Carlsberg don't do footjobs...

A message from a foot fetishist prompted the following story. Carlsberg don't do footjobs but if they did they might be something like this.

[WARNING:DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, ESPECIALLY WITH METAL TIPPED STILLETOES]

You open the door to me, wearing as instructed just a pair of natural tan 20 denier tights. The gusset is bulging; you already aroused.

As instructed, you do not speak to me. You take me through to the lounge; my five inch metal tipped stilletoes clack on the floor. I sit in a comfortable chair, crossing my legs. The hem of my skirt rides up, exposing the tops of my fully fashioned nylon stockings. I order you to kneel and crawl over to me.

"Lick" I order; pointing to my right foot; indicating the heel. You lick, slavishly, until I tell you to stop. "Suck" I order; pointing back to the heel. You take it deep into your mouth, treating it as if it is a cock.

"Stop!" I say. You comply. I recross my legs, left over right this time, and repeat the ritual.

When you have finished cleaning my heels for me, I order you to turn round and bury your face in the carpet, and spread your buttocks. I retrieve lube from my bag,

Thankfully you have prepared properly and douched thoroughly. I insert my index finger into your anus. You moan softly, the first sound you have made. A hard slap to your left buttock reminds you of my insistence for silence. You are wise enough not to protest when I insert a second digit, then having opened you wider, after 10 minutes a third and fourth. I withdraw my hand and sense your relief that I did not try to insert my entire hand. Your relief is shortlived. I pull your head back by your hair. "Open" I demand. There is a look of reluctance on your face, but you comply before I raise my hand, and you lick my fingers clean, gagging slightly as I force each in turn, a short way down your throat.

Satisfied, I tell you to resume the position and spread. I then rest both feet on your buttocks and then gradually ease the heel of my right shoe into your gaping arse. I withdraw slightly and then reinsert, setting up a gradual fucking movement. After my right foot tires, I repeat with the left. Finally, after ten minutes I insert both at the same time, ignoring your squeal of protest.

I stop when I have decided you have had enough. "Chair" I order. You fetch a straight back dining chair from the far side of the room and place it facing me. At the command "Bend over" you bend at the waist, and spread your cheeks, enabling me to insert a butt plug. I flip the switch on the control to ensure it is working. The low rumble from your rectum reassures me it is at its lowest setting.

"Sit", I order and you settle onto the hard base of the chair, wincing slightly as you feel the plug work its way further inside you. When you have settled in the chair, legs slightly parted, I restrain you with the ten metres of chain and the robust padlocks you have thoughtfully provided.

I sit back in my chair, and raise my right foot to your mouth so you can clean the heel. When you have completed that task to my satisfaction, you move onto my left.

I increase the tempo on the butt plug and the throbbing in your rectum becomes more insistent. I see presume from your cock staining the gusset of your tights. It is time to begin.

Unbuckling my shoes, I massage your groin with my stocking clad feet. You watch in fascination as my brightly decorated toes tease your cock. You are straining against the chains that bind you, wanting to buck your hips, but you cannot. I am far too experienced to leave any play in the chain.

Finally you cum, noisily, copiously, soaking the front of your tights and my feet. "Open" I order, and you lick my feet clean. I replace my shoes, smooth down my skirt and leave, letting myself out of the front door, leaving you waiting for someone to release you. Thoughtfully I post the key to your locks back through your letterbox on the way out, reflecting that the batteries on the plug are probably good for another six hours.

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