When I got home one afternoon, I found Theresa sprawled out on the couch, smiling sweetly at me. What made me do a double take was the fact that my girlfriend had her shoes off — and socks, as well. Both of the latter were folded neatly and thrust into her flats. It certainly wasn’t the first time I’d seen Theresa barefoot. I’d caught glimpses of her feet in the shower, and in the bedroom, of course, and she owned several pairs of open-toed shoes. But as you’ve probably guessed by now, it wasn’t exactly a regular occurrence.

I guess I’d better explain.

Theresa and I have been together for three years. In just about every way we’re compatible. We both love books, cooking and silly movies — and both of us have a thing about feet. That is, I’m turned on by them, and Theresa thinks they’re disgusting. She isn’t overly neurotic about it, but she usually doesn’t like anyone seeing her without shoes. But she has really nice feet. Even if you didn’t have a fetish, as I do, you’d say there were pretty sexy — as sexy as Theresa herself.

She’s tall, blonde and poised, with the kind of classy good looks that always remind me of movie stars from the ’40s. Her feet are slim and highly arched, her perpetual tan giving them a tawny color that contrasts so well with the maroon nail polish she favors. Her toes are evenly sized, except for the second toe of each foot, which extend well above the others.

Sometimes I would briefly rub her feet, and she seemed to like it. But she never actually asked for it, so I was always a bit careful about doing it. I never asked to kiss them or put my lips around those tasty toes. In every other way, our sex life was close to perfect, so I was content with my occasional glimpses of Theresa’s tootsies as a kind of seasoning to an already delicious dish.

I sat down beside her, and after a brief hesitation, she slid both of her feet into my lap. I have to admit I was thrilled. Having those gorgeous feet before me was like being granted a passport to paradise. But I wanted to make sure Theresa was comfortable before I moved ahead. I laid my hands on them and asked, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She squirmed a little, as if from embarrassment or a pleasure just deep enough to be hard to bear.

“I was reading something,” she said, “and I guess I got kind of curious.”

It took some coaxing, but she finally showed me what she had been reading. It was an article in a popular women’s magazine, and the title was something like “Does Your Man Love Your Feet?” It was about the care and feeding of foot fetishists, basically. I buzzed through it. The article was nice enough, with lots of lip-smacking details on how good a massage or a home pedicure could feel when performed by a devout footman. It also went into a fair amount of detail on how orgasmic a foot-love session could be. Theresa had obviously been more than a little excited by that.

“I thought feet were disgusting,” I teased. I was perhaps taking a risk there. This about-face on Theresa’s part was certainly nothing I wanted to discourage, but I couldn’t quite help myself.

“Can’t a girl change her mind?” she pouted, pressing a foot against the rather noticeable bulge in my trousers. “You know, all this time I’ve watched you worshipping my feet from afar, I’ve always sort of wondered what it would be like to give in to your cravings. Reading that article finally convinced me to give you a shot.”

With that, she leaned back on the cushions, pressing her toes against my leg. What a thrill that was!

“So what are you waiting for?” she asked, dropping me a sultry wink.

I didn’t need any more encouragement than that. Excusing myself for a moment, I slipped into the bathroom and retrieved a bottle of baby oil from the medicine cabinet. We’d bought it to use for backrubs, but I had other plans for it now. I paused to soak a washcloth in warm water, then grabbed a few towels, and soon I was back with Theresa’s tootsies in my lap. I anointed them with a generous handful of oil and got to work rubbing.

Excited as she obviously was, it still took Theresa a moment or two to really relax. Her feet were a little ticklish, and I had to work around that. I also noticed her keeping an eye on me, obviously worried that at any minute I would come to my senses and get grossed out by the experience of touching her feet. Well, that didn’t happen, obviously, and soon enough she began to get into the steady sensations of my hands enveloping her feet, letting them slide rhythmically between my oil-slickened fingers.

As I’ve said, our sex life in general is good — enviably good — and Theresa herself is a very sensual woman. She responded to my foot massage with the same deep pleasure she would to having her shoulders rubbed or her breasts caressed. I watched her eyelids flutter shut and her lips part slightly as she sighed with enjoyment.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”

I tugged at her long second toes, firmly enough to make the joints crack, and rubbed spirals on the balls of her feet with both my thumbs. Once I had Theresa so relaxed as to seem almost like a boneless mass of sighing, whispering pleasure, I made a second quick supply run — this time to our bedroom. Our dresser contained a small box of powdered sweetness called honey dust that came with a fluffy, feathery applicator. It was actually a birthday present to me from Theresa, but we hadn’t gotten around to using it very often. But that was something I planned to remedy that night. It was the perfect opportunity.

Back at the couch, I found Theresa ready for more fun. That was putting it mildly, actually. As I sat down, she caught me around the waist with her long legs.

“Where were you?” she asked teasingly. “I was starting to think you’d run out on me.”

“Never,” I assured her, watching her eyes widen and her mouth form an “O” of astonishment as she saw the fluffy applicator.

“Oh, are you going to use that on my feet?”

“I sure am. Right after I get that oil off.”

I proceeded to do exactly that, using the damp washcloth from my first trip, and one of the spare towels to dry off her feet afterward. She squirmed and gasped as I coated her feet with the honey dust. Her toes wriggled helplessly as I ran the feathered applicator over and between them.

“Won’t it…won’t it be gross?” Theresa whimpered. She was still hanging on to some of her old anxiety about her feet. I knew I had to put that to rest before we progressed to the evening’s main course. So instead of answering her, I luxuriously licked and sucked on her feet. God, it was amazing. The sweetness of the honey dust combined with the silky softness of her feet was unbelievable. And my tongue soon had Theresa all but weeping for mercy, twisting about on the couch as though the pleasure was just short of unbearable. The sounds coming out of her mouth were a mixture of pre-orgasmic cries, ticklish giggles, pleas for mercy and pleas for me not to stop under any circumstances. She had pulled her blouse open and was fingering her rosy nipples, using the sensation to complement the exquisite pleasure I was delivering to her toes.

And now, I judged, we were finally ready for the main course. I dusted her feet some more and went to work on her soles with both my tongue and the very edges of my teeth. I allowed myself to be a little rougher, biting as well as kissing, thrilling Theresa with little twinges of almost-pain along with the almost-tickles. And I was doing it with a definite rhythm, carrying her toward the ultimate pleasure.

Theresa was continuing to play with her tits and used her free hand to unzip her slacks and press the edge of her palm against her increasingly hungry pussy. I felt her growing steadily more excited as she pressed her soles against my mouth.

“Do it to me,” she gasped. “Oh God, do it. Suck my feet!”

By that point, I had isolated a couple of especially tender spots on her feet, zeroing in on them and driving her crazy with licks and nibbles. Soon, I knew, she was going to reach her climax.

When her orgasm hit, she sat up with a sudden shout, then fell back onto the cushions, her damp feet tumbling back into my lap.

“Oh hell,” she said, half laughing. “What did you do to me?”

Before I could answer, I felt her feet returning to my crotch, pressing against my rigid tool with the same rhythm I’d used on her. She caught my knob through the material of my trousers, squeezing it between her big and second toes. She struggled a little trying to get my zipper down with her tootsies, and soon she gave up in favor of her fingers. I’m surprised she didn’t just tear my zipper right off!

I was glad she opened my pants because my dick was so hard it hurt and my briefs were soaked with pre-come. The feeling of her fingers on my rod was heavenly, but when she pressed it between both her feet, it was nothing short of incredible. Soon she began jacking me off in earnest. There was just enough slickness from the oil lingering on her beautiful soles to make it a delicious journey. I shut my eyes and let myself lean back on the couch, enjoying every moment of it.

“You’re not the only one who knows tricks with feet,” she told me, panting steadily as she worked my dick, the queen of all foot jobs. “My magazine went into a lot of detail on how to please your fetish guy. You’ll see, I’ve been taking notes.”

“You don’t think your feet are gross anymore, I take it?” I managed to utter, as my balls started tightening up. I hadn’t dropped a load in a good long time. I was looking forward to shooting this one.

“I think you fixed that, for good,” Theresa said with a wicked smile. “Now shut up and come on my toes, foot boy. I want to see a big squirt from you.”

And just a few minutes later, I delivered.