1 comments/ 23818 views/ 14 favorites Sore Feet By: techsan Note: the author expresses his appreciation to user Outrabutterfly for her efforts in editing this story. "Hi. How's my favorite checker?" I asked. I'm sure some men would have laughed at me and the way I thought of her as sexy. She was pudgy, with a little extra roll around her middle and a small bulge below the waist line of her jeans. She obviously had small boobs, although her uniform shirts always hid them well. However she also had a great shape in the seat of those jeans and that always made me look twice ... and then again and once more too. "Good" she said. "Except my feet are killing me. I can't wait until I get off." Loren was always pleasant and talkative, unlike a lot of clerks in the area, and we had talked often. "When is that?" She glanced at the clock on the outer store wall. "Ten minutes. Just ten minutes. That's $25.98. Hey, I don't suppose you could give me a ride home, could you?" "Sure. I'll meet you out front, okay?" I took the two little bags of groceries and headed for my car. After I put them in, I walked the 30 feet back to the entrance and waited until she came out, then showed her to my car. She slumped into the passenger's side seat as I drove. She said it was only a couple of miles but her car was in the shop and her feet just hurt too much to walk it again. "I'm pretty good at giving foot massages" I said. "Want one?" "Are you kidding?" she replied. "Of course I do. Come on in" as I pulled into a driveway at her direction. Wearily she climbed out and unlocked the door, then walked into the kitchen and plopped into a straight-backed chair. I pulled one up in front of her and, lifting her feet to my knees, took off her white sneakers and bobby socks. I had barely touched her reddened feet than she began to moan. It was almost as if I was making love to her. Especially when I eased my thumb right up the center of each foot's sole or right along the base of each toe, she would moan and sigh and roll her head as if she were hot to trot. She tossed in a few words of encouragement like "Oh, yes, that feels so-o-o-o good!" For a while I worked on one foot and then the other with both hands. Then I worked on both at the same time with one thumb covering the sole of each foot. She seemed to like it all and I was thinking that it wasn't so bad for me either, except that I had gotten a raging hard-on watching and listening to her. Nevertheless I hid it and kept massaging ... although the heels of her feet rested right in my crotch. I'd been at it for a good quarter hour when she asked "How about rubbing my calves, hon?" I shifted my hands up the backs of her legs and ran my fingers along her taut calves but the heavy denim of her jeans made it hard to work. Still I tried but after a bit, she stood up and said "Close your eyes and don't look." When she sat back down, her jeans were on the floor and her legs, again propped on my knees, were bare. I couldn't help but let my eyes travel up her legs. She was wearing black bikini panties that covered her crotch and a small patch above it but not much else. Again my phallus jumped and pumped fresh blood into the already engorged length. I rubbed her calves, up one side and down the other. I spent time working around her ankles. I ran my hands up to her knees and very carefully worked around her kneecaps and rubbed lightly on the backside. After a bit, I noticed that every time my hands stroked up her calves, her knees moved just slightly further apart, until I was getting a good view of the crotch of her panties. In the process, she was also sliding slowly down in the chair as her bottom inched forward each time her knees moved. She patted the tops of her thighs "Feel how tense these muscles are. Can you do something with them?" I felt of them and they were tight from standing on her feet all day. I began to rub them and slowly they started to relax but as they did, my hands seemed to naturally move more to her inner thighs. Was that my wishful thinking or really a natural result of her muscle soreness? Her face, which was usually flushed so that she always appeared to have rosy cheeks, had become red all over. Finally she put a hand under each knee and lifted "Can you do anything for my hamstrings? They're really tight too." The sight that I saw was almost more than I could stand. The curve of her pretty butt, where it joined her legs, the puffiness of her pussy hidden by the tiny bit of cloth, the white expanse of her upper legs raised in the air. I almost lost it. Instead I dropped to my knees and awkwardly began to massage the backs of her upper legs, working from her knees down toward her bottom, increasing the length of my strokes until ... my fingers touched her crotch. Immediately she grabbed the cloth strip, pulled it to one side and asked "Can you do anything for this?" I dove in, my tongue finding sweet spots everywhere. One hand held the panties to one side as my tongue went exploring. Her legs settled on my shoulders and I realized that she had slumped down so far that her back was in the seat of the chair. Like a hog at a freshly filled trough, I licked and sucked the full length of her crevice, finding and attending first to her clit, then her vagina, then her anus and then back along the same trail over and over while she moaned and squirmed and encouraged me to not stop what I was doing. She shivered and shook and fresh flows of hot sweet pussy juice oozed out of her several times, keeping my tongue busy delving into her depths to lap up every drop it could find. I had no idea how many times she had cum but knew that I had been eating her for over a half hour when she began demanding "Stop! Stop!" I was taken aback but sat on my haunches. Loren scrambled up and grabbed my hand "Come on, honey. Hurry!" I got up and we ran into a bedroom. She dropped her panties and clawed at my clothes until we were both naked. Then she climbed into bed in a wide open missionary position and I took the honored place. I didn't even have to guide my rod into her hot box ... there was an invisible funnel that forced it into the right spot. I sank into her and lowered my head to her open mouth. We kissed just as my crotch ground into her pubis for the first time. I put one hand under her waist and moved it down so that my hand was under her great ass as I began slowly cycling out and back in. It was as luscious, delicious, as lengthy and pleasing a fuck as I could ever remember having. She was so delightful as she gave herself completely to everything I did. She seemed to be getting enormous pleasure from it, shaking and quaking and moaning and groaning, but I couldn't distinguish when one orgasm ended and another began so I didn't know how many times she came. When I could no longer hold back my own, I flooded her with a huge load of cum, taking seven shots to empty my pulsing balls. Ten minutes later, she turned to me with a serious look on her face and said "I want you to know that I'm a good girl. I do not ever go to bed with my customers. Not once before today. I am not the kind of girl that goes to bed with every guy she sees neither. I don't want you to think this will ever happen again either." "Loren, I understand. I think you're a wonderful woman. I didn't mean to take advantage of you. Its just that ..." "Shut up and let's do it again, honey" she said, tugging on my nearly erect cock. I climbed back in her saddle and not until 52 minutes later did the spit- and cum-swapping end. Loren padded into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee to perk, then returned to find me still in bed. The sight of her beautiful butt sent my cock rising again and I soon had her back in the bed, this time on her face and knees as I plowed her doggy style. I could have brought myself off quickly because of the fabulous feelings she gave me but I managed to prolong it for a while, even though holding on to those broad hips sent the most luscious cravings to my lust-filled brain. When I worked my thumb down her crack between us and began to massage her anus, she started cumming in that never-ending series again. I would have continued that forever but she got her hands on my scrotum and teased my balls into giving up their load and nothing I could do would have prolonged it. By then I was one spent dude. Three days later I was again in the grocery store to buy a loaf of bread. Loren spotted me and came hurrying down the aisle, saying loudly "Hi, there. How are you?" "Fine" I said, smiling. "How about you?" To my surprise, she hugged me tightly. As she let go, she said "Oh, I'm doing good." Then she lowered her voice and continued "You know, ever since the other day, my feet have had a funny tingling in them. I think maybe they need that foot massage thing again." Thirty minutes later, we embarked on a repeat performance, although this time the whole thing really commenced when we were both naked and on her bed. The massage ... feet, ankles, calves, knees, thighs, hamstrings ... came next, followed by a long succulent session of cunnilingus, a short blow job, a missionary fuck, a doggy fuck, a shower and then ... then the ultimate honor: she let me fuck her magnificent ass. That set a pattern for us that we have been following. She says she will keep working as long as she can get her regular foot massages. I think I know how she will get them. Sore Feet My feet hurt. My feet hurt and I was dizzy with hunger, not having eaten since breakfast that morning. I tried to cheer myself up with a bad Southern drawl, saying aloud to myself, "Ma dawgs is barkin'!" It didn't work. I walked down the street, same way I walk every night because I don't own a car - or even a bike, and tried to distract myself from my own dismal thoughts. I watched with some lazy interest as people sped by in their shiny SUVs and expensive cars, turning into oncoming traffic even though it was too small a break. I pondered the trend that demanded vehicles that were too big for single people, which guzzled gas and took up too much room on the planet; anything to take my mind off my feet, my hunger, and the fog surrounding me. Fog creeped me out, especially at night. I guess the correct term for someone like me is 'homichlophobe'... it didn't matter to me what a fear of fog was called; I just knew I had it. Since I was a kid, in fact -- sometimes it was so bad that I had to lock all the doors and windows, and even put towels on the floor so that the fog couldn't get in under the doors. Thinking about the fog while having to walk in it wasn't distracting me at all. I wished I could listen to the iPod in my purse, at least that would provide something to think of -- but I couldn't, because the wires of the earphones had been spliced four times, and the right ear bud had been crushed, and so cut off. When I listened to the music through just the one ear bud, I always felt slightly unbalanced. Plus, the sound quality left a lot to be desired. The blare of a car horn snapped me back to an awareness of my surroundings, and I saw another driver speeding her way to hell, with a car full of children along with her. Some people should be prevented from procreating, and some people should be prevented from driving. She should have been stopped from doing both. Oh, well. I saw a group of young teenagers materialize out of the fog ahead of me. I moved to one side of the walk, adjusting my grip on my pitifully light grocery sack. I'd stopped into the grocery store on my way home, and picked up a package of franks, and four packages of Lipton's Spaghetti, because it had been on sale -- two for ninety nine cents, what a deal, what a bargain. What a shitty dinner. The kids passed and one even nodded politely. That was nice. I kept trying to list the nice things I thought of, to pass the time and cheer myself up. It was a nice night. Though not really, what with the fog. It wasn't cold, which for November is always nice. But it was wet because of the fog, and I was getting a little chilled since I was only wearing my one good blazer. It was three years old, but it was a Nygard, and looked decent even though it was too big on me now, and the inner lining was all torn under the arms. But I took care of it so that it still looked alright to wear to work, though I couldn't do anything about the size of it. Three years, I thought in wonder. Where had it gone so fast? The blazer had fit me well when I'd bought it, but I'd lost a lot of weight since then. In the first of those three years I'd been so busy living life that the pounds had just melted away without my notice. The second year, I'd lost even more because of work-related stress. This last year, though, I'd lost weight through sheer heartbreak. It's funny, the human body. If you're trying to gain weight, you can't. If you're trying to lose weight, you can't. When you're not paying attention, your body takes over and does whatever it thinks is best. Anyway, it wasn't a terribly long walk home, which was nice. There was a pretty tiring hill, though, and the sidewalks were uneven in places, and my ankles would turn at least two or three times a week. It was nice that that hadn't happened tonight ... Yet. I'd just passed the onramp to the freeway when I realized there was someone coming up behind me on a bicycle. I moved to the side again, to let them pass, but I heard the bike slow as he came abreast of me. As he stopped, I looked over and saw it was a twenty-something boy, wearing the awful uniform of the young: ball cap with a flat bill, hoodie and jeans that had to be three sizes too big at the very least, and expensive sneakers. Not that they're called sneakers anymore, I thought vaguely. Now they're 'skateboard shoes' or 'basketball shoes' or some such. He was slightly unkempt for all the expense of his attire; his face carried at least a couple of day's worth of stubble. My eyes met his in the fog. He pulled his bike slightly in front of me, and I pulled to a stop. There was silence for just a moment, no traffic or crickets to break the bubble of isolation I suddenly found myself in. "Hey." He had a deep voice. He wasn't smiling, but I didn't feel menaced, either. "Excuse me." I replied carefully. "I'll excuse you after you hand over your purse, lady." Well, damn. My blazer must look better than I thought, but it just proved that guys don't look at shoes, because that would have been a dead giveaway as to the state of my finances. "Look," I began negotiating, hoping that if I talked fast enough, I'd distract him long enough for someone to happen by and notice my distress. "I don't have much money in my purse -- less than forty dollars, and there are no credit cards. My bank account is down to less than two dollars, so my debit card isn't going to help you. What I do have though, is pictures of my children." I paused only long enough to take a deep breath. "I will happily give you all the money in my wallet, even though it's the last of my money for the next two weeks -- I'm newly divorced you see, and he 'can't' pay support, so I'm trying to stay afloat on my own. But if you need the money more than me, I will gladly give it to you; just please let me keep my purse!" He gave a soft snort, and I just kept talking. "Look, all I want to do is get home so I can cook dinner for my kids -- see?" I showed him the franks and pasta in the grocery sack. "It's a pathetic dinner, and I feel like such a failure, but it's better than some of the dinners we've had lately. Do you know what it's like to know your kids are still hungry, and even though you've made do with a slice of toast for your own dinner, there's still nothing extra to give them? To have to buy the cheapest foods with no extras, and then have to listen to your kids rave about the dinners they had on their visit to their father's? Even though you know he's a loser living with his little girlfriend's mom, in her basement, and that there are six adults all working in that house that the mother owns outright... even though you know all that with your head, do you understand how it would hurt in your heart and soul to not be able to provide the same? To feel the frustration of going from a career that paid you nearly fifty grand a year to working for shit hourly wages because the hours allow you the most time with your children -- because of course you can't afford a sitter, and you don't want them home alone, especially with as emotionally damaged as they are at this time of their life!" He held up a hand and I stopped talking on a sob of a breath. I was suddenly mortified by what I'd revealed; I'm normally a very private person. His eyes were very wide, almost like a panicked horse; this was vaguely amusing, and I'm sure if I'd been an observer, I'd have laughed. "Listen, lady," he said, reaching into the pocket of his jeans. His hand went nearly to his knee because his pants were so droopy. "Keep your purse, keep your money. You need this more than I do -- you're breakin' my heart." When his hand came out of his pocket, it held a wad of cash, which he shoved into my hand. I stuttered, stunned, that he'd do something like this when he'd just tried to mug me. As he rode away, he called out, "Get the kids a pizza or something tonight; treat them!" I looked at my hand. There had to be at least fifteen - or twenty - hundred dollar bills! I distantly wondered where he'd gotten that much cash, if he'd robbed someone else, or if it was drug money. Then I closed my fist around those bills, shoved it into my pocket and hurried home; my feet still hurt, but right then, even that was nice. * All rights reserved © 2008