I don't know if you realize how sexy you are to me sometimes. I don't mean when you're trying to be sexy. I mean when you're just being yourself, and you do something that makes my cheeks hot and my hands itch to touch you. Sometimes you just lie on your front and kick your feet up, and cross them at the ankles. The Pose, we call it. Us fetishists. And your feet tempt me. You don't even look like you think about them when you're in that position, but it's /all/ I can think about when you're in that position. Sometimes I fantasize about you in The Pose. I imagine myself coming over and straddling your thighs and burying my face in your feet. I can't admit that to your face, but it's true. I could just sit on your thighs and play with your feet for hours. You wouldn't even have to acknowledge me, just let me have my weird fetish until I tire myself out. I can imagine what it'd be like. I can feel the softness of your fur along your arch, the springy, fleshy pads, the blunted nails lightly scratching. I can imagine how they'd feel on my cheeks, and under my tongue, how the fur'd part and align with itself as I groom you. I can imagine how they smell. That's even harder to talk about, almost impossible, even like this. The smell part. The part that's weird even to me, that makes the rest of my brain distance itself from whatever region is responsible for that fetish, like, no, I don't know how that got there, it must be some kind of mistake. I'd never be able to tell you how your feet smell to me and how it makes me wet, but not because I can't describe it. I know exactly how to describe it. I just can't say it to your face. I can picture the little minute twitch of your legs as my nose nudges into the crook of your toes. You do it every time I touch your feet for the first time. I'm not even sure you're aware you do it. You twitch back and then allow the reflex to stand down, and let the slight tickle of air between your toes morph into pleasure. You submit to it. You let me do whatever I want to your feet. Sometimes my fantasy gets confused, because I try to do everything at once. I bury my nose in your toes, I run my tongue up your soles, I nuzzle cheek-to-arch, I suck your big toe and lap at the pad, I do all of them at the same time and they all blend into a confusing miasma of sensations. Sometimes I can pick one. Sometimes I just have to accept the jumble. But the next part is very clear. My hand slides into my panties and I rub my clit. Your feet never leave my face. In fact, most of the time, you don't move or speak. You don't stop doing what you're doing, reading, or typing, or whatever. My fantasy is selfish, I know that. It's self-centred. It objectifies you and reduces you to something that I enjoy, regardless of what you might feel. Fantasy is fantasy. I'd never do that to you, not actually. But on the right day it can make me drip to think about you like that. I'm always super wet when I masturbate to this. Sometimes I straddle a pillow to simulate your legs. Sometimes I press my socks to my nose and pretend the smell is yours. I know, I'm fucked up. But it feels too good to stop doing it, and I haven't worked up the courage to ask you for your socks yet. I imagine sucking your toes like a cock, or running my tongue in between them, getting into all the secret places you forget have nerve endings until suddenly they're singing with pleasure. I follow the map of my own feet, of course I do. I imagine that you feel what I'd feel if you did that to me. I told you, it's not really about you, just the idealized you as a pleasure object. I want /you/ to feel good when I lick, or sniff, or fellate, or kiss your feet, as good as I would. And I want to feed off of that pleasure and use it as permission to feel good about it, too. I still need permission to feel okay about my fetish. I can't convince myself it's not unacceptably weird, not permanently. So I don't talk about it, don't ask about it, until I get pent-up and write an embarrassing confession like this to vent all the feelings I've got bottled up about it. The bottom line is, I think your feet are really fucking hot. And I'd never do anything you wouldn't want, but I fantasize about lots of things I'd do if you gave me the permission I'm too afraid to ask for.| --- Cayen stared at her screen, face burning. It was a brutally frank message in some ways, and an obfuscating one in others. For one, she never used her recipient's name, but then, she didn't even start with a greeting, and she hasn't typed a farewell. It wasn't really a letter, to her. It was just an in-media-res look at five minutes of her feelings about the subject. She fixated on the send button, and it felt like a cliff, a contract, and a way out all at the same time. She deliberately wrote all this without ever once considering that she'd have to send it. Could she really bare her soul like that? She could feel the itch in her hands, and let it build, and slowly stood down her mental defenses, growing more impulsive. She waited for the inevitable moment when she mentally said fuck it, let 'em all in, and reached for the mouse, flicked the cursor up to the button with all the precision of a sniper, and clicked. It took half a second. Any longer than that and she'd chicken out. A little whoosh sounded from her computer's speakers, as the email sent. She closed the tab so the 'undo' button wouldn't stare her in the face. She closed her eyes and waited. -bong- A chime sounded behind her. The apartment got very quiet. It was a hot, pregnant silence, and the more she waited, the more dread filled up in her. She hated her two-minutes-ago self for putting her in a position where all she could do is wait for her partner to accept or reject her. She didn't turn around, but an ear was trained right on the recipient of her confession, waiting for her to finish reading. It took a long time. She tracked it like it was vitally important she know how long the pause was, like somehow it would make her feel better. Six minutes and twenty-two seconds later, the silence broke. "You could, if you wanted to," Glire said. Cayen felt herself tear up as the tension gave way. She was so wound up that any reaction would have made them come. She had to process it several times, double-check it, triple-check it, to make sure she didn't misinterpret it. She tried to poke holes in the wording, anything, forcing herself to try and pick apart the thing that looked like exactly what she was hoping for, and she couldn't. There it was. Her permission. Slowly, deliberately, she got up from her computer chair and went over to her futon, where Glire was lying on her front, in The Pose. She leaned over and wrapped Glire up in a long, silent hug. And then she knelt on Glire's thighs, pressed her cheeks to her soles, and indulged.