ellafordbooks: Am I addicted? Of course not, I can give it up any time I want. I just like it, is al
ellafordbooks: Am I addicted? Of course not, I can give it up any time I want. I just like it, is all. Nothing more than that. I love that moment… you know? That moment when she smiles at me and settles down on her stomach, kicking her feet behind her like a cheerleader on a call with the high school quarterback. I love knowing what she wants, what she needs, that unspoken communication that passes between us like a telegraph signal. Our complementary desires, yin and yang, night and day, dark and light. I adore that moment when I slide her shoes off, knowing that she’s been wearing them all day long. I love the elegance of her style, I love the aesthetics of her footwear. It adds to the feeling that I’m unwrapping a gift. I enjoying taking my time, tackling the tiny buckles at her ankles with trembling fingers. It’s not nervousness that makes me shake though; it’s the excitement of anticipation, knowing what’s coming, knowing what awaits. I live for that first glimpse of her soles and that precious, electric moment when her toes are finally free, that blissful second where she can bend them back and spread them apart. I love the texture of her nylons, the way they seem so impossibly soft and inviting of touch, a gossamer thin barrier separating me from her but somehow transmitting the glory of her feet in every divine dimension. And the smell… oh lord, the smell. An anticipation at first, the first hint of it as I set her shoes down, then the full bodied aroma as I move closer in. I sigh as the memory and the reality of it clash within me. I close my eyes, freeing up room in my sensorium to experience it fully. I lean forward and press my nose between her toes, smothering myself with her, setting her foot at the center of my universe and orbiting around it. She smells of her, raw and unedited, subtle notes of shoe leather and perfume and sweat. Not gross, by any means, but invigorating, vital, alive. As the first scent of her fills my mind and animates my imagination, it conjures up notions and urges, hungers and needs… the awakening of desire. I picture the things we’ll do together, the things she’ll do to me, the things I’ll do to her. I breathe her again, taking her like a drug. I’m dizzy and light headed. She is intoxication given form, I’d drown in her if I could. She moans and squirms, moving her toes against my face, sliding her feet together as she lives out her own particular need. I pull her back, hold her legs still. I’m not done yet. I bury my face in her soles, breathing deeply, overwhelmed, as I always am, by that feeling of total contact, a thousand points of velvet softness on every inch of my skin. My sex aches, demanding and constant, insistent, aflame. A sudden dark thought occurs to me and I entertain it for a second. What if I didn’t have this? What if I hadn’t overcome my fears and told her what I wanted to do? What if she’d laughed at me or hated me, instead of nodding and licking her lips? But the thought is banished in a single second when she pushes her toes between my lips and the dizzying heights of smell are joined by the impossible delights of taste. I collapse back onto the floor, still holding her feet to my face, unable to let them go, unable to give them up, unwilling to entertain the possibility that this feeling should ever end… So… Am I addicted? No, of course not, I could give this up any time I wanted. Really. Seriously. Any time. I just don’t want to. -- source link
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