fired. I wouldn’t even need to say that to him – he’d unquestionably understand. My god, what a dumbass! Seriously! Still, firing wasn’t an appealing option. Too harsh.

No, instead, I’m going to punish him and I’m going to like it. He wants to violate me, then yes, he’s gonna get what he deserves.

————————–

I attached one of the video clips to an email and sent it to him, no subject line.

I slipped on the mules, the cold cum smearing itself under my toes, my aches. I’m not squeamish when it comes to cum. In fact I very much adore cum – when it’s hot. My pussy tingled.

Off I went. A little pissed. A little turned on. Very determined.

Closing his office door, he looked up from his computer wordlessly, white as a sheet. So…message received without my having to call attention to it. Good.

I pulled one of his office chairs close to his desk and put both feet up on his desk, right in front of him.

“Start cleaning, you fuck.”

“Eat it.”

His face blank – an expression of paralysis.

“Eat.”

David ate.

I had him lick every molecule of his cold cum off my shoe and then my foot.

Yes, I knew full well that having him lick my foot was actually a huge reward for him. Whatever, it felt good. Fuck, it *looked* good! This Etimesgut Escort nice-looking man licking my pretty foot, tentatively sucking my perfectly-formed little toes into his mouth to clean away all of his cum. His lips, his tongue felt really, really nice.

And this surge of, what? Control. Wow.

His breathing was labored. I kid you not, he simpered like a kitten eating it.

Looking around the corner of his desk, I could see his cock was rigid in his suit pants.

“Stand up.”

David stood.

“Pull out your cock and balls.”

David, so compliant.

“Stroke it.”

He moaned, clearly in ecstasy, as he beat his meat. Right in his office. Absolutely under my control.

“Look at me. Look at my eyes, you fuck.”

Heavy mouth-breathing as I held his gaze. Obvious guilt, together with unmasked hunger in his eyes, stroking what looked like seven inches. Mushroom head. Invitingly thick shaft. Filed all that away…Tim’s gonna hear about this in glorious, glorious detail…

“Cum on my shoe.”

That didn’t take long. Thick, creamy ropes of jizz all over my pretty shoe. His heavy, low-hanging balls really delivered.

I thought he might actually collapse as the last of it spurted out.

“Again. Eat.”

And so he did. David ate.

Licked up his creamy warm load.

He ate while his still-twitching dick hung over the other shoe on his desk, dripping.

I reached forward with my left hand, wrapped my pretty manicured fingers around his thickness, and milked it onto the other shoe. I remember that it was my left hand, my wedding band and stupidly-expensive diamond engagement ring contrasted quite strikingly with his cock meat.

“Finish.”

Attending to the other mule below his dangling dick, David licked up the last vestiges of cum.

Giving all these orders! Obeyed unquestioningly!! It was FANTASTIC! The control! I had never felt this before. I was beyond wet – I could tell – but that was superfluous.

Done complying, I told him to put it away.

He did so, tucking in his dick, and sat back down.

“Look at me David.”

He looked up, our eye contact so intense it felt physical. Incredible!

“David, I’m not done with you. Understand?”

He wordlessly nodded.

The exhilaration of dominating him was just mind-blowingly hot. Nothing even remotely like this had happened to me before. Shit, this sort of scenario had never even *occurred* to me. My heart was beating out of my chest.

I took my shoes off his desk, put them on and walked out.

Flushed with new-found power, I felt awakened.

I thought, on the way back to my desk, “This guy has no idea what he’s in for. And he’s gonna love every degrading bit of it.”

David would do anything to get himself off to my feet. Anything. And my fucking foot-boy was gonna do exactly that – anything.

I was particularly commanding with Tim later that evening. He didn’t even get to change clothes. Fully naked when he walked in from work, I led him to the bedroom and pushed him down between my spread legs. I took my wedding ring and engagement ring off and put them in his mouth. I answered his confused look, “Honey suck on those a minute. See how wet I am? I have a story to tell you…”

————————–

A couple afterthoughts…

Earlier in this story I struggled as I tried to explain foot-guy motivations. It’s almost impossible to express to non-foot-guys. But for any foot-guys that might be reading this – you get what I’m saying. A pretty foot clad in barely-there heels is…nudity. Outright nudity. In public. I might as well be a chick walking down the aisle at the grocery store topless. That’s what the world is like for foot-guys. At least, as near as I can tell being married to one.

And now at the end of my story I struggle again – this time trying to convey how it felt – that first-time sexual rush that engulfed me when I dominated David so utterly. Unless you’ve experienced it, felt its power, you’re probably not gonna get it. Just heart-stoppingly amazing.

Anyways, dear reader, there’s a ‘chapter 2’ to be told, if there’s any demand.

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