Public Foot Fun

It's just amazing to me, and I continue to learn about the power of being a sexy slut.

I recently received a large assortment of Manolo Blahniks from an admirer in New York who, I guess works in a high-end shoe store and sends them due to his devotion to me. Sweet huh?

Those of you who know your sexy Italian shoes know what a great thing this is. Those of you who don't know Manolo's from Choo's remember this...Manolo's are Italy's finest sexy shoe with little strappy stilettos going for up to $1,700 a pair.

As I was saying, he sent me a box of at least a dozen of the latest styles. So I offered to take him to lunch on my next trip to New York. That trip was a quick in and out in one day last Wednesday.

I went to my morning meeting dressed somewhat conservatively for me but knowing full well that I was having lunch with my horny, foot-fetishist fan after the meeting. I wore a classic, kind of a Pucci print dress, (those of you who know this know what I mean, those of you who don't...well it doesn't matter) that ended just above my knee, but underneath I was wearing a La Perla garter belt with FF stockings and topped them off with bright orange Manolo peep-toe pumps! From the collection he just sent.

Oh, did I tell you that there were no panties? Yup, free-range hairless beaver. Not that rare in New York but it still gives me a little thrill to know that a slight puff of breeze on the street could result in a twelve-cab pileup.

So lunchtime comes.

He wants to go to the fabulous Four Seasons. This is the bastion of powerbrokers and old-fashioned New York business.

Anthony is a nice looking, fit guy about 5'8" dark, well groomed, in a $5,000 Brioni suit. The waiter comes to take our drink order and Anthony defers to me. I order a bottle of Pellegrino and a Pommard. The waiter leaves to fetch our drinks and Anthony and I are making small talk about the weather, travel, my new video, and all the time, he can't take his eyes off my stunning shoes and perfectly manicured toes.

So I decide to have a little fun.

As Anthony is sitting across from me, I decide to slide my legs under the table and run my right foot up his leg a few times. He is visibly upset and tries to maintain his cool, but he is turning a bit red and beginning to sweat around the collar.

Anthony lowers his head a bit and looks up at me with those "I'm so horny I could burst" eyes. He reaches to unbutton his collar, but I tell him no! I whisper to him to remain poised. Anticipation is well more than half the fun. Don't you agree?

Is that Mayor Bloomberg over in the corner having lunch with Woody Allen? Could be, but my companion only has eyes for me.

As Anthony tries to maintain his composure, our drinks arrive. He is perspiring. I make a few more moves up his leg with my shoe, and get perilously close to his groin. He is quietly gasping. He grabs for the water, and I tell him, no. I will let him know when he can drink. The waiter pours me a tall glass of Pellegrino and a nice glass of the French red. I tell the waiter to leave my companion's glass empty.

I take a long satisfying pull from my water glass ending it with an audible "ahhhhhhh". Then reach for a sip of the red. Delicious. Anthony hasn't moved.

Slowly, I run my foot into his crotch and begin grinding my stiletto heel into it. He closes his eyes in pain/pleasure. But quickly has to pull himself together as the waiter has reappeared for our order.

I get the small salad (a girl has to watch her figure you know) and Anthony orders something or other that we all know he's not going to eat. The waiter leaves and I continue my exquisite torture.

Is that "the Donald" working the room? I'd know that hair anywhere. Ah well, what does it matter.

Our small talk has degenerated into my monologue about Anthony's fondness for my feet and the agony he is undergoing in this very public place. Anthony just grunts one-word responses, in an effort to maintain his composure.

Our meals arrive. I begin nibbling on the greens, move to my second glass of the wine, and empty the water. Anthony has a not had a morsel of food or a drop to drink.

As I eat, and entice each bite with my tongue and lips, I instruct him to remove the shoe from my foot that is in his crotch. Slowly. He does so, and oooooohs as his hands touch the warm leather of the Manolos.

Then I tell Anthony that I would like a foot massage while I eat. He almost goes comatose when he actually feels the real nylon of the FF stockings...none of that Lycra Spandex stuff. This is the real, smooth deal.

As Anthony gently massages my sole, he rubs my foot on the obvious erection in his pants. I encourage that by moving my foot up and down as he massages it.

I continue to nibble on my salad as Anthony has been transported into his own fetishized world of my nylon covered foot. He is practically sweating through his dress shirt, with beads beginning to drip down his forehead.

Oh, "the Donald" just walked by our table to the restroom...well, I'm a little tied up right now for that adventure.

I notice Anthony is breathing heavier now and really focused on the sensation my nylon toes are providing. Geez, I hope he doesn't pass out. I can feel a little wet spot on the bottom of my foot where the precum has probably soaked through his trousers. Sweet torture!

As I see the waiter approaching to get our dessert order, I move my foot quickly up and down forcefully on Anthony's crotch so that just as the waiter arrives...you guessed it, my companion is nutting in his pants like a stallion. While the waiter is standing right here.

While Anthony is convulsing like he's having a small seizure (but in reality, the orgasm of his life), the waiter asks if Anthony needs medical attention. I whisper to the waiter "no, I'm sure he'll be alright in a moment". Which of course he was. I got a knowing wink from the waiter.

I ordered the crème brulee and watched as Anthony recovered his composure. His breathing began to relax.

But my foot was really damp from the gallon of sperm that seeped through Anthony's pants. So I ordered him to go under the table to lick my stocking foot clean. He dove under the table almost before I could finish the sentence.

He was completely hidden under the tablecloth and as the waiter appeared with my dessert. The waiter motioned to the now empty chair. I silently motioned to under-the-table and he smiled and winked at me. Again.

As I cracked the burnt sugar topping on the crème brulee, my right leg was crossed over my left under the table and my companion was licking at my foot hungrily. After a short while, I handed him a napkin to dry it and instructed him to replace the shoe on my foot.

I completely finished my dessert (don't judge, I only had a salad) and asked for the check. After leaving a huge tip, (it was my treat after all, or was it), I got out of my chair and left. Damn if my little bald kitty wasn't excited and I left a little damp spot on my chair. My companion was still under the table and to this day I wonder how he gracefully extracted himself.

But right on schedule, I received flowers and another box of Manolo's today. How sweet. The power of a slut.

I hope to see him again soon.

xoxoxoxo, madison