Nylon Feet Mega Bundle Page 12

  Over the course of the following week, I regained a semblance of sanity. I plunged myself into my work and my hobbies, never allowing myself even five minutes for my mind to wander. I played Warcraft obsessively, watched endless cult films and trawled the flea markets downtown for old comics that I hadn’t yet hoarded. All the while I avoided Monique entirely. I made sure that I didn’t leave my room until she’d left on a morning, and I steered clear of the kitchen when she was cooking. I became a strange creature of the night, cooking after dark and showering at midnight. With glacial slowness, my hormones returned to normal and I found myself able to focus on something other than female feet.

  And I firmly believe that I would have gotten away with it, if not for what I saw the following weekend.

  It was Saturday morning and early, about eight o’clock, and I was where any civilized human being should be at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning - fast asleep and not intending to be anywhere else any time soon. Abruptly, I was awakened by the sudden blare of a car horn outside the building. I moaned and turned over, sinking my head into the pillow and cursing whoever would be so inconsiderate at this time of day.

  “Aw, shoot!” came a voice from outside my room. Monique… “Coming!” she called out, and a distant part of me damned her to a painful death.

  I pulled the comforter up around my head and buried my ears in my hands, wishing that this godawful torture would end.

  Beep beep, the car horn blared again, insistent and urgent this time. I heard Monique’s door slam shut and the shuffle of a coat being pulled on, then the click click of heels on the wooden floor in the hallway. Finally, the door to the apartment slammed and banished any hope I had of falling asleep anytime soon.

  I mumbled something unrepeatable and pulled myself out of bed, shuffling to the window where I intended to make an elaborate hand gesture at my roommate.

  Pulling the drapes aside, I recoiled from the harsh glare of the early morning sun, then blinked to focus my eyes. I arrived in time to see Monique skipping down the steps at the front of the building to a waiting yellow cab. And here’s where the story starts to get strange…

  My roommate was dressed in a most peculiar way, one that made me gasp with surprise and confusion. She was wearing a short, cream trench coat, one that barely covered her ass. Not normally a problem, but she seemed to be wearing little else underneath. Except for, of course, oh cruel universe, a pair of sheer black pantyhose and shiny, black, high-heeled pumps. I watched her totter down the steps and across the sidewalk with rapt attention. Her skirt must be very short, I thought to myself, more curious than aroused, at least at first. Her legs looked impossibly long, freed from the terminating hem line of a modest skirt, and the heels looked unfathomably high.

  I felt a stab of jealousy as the taxi driver ogled her approach with lecherous eyes, wishing I could see what she looked like from the front. But she seemed to ignore him, and opened the rear door, lowering her body to sit down in the back of the car.

  And here’s where all my good intentions vanished in a single flash. As Monique bent down to enter the taxi, the absurdly short coat rode up her hips and revealed something that caused me to gasp and hold my mouth open like a slack-jawed yokel. My perplexing roommate was wearing no skirt, and no panties either while we’re at it!

  As she sat down, her slightly parted legs revealed the neat line of her pussy lips, trapped in the thin material of the sheer pantyhose and perfectly visible for all (me) to see! I must have gazed at that hypnotic sight for all of fifty milliseconds before Monique snapped her legs shut, slammed the door closed and the taxi drove off down the street. But the image burned in my mind and haunted my dreams for many weeks to come.

  I staggered backwards to my bed and collapsed backwards, breathing heavily and feeling a familiar warmth building in my loins. It was no longer possible to suppress it, no longer something I wanted to ignore. This was me, I had to deal with it.

  Oh fuck, I thought to myself as I lay there, I’m a fucking pervert!

  I never did find out what Monique was up to that Saturday morning, or where she was going. In fact, I hardly saw my roommate much after that week. She started working late and spending most nights out somewhere else. For the rest of the summer, Monique was living her own story and mine was only just beginning.

  Chapter 2: Miss Laura Todd

  If I think about it very carefully - and I do think about it very carefully - I’d say that Miss Laura Todd started coming into the library about a month or so before The Monique Incident. I can remember her tapping me on the shoulder one morning and asking if we had a quiet room where she could set up with her laptop and do some work. I stuttered and stammered something about the reference room and pointed to the back of the library, while fighting against a furious blush that was threatening to crawl all over my burning face.

  I hated it when the library patrons talked to me. I hated it when anyone talked to me! But Miss Laura Todd didn’t seem to mind. She simply smiled at me warmly and thanked me for my help. Then she stepped off across the pristine calm of the old library floor, her narrow heels clicking on the old stone floors and resonating in the perfect silence.

  I watched her leave, impressed by the stately air of the woman. She seemed strangely out of place in the muted greys and browns of the library. Her clothes were sharp and pristine and bright, a powder pink skirt suit with a finely cut jacket and a modest hemline. Her matching shoes were tall and pristine, stretching her long calves and tightening the muscle in a most pleasing way. But this was before The Monique Incident, so I caught myself staring and quickly looked away, keen not to linger too long on the endless length of her legs and certainly not to spend endless minutes pondering whether she was wearing pantyhose or not. Oh no!

  After that first morning, Laura Todd became something of a regular in the library, joining other frequent patrons like Old Mrs Gunderson and Homeless Joe. She’d arrive most mornings around ten o’clock and flash whoever was working on the desk a warm smile, then head directly for the reference room to spend two or three hours doing goodness knows what in the deserted back room. As far as I can tell, she never touched any of the books, and simply used the library’s internet connection. She was seldom disturbed - in the days of Wikipedia, who needed to look at dusty old books? - and never caused us any problems at all.

  About a fortnight after The Monique Incident, I found myself dragging the book cart around the library on a dreary Wednesday morning. The place was particularly quiet that day, with the usual clique of patrons mostly choosing to stay at home rather than brave the rain and damp for a trip downtown.

  The one exception was the ubiquitous Miss Todd. It seemed that nothing could stop this woman from setting up shop in the oppressive quiet of the back room, and she arrived at ten o’clock, on the dot, as she did every day.

  It was my turn to work the desk that morning, and I’d stared at her as she pushed her way through the front door. A distant part of me noted that she appeared utterly untouched by the pouring rain, yet carried no umbrella. Her peach skirt suit appeared as pristine and crisp as her clothes always did, and I wondered, briefly, if she might be a wizard or witch.

  “Hey, Jessica,” she whispered as she passed the desk, beaming at me with her perfect smile.

  I blushed, of course, and tried to mutter something coherent in reply. “H-hi Miss Todd, pleased to meet you,” I said and instantly screwed up my face in embarrassment. Pleased to meet you? Oh boy, what a klutz!

  Miss Todd simply smiled and nodded, looking slightly confused, then carried on walking.

  The rest of the morning dragged on and Miss Todd didn’t emerge from the back room. Eventually, I ended my desk shift and set about the dull but strangely comforting job of returning books to their proper place on the shelves. I put my iPod headphones on, cranked up some rousing thrash (to a respectable level for the library!) and headed to the reference room.

  When I got there, I found Miss Laura Todd’s usual spot empty.
The large, musty cubicle desk that she sat at everyday was scattered with her laptop, her mouse, her phone and various other personal possessions, but the woman was nowhere to be seen. I reasoned that she must have stepped out to the restroom, and didn’t think anything more of it. She was clearly comfortable enough in the safe space of the library to leave such expensive items unguarded.

  I headed down the room, past the row of desks, towards the tall stacks of bookshelves at the far wall. The cart was ladened with dusty old tomes and one of the wheels squeaked rhythmically as it rolled over the wooden floor, disturbing the perfect silence of the deserted room. So I parked it up at the side of the cubicle desks and took the single book that I needed to return to its shelf.

  As I passed by Miss Todd’s desk, I felt a sudden wave of curiosity, a need to know what the attractive older woman was up to every day. I glanced to my left and took a casual look at her laptop screen.

  I stopped and gasped audibly, frozen in place by what I saw. The laptop screen was dominated by an internet browser, displaying a single page. The page was gaudy and pink, an overwhelming assault on the senses that drew the eye to the content within and the fanciful logo that screamed the name of the site:

  “Kimmy’s foot palace”

  I looked around, my heart beating heavily in my chest, suddenly terrified that I’d be caught snooping. But there was nobody there and I calmed down slightly, then bent forwards to study the screen closer.

  It was clearly porn. Was this what Miss Todd used the internet for every day? To get off in public? I was appalled and aroused in equal measure, but most of all, I was fascinated by the content of the site. Beneath the site logo was row upon row of tiny thumbnails, each featuring a pair of girls in various poses. I leaned forwards, attempting to read the text beside one of the images:

  Kimmy and Jo have been friends for years. But Jo had no idea that Kimmy lusted after her hot, young feet. After a good night out, Kimmy decides to seduce her BFF and finally taste her delicious pantyhose toes!

  What the hell? Was Miss Todd into this stuff?

  My eyes flicked over the page, my mind reeling as I absorbed every sordid image and every enticing paragraph of text. I found myself unfathomably excited - thrilled by the sordid revelation and the prospect of getting caught.

  Then I noticed something else. Behind the browser window was another application, partially obscured, but perfectly identifiable. It was a video editing suite, and was currently loaded up with a frame of video showing a pretty blonde girl with her nose pressed into the sole of a nylon covered foot with painted toenails. I blinked, unsure what I was seeing, unable to piece it together quite yet.

  I looked back at the browser window, wondering what I was missing. And then I saw it, nestled away at the top of the page. A single link with three words that gave away the whole thing.

  Welcome, Admin User

  I stepped back and gasped. Miss Todd wasn’t spending her mornings getting off to porn. She was spending her mornings creating porn! This was her site, her business! My mind reeled, and I found myself feeling dizzy. What did this mean? Should I tell someone?

  Suddenly, I heard the outer door to the reference room creak open and I realized that she was returning from wherever she’d been. My heart stopped and I panicked, unsure what to, desperate not to get caught and go through an uncomfortable conversation about what I was doing snooping on Miss Todd’s computer.

  I looked around the room, aware that I had seconds before the inner door opened. As the second door began to move, I acted and dropped to my knees, then pushed past the chair and crawled under the desk, pulling myself as far back under the large surface as I could, then drawing my knees up to my body. You know, the kind of thing a sane and rational adult human being would do!

  Miss Todd reached her desk and sat down in the chair, trapping me in place.

  Why do these things always happen to me? I thought glumly

  Miss Todd shuffled forwards, pulling the chair underneath the desk and further limiting the room that I had. I squirmed my body, desperate not to make a sound, but aware that I had to do something to find a more comfortable position. Laura Todd usually spent only a few hours at the library, leaving before one most days. But it was not unknown for her to occupy this desk for the whole afternoon and into the early evening. Oh god, might I really be trapped under here for eight more hours?

  I managed to rotate on my ass and slide back into the corner, stretching my legs out in front of me, parallel to the edge of the desk. I looked around and surveyed my position. Miss Todd’s feet were about six inches from my thighs. If she stretched out particularly far, then she would kick me and I’d be rumbled.

  I sighed quietly, incredulous that I was trapped under the desk of a middle-aged pornographer. I began to seriously consider coming clean, simply making my presence known and getting the humiliating ordeal of confrontation out of the way. Or maybe I could wait for my future self to invent time travel and reach back through history to snatch me away to a life free of under-desk-imprisonment. And jetpacks.

  After three minutes of patient waiting, I gave up on the time travel plan and glumly decided to face the music. Suddenly, Miss Todd shifted in her seat, lifting her bottom and swinging her left leg over her right. I heard a subtle swish as her nylon clad thighs brushed together, then felt a gentle waft of warm air, carrying with it the faint aroma of her perfume.

  I gasped, feeling a sudden surge of desire. Then began to look at my position with new eyes.

  Today, Miss Todd was wearing nude pantyhose. From this close vantage point, I could see the tiny weave of the flimsy material and the soft flesh of her leg beneath. I gazed at her calves, admiring the firm bulge of her muscle and the slender line of her ankle. I shifted my attention to her feet, my eyes drawn there by instincts that were familiar yet seldom explored.

  The older woman was wearing peach peep-toe pumps, with a slight platform sole and a sharp, precarious heel. Through the small opening at the front of the shoe, I could see several of her toes, painted nails visible beneath the thin nylon. I felt my heartbeat quicken and my pulse race. There was something mesmerizing about the sight of her feet and my close proximity to them. I felt exposed and vulnerable, yet also powerful and invigorated.

  As I looked on, Miss Todd flexed her left ankle, angling it upwards and bending her toes so that the pretty heel slipped off her foot to dangle in the air. I lifted my hand to my mouth, stifling a sigh, unable to explain the sudden feeling that this simple action provoked within me, but unwilling to ignore it.

  As she began to gently bounce the dangling shoe up and down on her toes, I studied her stockinged foot. The shallow curve of her arch, transcribing a perfect arc between the bulge of her heel and the ball of her toes. I longed to reach forward and trace my finger along the soft, wrinkled skin of her sole, wondering what it felt like, wondering what it smelled like…. wondering what it tasted like.

  My mind was hurtling forwards at five hundred miles an hour, the suppressed urges of my childhood, breaking free of their constraining prison, washing outwards like the deluge from a broken dam. I felt an impossible attraction to this woman and her feet, the culmination of every fantasy and sexual urge I ever had - from the childish infatuation with Miss Alexander and her pretty feet, through years of half-remembered erotic dreams, to the furtive glances at Monique as she lived through her own peculiar pantyhose adventure.

  And yet I couldn’t act, couldn’t even move. I was trapped in a situation that I could do nothing about, so close to the object of my desire, yet utterly unable to reach out and touch it. Paralyzed by circumstances and social anxiety, I remained rooted to the spot, hypnotized by the dancing shoe and the perfect foot.

  As I wrestled with the irony of the situation, Miss Todd flexed her ankle slightly too far and the shoe jumped forward, slipping off her toes and falling onto my lap. I gasped, unsure what to do, suddenly terrified that I was going to get caught. I considered pushing the shoe off onto the floor, pull
ing back into the darkest recesses under the desk and closing my eyes, hoping this whole ordeal would end. But then something happened to force my hand…

  “You can come out now Jessica,” said Miss Todd from above me. She didn’t move or peer under the desk, she simply wiggled the toes of her now naked foot, stretching at the thin material of her pantyhose.

  I remained silent, drawing my legs up to my chest. Maybe she was bluffing? I thought to myself, with no real hope that this was the case. Had she known I was here all along?

  “Come on girl. I know you’re in there. Why don’t you come out and we can talk about it?” she said. Her voice was honey warm and perfectly pleasant.

  I sighed and realized that I couldn’t stay where I was. Reluctantly, I shifted my body, wincing as my cramped legs bent beneath me, and crawled out of the tiny space. Miss Todd pushed back in her seat and allowed me to leave.

  “Why don’t you stay down there for now?” she said as I emerged, peering down at me with a warm smile.

  I crawled out onto the floor of the library and shifted until I was kneeling at her feet. “Y-yes ma’am,” I said, “I’m so, so sorry.”

  She sat back and crossed her legs, her naked left foot coming to rest six inches from my downturned face.

  “And what were you doing down there in the first place girl?” said Miss Todd, adopting the tone of a disappointed school teacher.

  “I-I was hiding,” I stuttered, aware that there was no point in lying about it, “I didn’t want you to know that I’d seen what was on your laptop.”

  She chuckled and looked around at the computer on the desk. “Ah yes, my little porn empire. What did you think? Hot, eh?” She had the slightest hint of an accent, shades of British or Australian, I wasn’t quite sure.

  I felt my cheeks burning and I nodded slightly, not entirely sure why I was admitting such a thing to this woman.