At Karen's Feet - a footdom story

danhager

Her chair, her footstool
May 20, 2007
76
5
8
Oxford, UK
#1
At Karen's Feet



It was around he middle of October, two years ago, that I saw Karen. Not for the first time, but for the fatal time. I was in my third year at a well-known English university. Karen was in her second, hence, a little younger than I. Like many students, I made daily use of the huge university library for weekly essays and other types of research. I'd often noticed Karen before, and had occasionally, despite my shyness, managed to croak out a “hello” or “good evening”, to which she politely replied. I certainly didn't know her. On this particular evening, as chance would have it, the History section of the library was almost deserted.



Karen was very pretty, which is why I'd noticed her so often. She was attractive in the sort of girl-next-door style which I'd always found appealing. She had shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes, and a neat, slender figure. I'm very tall, but she was petite – slightly less than average height. As usual, she was smartly but not extravagantly dressed. She wore a dark-blue tee-shirt, a matching skirt, sheer black tights and classic, black high heels. Her skirt finished some inches above the knee, which allowed me to appreciate her shapely legs. I forced myself not to stare at her, but frankly, it was difficult.



As I've said, I'd noticed Karen dozens of times before, and had admired her for months. I hadn't expected to be alone with her in the library. And then – you know how momentous decisions can somehow take you by surprise? How even the timid can sometimes be impelled, by force of chance or circumstance, to some reckless action? Well, tonight, it seemed, was my night.



My heart began to race. I am, and was, rather shy with women, and find it difficult to approach them. Something, however, told me it was now or never. With uncharacteristic boldness, I stood up and walked towards her. I say “boldness”, but in fact my palms were sweating with nerves.



She didn't notice me until I arrived at the large table where she was sitting, an impressive array of books laid out before her. She looked up.

“Er, hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”

Her accent was pleasant, with a slight hint of the north, just barely detectable.

“Perhaps,” I said, gulping. “I've seen you here often before. I hope you don't mind me coming over. I just wanted to say... to say... that you're really beautiful. Please don't be offended,” I added, hurriedly. “I don't normally approach strange women in libraries. I'll go away right now if you like.”

She looked at me quizzically, a faint smile beginning to play around her lips. She was wearing a little make-up, but not much. A hint of lipstick, a hint of eye shadow.

“No, you don't need to go, I suppose. At least not right away. You don't exactly look like a sex offender or a serial killer. I'm pleased you think I'm beautiful. Not sure I like being called a 'strange woman' but I think I know what you mean.”

My heart was racing. But – at least she hadn't ordered me away. (Yet – being the essential qualifier here.) Shocking myself, I decided to be even more audacious.

“In that case,” I said, quietly, “may I sit down? Just for a few moments?”

She smiled at me again, a little mockingly.

“Well, I suppose so. For the time being. Then we'll play it by ear. My name's Karen. What's yours?”

“David Fletcher. Nice to meet you, Karen.”

I gulped again, drawing air into my lungs.

“And nice to meet you too, David. Are you studying history? Or did you come to the library just to see me?”

Again, there was that faint hint of mockery. I didn't mind in the slightest.

“No, I'm studying,” I said. “And I really didn't expect to see you tonight. That's the truth. Please don't think I'm a stalker or a weirdo. But when I saw you, I just decided to take the plunge, so to speak.”

“And are you glad that you did?”

“Yes,” I replied, with total sincerity. “I'm delighted.”



*



We chatted for the next ten minutes or so. Karen told me a little about her family, her hopes for the future. I was pleased, and more than a little surprised, that she failed to mention a boyfriend. I told Karen a little about myself, my hobbies, and so on.

“I've sometimes seen you in lectures too,” I said. “I wanted to introduce myself, but, you know.”

“You should have done,” she said. “I don't bite. Anyway, it's nice to meet a fellow historian. I'm working on American history right now. What about you?”

“Women's history,” I replied, truthfully.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Really?' she said, looking at me curiously. “That's an interesting choice for a male student. I haven't met many men who were into women's history.”

At this point, heart thumping in my chest, I decided to press forward and upward. To give it all. Throw caution to the wind - and a dozen other cliches.

In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought to myself.

“Well,” I answered, swallowing. “If I'm going to study history, I may as well study the part of it that matters. I think women's contribution to history has been vastly understated. Of course, that's a truism. I think women's role in history has actually been superior to that of men, as Elizabeth Gould-Davis has said. Just as,” I swallowed yet again, forcing myself to continue, “just as... women themselves are superior to men.”

Karen looked at me again, her pretty face showing evident surprise. She looked me over appraisingly, her brown eyes wide.

“You mean you, as a man, think that women are superior to men?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Literally?”

“Yes, literally.”

“Well, that's certainly an original chat-up line.”

“It's no line, Karen.”

She continued to look at me in surprise. At the same time, I think something in my voice and manner told her that I was sincere.

“Okay,” she said, after a pause of some seconds. “Tell me more. Explain why I'm a superior being. Assuming, of course, that I'm included in this category of superiority.”

“You certainly are. None more than you.”

Having taken my life in my hands, or so it felt at the time, I now became a little calmer. Again clenching my fists from nerves, all the same, I proceeded to tell, Karen, briefly and fairly clearly, why I considered women to be the superior sex. I spoke about the achievements of brilliant women, so often derided or suppressed by men. About the nurturing and positive role of women in history – in stark contrast to the violent and destructive role of men. About the emerging body of scientific evidence in favour of women's greater intelligence. (Including, for example, the fact that the first modern IQ tests had had to be “modified” because women had outperformed males.) I spoke passionately, and, I think, reasonably coherently. And I meant every word.

When I finally came to an end, Karen sat back in her chair and whistled.

“Some speech,” she said, grinning. “I must admit I'm a bit impressed. I've met plenty of so-called male feminists before, plenty of so-called 'woke' men. I've even heard some women make claims of female superiority. More than a few, in fact. But I can honestly say that's the first time I've heard it from a man. You mean it too, don't you?”

“Yes. One hundred per cent,” I replied.

She leaned further back in her chair and crossed her legs, so beautiful in their sheath of black nylon. I couldn't help looking, and I believe she noticed.

“Well, David,” she said, that faint note of mockery once again in her voice and around her eyes, “it was a pleasure to meet such a passionate female supremacist in such a surprising place. But the library's closing in an hour, and I do need to get these notes finished.”

“Of course,” I said, standing. “It was a real pleasure meeting you. Thanks for your patience. I really hope to see you again.”

I was turning to go. Turning, but against my will. But then... screwing up every bit of courage. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“There's just one thing,” I murmured, dizzy with nerves. “I've told you how I feel about the superiority of women. And I think you could see that I meant it. But... talk is cheap. I wonder if I could do one thing, just to show you how serious I am. That I'm not all talk, if you like.”

She looked at me, an interested expression on her lovely face.

“And what would that be, exactly?”

Now or never, David. Now or never.

“Well, I wonder if you'd do me a great honour. If you say no, I'll completely understand. Please don't be offended. But I wonder if you'd let me... if you'd allow me... just for a moment, to kiss your feet.”



*



The moments passed. I thought that I'd given offence to this kind, pretty, intelligent young woman, and that was literally the last thing I wanted. I half expected her to get up and walk out of the library. I looked around, and was relieved to see that there was still nobody nearby. Not even the security guard that she might well be on the point of summoning. She looked at me acutely, as if searching my intentions with those beautiful brown eyes.

“Listen,” I said, at last. “Forgive me. I'm really sorry. I'll go, and I won't bother you again.”

“No,” she said, finally. “That's okay. If you want to do it, go ahead.”

And she stretched her feet out under the table.



*



You can believe me when I say that the few minutes that followed will remain in my memory forever. At first, I couldn't believe that Karen had said yes. When it finally sank in, my heart started to thump as it had never done before in my life. An older man (I was 21 at the time) might have had a stroke, I suppose. But I had my chance – the chance of a lifetime – and I wasn't going to miss it now.

The opportunity, for the first time in my life, to show a woman what I truly thought of her. The chance, as it were, to put my beliefs into practice – at a woman's feet.

I looked around again, to make sure nobody was watching. I probably wouldn't have cared if they had, but the coast was clear. I slowly dropped to my knees in front of Karen.

Now, reader, I write that last sentence (“I dropped to my knees”) as if it were something mundane, something unremarkable. Nothing could be further from the truth. I was now kneeling – kneeling! - in front of this beautiful woman. Finally adopting the posture of submission, of deference, that I'd dreamt of a thousand times.

But. The next part.

Slowly, tentatively, trying to prolong each second, I bowed my face to the ground in front of Karen. I could now feel the cool wood of the parquet floor on my forehead. I stretched my head forward, and then - planted a kiss on the bridge of her stockinged foot. Her right foot, to be exact.

How can I describe that moment? How can I describe what I felt? My senses exploded. Yes, I was "grovelling", if you like. I had planted my first kiss on a woman's foot. Had finally given vent to my yearning. Had finally expressed what I felt for women – their majesty, their power, their elegance. Above all, reflected in that simple kiss, their total superiority over me. Karen's superiority over me.

I kissed the small, exquisite foot again. I could feel her skin through sheer nylon. I looked at the beautiful foot of this superior creature. The thinnest veil of black pantyhose between my body and hers. I kissed again. Then, I gently moved my face to her left foot.

I kissed the toe of her shoe. The patent leather was cold against my lips. I wondered – could she feel the kiss? I even allowed myself to lick her shoe – just for a moment. It felt wonderful against my tongue. I then moved upwards and kissed her nyloned foot: on the bridge, on the ankle, on the heel, then on the bridge again. And again. And again. My slave's lips on her foot.

I was overwhelmed with pleasure. Almost fainting from it. I could smell soap and perfume from her skin. I could feel the contours of her foot, through sheer nylon, against the skin of my cheek. Once again, I pressed my lips against the toe of her shoe, pressing harder this time, so that she could feel me - feel my act of self-abasement. And once again, I dared to extend my tongue, and briefly licked the shoes of my conqueror; now the left, now the right. I felt honoured as I did so. If only I had more time, I thought, selfishly. I would have bathed those shoes with my tongue. I would have licked every scrap of dirt from her lovely soles.

I expected Karen to withdraw her feet at any moment, but she didn't – as yet. Even as I grovelled, I was loathe to do anything to offend or upset her. My act of submission was an act of respect for women in general, yes, but also for her personally. In the height of my passion, I still wouldn't put my pleasure before her comfort.

The wonderful fact remained, however, that she still hadn't withdrawn her feet. She hadn't kicked me away in disgust. And really, my submission had probably not lasted as long, or anywhere near as long, as it seemed to me. What felt like minutes to me, in my delirium, was probably only a matter of seconds. And yet. She hadn't taken her feet away from me.

And so, reader.

This gave me the courage to do something which, in my fantasies, I had barely allowed myself to contemplate. My hands shook in anticipation. Would I really dare?

The answer, it seemed, was yes. Gently, I took her right foot in my trembling hand, raised it – and placed it on the back of my head. As I write this, I can remember the feeling of her elegant shoe on my head as if it were yesterday. I can feel it there now. The leather of her sole was hard and cold against my scalp, and the tip of her heel pressed into the crown of my head.

I was now in a posture of absolute submission, absolute defeat. If you like (and if we must use an ugly word for something which I felt to be of beauty) a posture of extreme grovelling. And it was intense, shocking, burning pleasure. I felt that I would die of pleasure.

I lay there, hardly daring to breathe. The image of man – humbled, broken, defeated – beneath the image of woman, triumphant in beauty. Her foot on my head, which most would consider an image of degradation, felt to me like a jeweled, platinum crown. In that moment, though I barely knew her, I truly felt myself, for the first time, to be a woman's slave.



*



After some time – perhaps two minutes – she removed her foot from my head. Still semi-delirious with pleasure, I rose unsteadily to my knees.

“Well, David,” she said, “ “that was quite something. I think you enjoyed it. And maybe I did too. Perhaps more than I expected.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That meant so much to me. Yes, I enjoyed it – more than I can tell you. I felt... I felt that I was where I was meant to be, doing that I was meant to do. In my natural place. It's hard to explain, Karen. But I'll never forget kissing your feet. It's what all men should do for women, and I loved being able to do it for you.”

I rose to go, but, of course, I couldn't bear to go. Couldn't bear to leave this beautiful woman. I had, perhaps, the courage of desperation about me. (To have been a slave for such a brief time, and then to have it taken from me. Unbearable.)

“If you ever,” I stumbled, muttered, “if you ever feel... that you might want to see me again, I'd be honoured. Privileged. If not I understand. I won't bother you again. But I'd like so, so much to see you again.”

She looked at me, smiling. But despite the smile, there was a faint flush in her cheeks.

“We'll see,” she said.



*



That was two years ago, almost to the day. Since then, Karen and I have both graduated from university. She works as a copywriter in a London marketing company, and I have a junior, and very boring, position in a London bank.

We live together in a small, but not uncomfortable house in the south-west of the city. We're not married, and not even (according to the standard definition of the terms, at least) boyfriend and girlfriend, although that's how we appear to our friends and families.

Outwardly, we're a normal young couple, and we do many of the “normal” things couples do together: shopping, meeting friends for dinner, decorating the house, making plans for the future.

At a deeper, more private level, however, our relationship is rather special. To put it simply, Karen is my Mistress, and I am her slave. The situation suits me perfectly, and I like to think it suits her, too. She is a woman, and her pleasure will always come before mine. Not only that, but she also makes the most important decisions in our relationship, because as a woman (of course) her intellect is superior to mine.

As I've said, we do many of the standard things that everyday couples do, and sometimes we even make love in the way that others would consider normal. More often, however, we express our feelings in a different way.

Most evenings, for example, I find myself lying on the floor in front of the sofa. Karen rests her feet on my face or chest while she reads or watches tv. Sometimes she removes her high heels before she uses me as a footstool – and sometimes she doesn't. If she does keep her shoes on, I always lick her soles, taking a craftsman's pride in keeping her footwear so clean. At the end of each month, I hand over most of my salary to her, but from the little that I keep, she allows me to pay for her shoes and boots.

Speaking of boots, she recently bought a very expensive pair: knee-length, with three-inch heels, naturally. She often wears them to work. Last week, she stood on me in those boots for about half an hour, and for part of that time, actually trampled my genitals under her feet. It was painful - sometimes intensely so. As she trampled me, sometimes even grinding her heel into the shaft of my penis, I felt like the luckiest man alive.

If she needs to work on her laptop at home, she'll sit at the small oak table in the tiny room that we laughingly call our “study”. But instead of sitting on a chair, she'll usually sit on my naked back as I crouch on all floors beneath her. If she comes home from work with her shoes dirty from the rain, and I'm already at home, she doesn't need a doormat. (I think you can fill that one in.) And my belly, my genitals and my face are always ready, by the shower or by the bed, to protect her exquisite feet from the cold floor.

I have to be careful never to undress in front of friends or family, because my torso, back and front, is usually covered in tiny, heel-shaped welts. Yesterday, for example, I counted at least 80 of them on my stomach and chest. And yes, I do find it erotic to contemplate those marks in a mirror. It's as if she's branding me with her shoes.

Occasionally, her heels draw blood. To avoid unwelcome questions, it's true, she usually slips off her shoes when she stands on my face. (An almost daily occurrence.) She then tramples my features in nylons or bare feet. When she stands on me in this way, her soles exploring my eyes, my mouth, my forehead, I feel more enslaved by her than at any other time. Just occasionally, however, she can't resist the heels, and then I have to find some semi-plausible explanation for my colleagues at the bank.

My mouth is, from time to time, a willing receptacle for her spit. Sometimes, if I displease her, she whips me or canes me, as is her right. And I relish every stroke. Just for fun, she sometimes takes a discarded pair of nylons and pushes them in my mouth as a gag. The taste of her perfumed legs and feet, just barely detectable, helps to take my mind off the pain.

Above all, every day, I find time to kiss her feet, and with my own hands, to place her foot symbolically on my neck or on my head, just as I did that first time, two years ago.

I do it to show that women are superior to men. I do it to show that Karen is superior to me. I do it to show my submissive passion for her.

Because, you see, this is beautiful, wonderful slavery. And this slave couldn't be happier than when beneath the conquering feet of his Mistress, where I hope to remain for many, many years, and where all men belong.
 
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