How a kind lady helped my nylon and foot fetish

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I thought I would share something that happened to me when I was 16, that has stayed in my memory for years. We lived in the north of England when I was growing up. And although not rich we had a cleaning lady who came during the week, she looked after me during the school holidays while my mum and dad were at work. I thought things might change as I got older, but they didn’t trust me to be in on my own all day, probably get into trouble or something. I was an only child, and I’ve always thought that made me a bit precious, and them a bit over-protective. At the time the events in this story took place I had just turned 16. I think Jean, the cleaner, must have been about 40 or so, maybe a little younger. She was a nice smiley lady, not very tall, almost too skinny, and, to be honest, a bit plain but with beautiful shiny long dark hair. She was always very friendly to me but what really sticks in my mind now is the way that Jean dressed. She always, like it was a uniform, wore a tight black sweater, black knee length pleated skirt and lovely tan nylons which crinkled enticingly behind her knees and around her ankles when she bent down. I fancied her so much though, probably because she was there, and probably because she was friendly to me and just maybe a little bit flirty. She made a nice cup of tea anyway. At 16, I wasn’t exactly hard to please as far as women go. I fancied all of them if they looked even half attractive. I’ve also loved nylon stockings and feet for as long as I can remember, on the legs obviously, but more importantly the way they caressed ladies feet making them warm and soft and beautiful to look at and, I imagined, to touch. Although I can’t recall ever actually having an excuse to touch a pair of attractive nylon covered feet when I was young. If only. But Jean always wore nylons, even in a heatwave, and I literally dreamt about slipping one of her silky stockings, fragrant after a day hard at work, over my head for some reason. It seemed the ultimate act of intimacy. Jean also had several pairs of really pretty shoes, open toe wedges, ankle boots and soft black high heeled court shoes. Each morning, she would slip off her shoes, and put on a pair of flip-flops to do the housework in. The flip-flops pulled the nylons tightly between her long perfect soft brown nylon toes – always with red nails – painted the same colour for the years we had her working for us. She must have seen me staring at her feet countless times when she was talking to me. Sometimes I wasn’t listening to what she was saying to me. Most of the time I imagined her ‘asking’ me to kneel down and kiss her feet and tell her how beautiful they were. We all have fantasies about women doing things that they are not in the least likely to do unprompted in real life don’t we? I have since spoken to women who have not the slightest idea that so many men are fascinated by their feet, stockings and shoes. They think them rather ordinary fashion items, rather like skirts or hats. Preposterous! This has always made me think thus: If a woman lavishes so much care on her feet, smoothing them, painting the nails, wearing ankle chains, sheer stockings, impractical high-heeled shoes and boots, some with with peep-toes (peep-toes for fucks sake, a fetishist’s charter1). They surely ‘must’ do it Ankara escort because they know someone is looking. These fussy girls have always been ‘my kind of girls’. They seem to understand the lure of the beautifully turned out foot. But these days, it is my wife who keeps her feet soft and pedicured for me, lovely woman. I am only too happy to satisfy her desire to buy pretty shoes and boots. Always the dearer makes of shoes though, only good quality leather gives the foot the truly divine sexual fragrance when it is slipped off. And leather holds onto the smell of the warm foot forever, encouraging those with a mind to, to hold the shoe over the nose and mouth and breathe in the heavenly scent of soft warm nylon covered feet. At the best of times, with the wearer watching this peculiar fetish unfolding in front of them. My wife watches me smell her shoes, and claims it turns her on. It might do I suppose. I went out with a girl once who was happy to wear stockings all the time (she even liked to sleep with one over her head sometimes) but who thought expensive shoes were a waste of money, when cheaper synthetic shoes ‘looked’ just as good. She came in from work one very hot summer day and slipped her tarty red shoes off in my lap – So far so good – but the awful way her cheap shoes had made her feet smell nearly made me throw up. Ladies, please only buy nice leather shoes if you want your man to kiss your feet. However, I digress… We shall return to Jean though, and my rather obscure fetishistic desires regarding her. The real start of the tale is that when she took off her shoes each morning before starting work she would leave them downstairs in the laundry room by the back door, and when she went upstairs, and I could hear her doing the vacuuming I would always have a good sniff of her freshly worn shoes or boots, and most times have a quick wank while I had them tightly pressed over my nose. For as long as I could hear the vacuum cleaner whirring away upstairs, I was safe. Thinking about her soft nylon feet and those shiny red nails teasing me, thoughts of her, with a stocking pulled over her head, urging me on to lick her feet and press my face into her soft warm nylon soles, meant it never took long. This was a pretty bizarre and remote fantasy, but they’re the ones that really get the juices flowing. One morning she turned up early. Me, still half-asleep in my dressing gown, her, smiling and beamingly chatty as usual. “Yes Jean, it is a lovely morning. No I haven’t got anything specific in mind to do today. Yes Jean, I would like a cup of tea. No Jean, I won’t use all the hot water. etc etc.” But in my 16 year old fevered imagination it was, “Jean, is there any chance you could make me your slave for the day and let me worship your beautiful feet before dragging me up to bed and demanding that I satisfy your pent up sexual urges once and for all. In fact Jean, why don’t you just say to me, I’ve always fancied you Peter, now get down on your knees and suck my sexy toes before you fuck me you naughty boy.” I can feel a boner coming on thinking of this while she’s standing in front of me, and I start to worry that I’m wearing nothing under my dressing-gown. I haven’t worn pajamas for years, only a T-Shirt in Winter. Aaaargh! Balgat escort bayan Winter, snowmen, sledges, Christmas trees, Father Christmas, reindeer – Think of anything to make this hard-on go away. It’s not like she ever seems to notice this sort of thing anyway, I quite often have quite an impressive bulge in my jeans when she’s talking to me and I’m drooling over her legs and feet. I’m beginning to think she might be completely uninterested in sex at all really sometimes. I’ve always thought a bit of Mrs. Robinson action would be nice, and I think am a good looking boy, though I say it myself, but from Jean, nothing – It’s all about the tea now. Nothing much was actually happening in our house these days, and the school holidays were starting to drag and become a little tedious. But Jean, oblivious to my latent urges, started to talk about needing some more dusters. Mum went out to work, and when the front door shut, Jean made us both a cup of tea as usual and then went upstairs with the vacuum, leaving her dainty soft bright red ankle boots in the back kitchen. All of her shoes were quite expensive and she had a pair of peep-toed black leather wedges that held her scent better than any of the others, but they must have cost a packet – so did her husband not think this an extravagance? Maybe not, maybe he was like me? I had a good smell of Jean’s boots and shoes whenever I could, sometimes just in passing like a drug addict, managing not to have a wank. But as the endless wanking and sniffing went on over the weeks, I got a little bit more daring, took more risks and sometimes took one of my mother’s stockings out of the laundry basket and slipped it over my head, wishing it was one of Jean’s, but enjoying the perfumed softness anyway. If the vacuum cleaner stopped, I would quickly put the shoe or boot back with it’s pair and whip the stocking mask off. Never a problem, there was always plenty of time to look innocent and hide my stiff cock. Today, as I said, I was only wearing my blue dressing gown and I went through the usual routine – Listen for the vacuum to start, all clear – then I knelt down by Jean’s soft red boots, slipped the nylon stocking over my head and holding her right boot tightly over my nose and mouth inhaled the scent of her lovely sweaty feet and took and myself in hand for a quick wank. The nylon on my face, the thought of her polished toes winking at me through her stockings, the smell of her feet and the leather of the boot always made me come quickly. My latest thought of her gasping with delight as I sucked her toes was getting me right to the edge in record time, and then the door opened… I looked up and Jean was there in the doorway. She had come downstairs without bothering to switch the vacuum off. Looking wide-eyed right at me, pumping away, smelling her pretty little size 5 boot, which I dropped, and as she walked towards me I could only focus on her feet, her skinny painted toes and her silky nylon legs and I couldn’t hold back – I came in my hand and tried to hold onto the mess of come, but it trickled through my fingers and some dripped onto her boot. The shame! I pulled off the stocking mask and then I just froze and felt sick. I can’t remember who said what first. I was saying that I was Escort Batıkent sorry, sorry, sorry, Jean please don’t tell anyone. She just said, “Peter. What do you think you’re doing? What on Earth do you think you’re doing?” I stood up and thought she might possibly not have seen everything I’d done, but she wasn’t actually angry or anything, just totally shocked I think. After all, I was only a boy she’d known for ages, not some old pervert, and she was a grown woman. I do know she had a couple of teenage sons and a daughter, so looking back I expect she knew about young boys wanking all the time. Two times a day, sometimes three, sometimes just because I’d seen a fit woman on TV with nice legs and a pair of sexy shoes on. Afternoon TV was always good for that. No wonder I was tired all the time. “If you’re going to make a sticky mess like that, you really ought to clean it up and not leave it for me to do – Don’t you think Peter?” She was pretty firm and businesslike about it, and I felt two inches tall. She stood quite still and just looked on with a rather blank expression, while I knelt back down and started trying to wipe my come off her boot with my mother’s stocking. With my own mother’s stocking! I was trembling, and actually felt quite tearful, but then she just turned around and went back upstairs. And now she would tell my mum and dad, probably leave the job, leaving me in a world of trouble and shame. I could hardly speak to her again, but she came and went as usual, and after a few days I gathered that she hadn’t and probably wasn’t going to say or do anything. My parents didn’t act any differently towards me. Not that I felt too good, I couldn’t speak to her and tried to avoid her as much as I could. When I saw her shoes by the back door, I felt sick, remembering coming all over her boot, kneeling in front of her with a nylon stocking over my head. I didn’t wank at all for a whole 24 hours after that! But thankfully she was quite friendly to me shortly after it had happened, and looking back once more, I can see that it was probably no big deal to her, she seemed to have forgotten about it anyway – Jean may have been flattered in a funny way. Was that even slightly likely? My reasoning behind thinking this is an incident that happened two weeks after ‘the biggest mistake I ever made’. I was sitting at the kitchen table finishing my morning cup of tea, when a pair of hands clapped over my eyes, I knew it was Jean, her hands smelt of polish, and she was laughing just as she always did. “Surprise Peter! – Who is it?” “It’s you Jean” I was so pleased that she seemed to have forgotten things and that I wasn’t going to be exposed to my parents as a sick deviant foot fetishist who smelt women’s shoes and masturbated wearing one of his mother’s stockings over his head. It sounds bad doesn’t it? I’ll leave it off my CV. This sort of thing isn’t really for public consumption. Probably make the papers in a small northern town. Perish the thought. But when I looked round at her, she had one bare leg and one stockinged leg. I don’t think I’d seen her bare feet before, her bare foot was pink and lovely, the red nails gleamed. I kept on looking up and I saw that Jean had taken off one of her own stockings and pulled it down over her head, just as I had done, and she was giggling and looking at my shocked face. “Do I look nice Peter? Does this look pretty? Do you like this? Hand over the money!” Her face was all squashed up under the stocking, just as it was in my dreams, and she just stood there smiling through the nylon at me, looking really weird and kinky.

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