Absence makes the heart grow fonder — or so they say. But they never seem to mention how much hornier it makes you, too. When my wife, Denise, was called away to Japan for a months-long business trip, I quickly realized that, for us, the two conditions would be inseparable. Sex has always been a big part of our marriage, and though we were both excited about the opportunities the trip represented for Deni, we both missed each other enormously.

We spent long periods of time chatting online, chats that quickly turned into steamy bouts of cybersex. Phone calls went the same way. I hadn’t had phone sex since my college years, but I quickly got back into it. Deni is very vocal, and the sound of her gasping and whimpering as I described the slow, methodical way I would ream her pussy made me light-headed. So did her whispery voice telling me in loving detail how she wanted to wrap her long blonde hair around my shaft and stroke me until her golden locks gleamed with my jizz. I loved it all, but something was missing.

Denise can get off to nothing but the sound of a soft voice whispering in her ear, “Gonna suck your pussy.” But for me, the lack of any tactile component beyond my hand on my cock was frustrating. 

However, there was more to it than that. Our fantasy sex involved a lot more than simple fucking. Both Deni and I have our share of kinks, and for me, Deni’s feet top the list. Like the rest of her, they’re rather small, neatly shaped and lusciously soft. I could sit for hours watching her wriggle her toes and rub them teasingly together. They also have the most gorgeous smell. It might sound odd, but to me the warm, sweet scent of her skin is the ultimate aphrodisiac. When Deni slips off her shoes after a long day’s work, the warm undertone of leather adds something undefinable but incredibly erotic. She has always given me footjobs that have never failed to set me spurting after a few strokes of her soles — especially when she bites back a stream of giggles. (She has always claimed my hard dick tickled her feet.)

I’d realized there would be another couple of weeks before she’d return home, and if I didn’t get my “foot fix” before then, I thought I might go crazy.

During one call, after I’d whined to her a bit too much, she’d gone silent. I could tell she was giving the matter some serious thought, and finally she said, “Well, I guess I’ll have to send you a care package then.” I hate to say it, but I’d more or less laughed off the remark. I knew it was meant lovingly, but what care package could possibly compare to the real thing?

The following week, I came home to find a small box with overseas postage waiting at the door. I opened it to find a long sheet of rice paper, rolled up like a scroll. It seemed to be some kind of painting, but after I unrolled it a moment later, I was laughing for real. The paper had been imprinted with a number of impressions of slender bare feet, each in a different bright color.

There was also a large plastic bag containing three additional see-through sacks. One of these contained a pair of Denise’s nylons. The second contained a pair of neatly folded white socks, which were split at the toe, giving the impression of little white cloven hooves. The third contained something I recognized immediately: the pair of old ballet flats Deni had taken with her to Japan. She loved ballet flats for their comfort, and I have to admit I found something oddly sexy about them. Maybe their cute, compact shape reminded me somehow of my wife.

The box contained one more surprise: a photo of Denise in a traditional kimono, smiling and looking at me with her loving blue eyes. Her bare feet rested on a small stool, her toes turned up so her pretty soles were visible. There was also a note, which read: “Don’t open the bags until you call next time. And make sure you get comfortable first!”

Denise had signed it with one of her trademark hearts and a lipstick kiss.

Normally, I tried to space out our calls during the week, but as you might imagine, Deni’s care package had me far too excited. I called her that very night, while sprawled out on our bed. My cock was already hard, and I was gently stroking myself. Deni’s presents were set out around me, along with a container of our favorite lube.

“You ready?” Denise asked. I could tell from her breathless voice that she was every bit as excited as I was.

“Got your shoes off?” I asked.

“Not yet,” she told me. “I’ve got a pair of flats on. Just like the ones I sent you, just not so old. Why don’t you take them out?”

I did, carefully opening the bag and easing out the shoes and smiling upon detecting their pungent smell. Ballet flats might be comfortable, but they soak up the scent of a woman’s feet like no other kind of shoe. It wasn’t rank or unpleasant at all; this was the scent of Deni’s feet, so sweet and sexy.

“Smell them,” Deni breathed in my ear, and I did, inhaling luxuriously.

“I want you to touch yourself,” Deni said. “Tickle your balls first, then cup them in your hand. But imagine it’s my hand feeling you up. Can you do that?”

I certainly could! With my eyes shut, it was like Deni was in the room with me. My body responded to her unseen presence with remarkable force. I felt every muscle in me relaxing and going limp as my cock got harder and harder. I continued reveling in the fragrance of her flats; it was exactly as if Denise were lying on the bed with her bare feet in my face, teasing my nose and lips with her toes.

“Nylons next,” Deni told me. “Put the shoes back in the bag. It’ll keep their smell fresh for you. That way you can have a little treat with them tomorrow, if you want.”

“Can’t we just go on with your flats?” I asked, a little disappointed about the switch.

“I want to soften the experience,” she said with a mischievous tone to her voice. “And you know, in Asia the women still wear stockings, even with summer shoes. So imagine that I’ve taken my shoes off and my nylons are underneath, all damp and hot and so, so smelly. Like they stick to my feet and you really have to tug at them to get them off. If I was a proper Japanese lady, I’d be so embarrassed! And you can start jerking yourself. How about that? Just don’t come too quickly!”

I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by “softening the experience,” but I obeyed. And a moment later, I saw what she meant. The stockings were potent, but the fabric added a different sweetness, while still holding the subtle scent of my wife’s feet. I had to work just a bit harder to breathe it in, to get the full effect. As I pulled at my dick, I felt a tingling pleasure building slowly inside me.

We went on with the game. Denise had me switch off between the nylons and the socks with the split toes — “tabi,” as they’re called in Japan. They smelled just as wonderful as the nylons and flats, but cleaner, somehow. I guessed that was because of the cotton cloth, which was unusually fine. Finally, Deni had me slather my cock and balls with lubricant until they were gleaming. I could hear her sighing at the squelching sounds my hand made as I lubed up. I had an idea that if she put the phone down near her middle I could hear her wet pussy making a few squelches of its own. I didn’t doubt after all, that half a world away, my clever wife was playing with herself just as I was.

“I’m all barefoot now,” she whispered, her voice sounding ever so slightly sly. Something about the way she said it — “I’m all barefoot now” — really revved my motor. “And I’ve changed out of my work clothes into my pretty kimono. Can you see my bare feet?”

“Yes,” I said. Instead of picking up the photo, I picked up the scroll of painted footprints. I truly could see her feet through the marks on the scroll. The dried paint showed the tiny, delicate lines from her soles, and the way her smallest toes — her “baby toes” as she liked to call them — stuck out just a little on either side of her feet. Her second toes were just a bit longer than her big and third toes — a sign of royalty, she used to joke. The images her footprints conjured in my mind were as vivid as any photograph.

“The scroll. How did you make this?” I whispered. “Did you step in paint first or what?”

“Oh. Do you like that?” she asked, sounding pleased. “My friend Reiko painted my feet first, and I stepped on the paper.” She remained silent for a moment, and then, her voice slurred ever so slightly, making me imagine she was licking her lips as she said, “It tickled when she did that, y’know? I could barely keep a straight face.”

The throatiness of her voice had me jerking my cock like a wild man. I could just imagine the friend she had pressed into helping her make my present, the two of them sitting side by side — both of them barefoot, no doubt. Reiko would stroke Deni’s soles with a dripping paintbrush, teasing her into little fits of helpless laughter. I can’t say why, but the mental image turned me on like nothing else.

“Gonna come,” I gasped, my hand moving faster and faster.

“Not yet,” Denise said urgently. “Get the photo — I want you to be looking at me when you shoot. Looking at my feet. Do you have it?”

I did. God, she was beautiful in that kimono, her bare feet seeming to shine in the light. Was there a tiny stain of blue paint on one sole? I think there was.

“Love you,” I gasped, prepared to give myself up for real.

“Love you,” Denise sighed. “Oh, I can’t wait to see you again. I’m gonna make you lick my feet until I go nuts. And then my pussy. And then I’m going to suck your cock until — ”

I made a harsh, exultant noise then, right before my cock exploded all over my hand. Then, as I lay back breathing hard, I heard my wife kiss the receiver of her phone and breathlessly utter, “Good night, baby.”

A moment later, I was alone — except with Denise’s gifts, I wasn’t really alone at all.

And soon she’ll be back for real. I’m writing this letter on a Wednesday and she returns this weekend. I hope she went shoe-shopping in Japan. I bought some more plastic bags, just in case she has to make any more business trips.