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This story is inspired by and dedicated to the delectable Roleplay_Mom, aka Nancy. It was her idea and I hope that I’ve done it justice in bringing it to life – it has been an utter pleasure to write for her. It is much longer than I had anticipated so readers should be prepared to wait but I hope that it will be worth it if you do. There are themes of foot fetish, cheating and mild BDSM towards the end so those who do not like such things, look away now. Finally, I’m a British guy writing from the perspective of an American woman so apologies to Americans and/or women where I go wrong!
Normally, a woman knows when a guy’s into her feet. Well, I do anyway. Men are, after all, so unsubtle in the way they admire women. They stare for too long, too ostentatiously and look furtive and guilty when you catch them. So few men have good poker faces, it’s why the ones who do are very rich.
It’s different though when the guy who stares at your feet is your son. Tom had seen my bare feet more than any man other than my husband. Ha! In recent years probably far more often than him. Bob was away a lot, weeks at a time often and abroad as regularly as not, and even when he was home he wasn’t exactly switched on to me as a person or as a woman. I was/am no prude at home but I always took care to ensure my more obvious ‘bits’ were covered up when I was around Tom. In other words, I was normal. We were normal. Or so I thought. It turns out we weren’t.
I didn’t cover my feet. I mean why would I? Sure, I wore slippers around the house a lot of the time but not always. Tom had been exposed to my feet a lot over the years. How was I to know he was a foot guy? He was my kid. Moms aren’t supposed to think about what their children like in bed, what turns them on, and I didn’t. Not until I was dusting in his room. I never meant to find out, honestly I didn’t, but we’ll come to that.
Should I tell you about my feet? Tom says I should and what he says goes. They are small for my height, a 7 when I’m 5’8 tall, smooth as silk on top and softly wrinkled on the sole. I’ve always looked after them, something my grandmother told me. “Look after your feet dear and they’ll always look after you,” she said and she was right. If not quite dainty, they are pretty and I like to prettify them further with colored polish and always keep them moisturized to avoid cracking on the soles or the heels. The flesh remains tender to the touch. Sadly, no one had touched them for years. Bob kissed them a few times in the early years of our marriage and I liked that but he wasn’t into feet (he wasn’t into much, truth be told) and so neither was I.
I just knew I liked them and I also knew that men liked them, though no more seemingly than the rest of me. I’d catch the odd guy staring at them when I was out for a drink and on a bar stool or when I was on vacation at the beach or even when just passing a guy on the street and seeing his eyes flash downwards as I passed. Like I said, women notice things. I just didn’t notice Tom, or rather I did but didn’t pay it any heed. His fetish was hidden in plain sight.
He was a good boy. Never any trouble. He did well enough at school. A solid 3.2 GPA & in the reserve team at sports. He didn’t stand out. He was good looking and popular but not a guy that people talked about. He seemed to like it that way, travelling under the radar. Still waters run deep, though, as I found out on a Saturday in April.
By then Tom was in his final few weeks at High School. His father had left for the Middle East a couple of days before to negotiate some deal over oil rights. He wasn’t sure when he’d be back but told me it wasn’t likely to be any time soon. Tom had left to catch a morning showing at the theatre with Katie, a girl he’d recently started dating. I was thus left home alone again feeling a deep sense of inertia and lack of purpose. I was 46, bored by my job, my marriage seemed dead on its feet and my only son was about the fly the nest. What was I going to do with the rest of my life? It seemed to be opening up in front of me like a yawning chasm, empty and uninviting.
In such situations, I usually find that doing some housework helps to take my mind off things. A spring clean, I decided, was what I needed to do. I put on an old bathrobe, tied my long red hair back in a ponytail, and set to work promising myself a long, luxuriating soak in the tub after I’d finished as a reward. I started in the kitchen, scrubbing away until my arms hurt, even cleaning out the oven, something which, to my shame, I hadn’t done for months. Still, I didn’t see Tom or Bob volunteering to help any time, did I?
After an hour and a half or so downstairs, I headed up to the bedrooms, cloth, duster, cleaning spray, rubbish sack and vacuum in hand. I decided to tackle Tom’s room first. I took a deep breath and then exhaled, puffing out my cheeks, preparing myself for what might be behind the door. Tom always kept it shut and I didn’t go in very often, wanting to respect escort bostancı his privacy. I was pleasantly surprised, then, to find it clean and tidy. There were no clothes strewn over the bed or chairs or floor. His shoes were neatly lined up under the window and, though his closet door was open, his shirts were hung up, his pants, t-shirts and sweaters folded beneath on the shelves. Jeez, I thought, he’s neater than I am. What did I do right, I wondered? Did I really know Tom at all? He was so enigmatic, just seemed to float through life. I suddenly felt a little guilty, invading his privacy like this. I shouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t like it if he was poking about in my room.
I turned on my heels to head out, noticing as I did that the sun was shining on his laptop screen through the window. It was rather dirty, I thought. I could at least do something nice for him, I decided. I thus squirted a little spray on the screen and then wiped it clean with my cloth. As I did so, I must have touched one of the keys for the screen suddenly came to life. I didn’t mean to look, honestly I didn’t.
It was catching sight of the word ‘Mom’ that made me pay closer to what was on the screen. It’s only natural, right? When you see your own name, you want to read more and so I did. I still wonder sometimes if I did the right thing. Wouldn’t things be so much simpler if I’d just walked away as I’d intended to? Almost certainly so, but then I wouldn’t be writing this story if I had and I wouldn’t have got to know and love my son, and indeed myself, in the ways I have since that day.
That said, if I could have taken it back at the time I would have. I would have given anything not to have read the words on Tom’s screen. It brought my world, my boring, safe, rather unsatisfactory world crashing down around my ears.
‘I’d give anything to cum on my Mom’s feet – they are perfect’.
I had to blink, shake my head and stare again to make sure I had read the words correctly. I must have looked like a cartoon character doing a double-take. It felt like my jaw had hit the desk. What the fuck was this? I read on, my heart hammering in my chest, my skin prickling in a cold sweat.
‘Her feet are a work of art, their shape, the way they curve. I adore the way they look in each different type of shoe that she wears and, most of all, when she doesn’t wear any at all.’
I read on, the words swimming in front of my eyes. It seemed to be a draft message that he was posting to some form of message board. My eyes glanced up to try to find the name of the website. My heart seemed to stop for a moment and I found myself gripping the desk so tightly that my knuckles turned white. The site was about incest. It said it, right there, in red and white in the title. My God. Incest. Feet. What was wrong with him? He seemed so normal, so together, the one area of my life that I didn’t have to worry about. Maybe this was my fault. Had I neglected him, just assumed that he was ok? Left to his own devices, abandoned by Bob and me who were too wrapped up in our own lives, this was where he had ended up. This pit of depravity. God, I mean, I knew that porn was rife among teenagers and that it was distorting their views on sex and on women, but this? My own son. I bit my lip and could feel tears in my eyes as I continued to read.
‘I haven’t been able to get any pictures of her feet yet but I’ll try. You’d be blown away I’m sure. I’d love to be able to get her to let me photograph them willingly but it’s not easy to do. Anything I get, therefore, will probably be candid. I don’t want her finding out, lol! Can you imagine?’
So he was writing to someone, or some people perhaps on a board. He was discussing my feet where any damned pervert could read all about them. I felt violated, sick, horrified. What else had he written, I wondered?
Before I had a chance to find out, I heard the door crash open downstairs. “Mom? We’re back. Are you around?” He called out and I sensed that there was something in his tone that was hoping that the answer was no.
I leant my head out of his room so that he wouldn’t know that the sound was coming from his room and called out. “Yes sweetie, down in a minute.”
“Oh, right, cool. Katie’s here.” He added.
“Hi Mrs Richardson,” she called out in her southern drawl.
“Oh, hey Katie. Hope you enjoyed the film,” I replied. “Just make yourselves comfortable. Tom knows where everything is, so make sure he looks after your needs,” I said and then blushed at the double-entendre. Come on Nancy, I told myself, get a grip. I dipped back inside Tom’s room and checked his username Feetlovingson – uggh, how horrible – before putting his laptop back into sleep mode.
I was conscious of still being in my old robe at nearly midday on a Saturday but I’d been cleaning so, if they didn’t like it, they’d just have to lump it. I was on the first step down when I noticed that I was in bare feet. I felt a flush go over me at the idea ümraniye escort that Tom would like that, a flush of embarrassment, of disgust but also, perhaps, the first faint stirrings of something else. I looked at them for a moment. How could these things have such an effect on him? I tilted my head, as if looking at them for the first time. They were good feet, weren’t they? Smooth, proportioned and with what I believe is known as well-turned ankles. I tried to imagine someone, Bob, anyone, kissing them. No, it was too strange a thought, all too much to take in. I shook my head, retreated to my room to search for my slippers then cursed as I remembered that they were downstairs. I’d taken them off to clean the kitchen floor and left them by the kitchen door in the living room. I’d have to run the gauntlet of Tom’s gaze to retrieve them.
I slowly padded down the stairs, suddenly very conscious of my feet and how they looked. For some reason I was relieved that I’d painted them the previous evening. Some part of me wanted them to look good. After all, if he was into feet then at least it should be good feet, right? Or was that too crazy? I wasn’t sure of anything seemingly. My whole world seemed to have been shaken up like a kaleidoscope and was yet to settle into a new picture.
I stepped into the living room and smiled at Katie, a petite if somewhat plain blonde, who was nevertheless as neat as a pin. I felt terribly underdressed but raised my palms in apology. “Sorry about my attire, I’ve been spring cleaning. I hope you don’t mind?” I glanced over at Tom and saw him suddenly raise his gaze to meet mine. He’d been looking at my feet. God, is this what he always did when I entered a room? I felt the urge to scrunch my toes, to hide them from him, but I mustn’t give the game away. I felt another blush at my neck. What was going through his head, behind those cool green eyes, I wondered?
“You didn’t clean in my room, did you Mom?” He asked sharply. I bit my lip, lowered my gaze to my feet, sure that my face must be as red as the ten toes that looked up at me, and shook my head.
“N-no Tom, just down here and then my room. Your room is your room.” I said, almost stammering. All my confidence with him seemed to have drained away. I didn’t know what to say, how to be anymore.
Tom smiled, and I could see a hint of relief in his green eyes. “Oh, well, that’s good. Thanks Mom,” he said.
“I…umm…need to get my slippers,” I said, then cursed myself for drawing attention to the fact that I was barefoot, not that Tom didn’t know already of course. “And then, um, would you like something to drink or eat either of you?”
Tom looked at Katie who smiled sweetly again and shook her head. “No thanks Mrs Richardson,” she said, “we got sodas and popcorn at the theatre so we’re fine for now.” I nodded automatically, still in something of a daze, a fixed smile on my face.
“Ok, then, I’ll…er…just get my slippers and then…umm…carry on with the cleaning. I’ll be taking a bath when I’m done Tom, so no barging in the bathroom, ok?” I said then blushed again. Why the hell had I said that? I wouldn’t normally say that. I was so shook up by my discovery I just couldn’t seem to behave naturally. As I walked across the room in front on Katie and my son, I could feel a bead of sweat running down my back, so self-conscious was I. They were watching the TV but I knew, just knew, that Tom’s eyes were really on my feet. I somehow couldn’t stop myself in walking nicely, making sure that I placed each step carefully to show that I walked like a real woman. Why? Why was I doing that? I never thought about how I walked or about how my feet looked but now my whole body seemed to be screaming to me that Tom was watching me and my feet.
It seemed to take an age to walk across the room though it can’t have been more than a few seconds. I breathed out in relief, surprised to find that I’d been holding my breath, and my eyes closed as my feet slipped into the soft cushioned soles of the white slippers. My heels were still exposed as would my soles be as I walked back as they were open heeled. I turned back and steeled myself to look at Tom. His eyes met mine, unblinking, no hint that he had been watching me, though I knew he had. He turned back to the screen but as I looked at him I noticed the way he and Katie were sitting for the first time.
She was sitting with her feet up on the sofa, tucked underneath her and pressing against Tom’s thigh. He was sitting straight-backed but as I approached them I noticed that his fingers were idly stroking her instep through the diaphanous nylon. Neither of them seemed to be paying attention to this. It was seemingly unconscious on his part and didn’t register with her as anything other than a gentle display of affection.
She had such pretty little feet, so delicate and small, like a ballerinas. I vaguely remembered Tom saying that she did ballet when she was younger and had been on course for a potential career kartal escort bayan until she’d broken an ankle at 14 and it had never been the same since. I looked up at Katie as I walked past and she gave me a vague smile in return. She wasn’t particularly beautiful I’d always thought and I wasn’t sure what Tom had seen in her. She seemed nice enough but I’d always assumed it was the blonde hair and slim figure which had attracted him. In a flash, I knew. It was her feet. That was what he liked about her. Was he using her as a substitute because he couldn’t have mine? No, that was too crazy surely. No guy goes out with a girl simply because of her feet. But then, maybe they do. Plenty of my friends in high school had gotten dates solely because of their cup size. Who knows what really goes through the mind of a teenaged boy? I didn’t know anything about fetishes like my son had. I had always been a plain vanilla girl stuck in a loveless marriage for years.
The strangest feelings came over me as I walked back up the stairs towards my bedroom to continue the spring clean. Did he think her feet were better than mine? Did he prefer them? And why, I asked myself, did I want the answer to be no?
I staggered up the stairs, my head swimming with thoughts I could never have imagined twenty minutes before. I was sure that I was swaying slightly as I entered my room and held onto the doorframe to steady myself. I felt almost drunk and I performed the routine task of cleaning my bedroom in a daze. I could not recall a single thing that I had done, my mind was entirely elsewhere. It was back in Tom’s room reading those words on the screen and it was, I am ashamed to say, on what might be happening downstairs. Was Tom still touching Katie’s feet, I couldn’t help but wonder? If he were, what did he like about them, what was he thinking and was he thinking of my feet as he brushed his fingertips along the delicate nylon? A shiver ran through me at the thought of him touching me. Why was I thinking that? Surely I didn’t want it? It was wrong, crazy, illicit. Yes, illicit. Taboo. Both the feet and the incest.
I’d never done anything really taboo. It wasn’t as though I were a prude, I’d just never really had the chance since I’d met Bob. In college I’d had a few partners and played about a bit, finding that I enjoyed being spanked but nothing hardcore. Bob wasn’t very adventurous in bed and, after some youthful experimentation with different positions, a little anal and oral, we’d settled into a monotonous pattern of missionary sex. I say pattern, it wasn’t really frequent enough to be called a pattern. I had what I thought was an active imagination and I’d read plenty of adult and romance fiction, especially enjoying books about women submitting themselves to a strong man. It was all fantasy, however. This was real and it had just hit me smack between the eyes. I needed to know more.
I drew my bath, full of lavender scented bubbles and, after testing the temperature, I shucked off my robe. I looked in the mirror with a critical eye. I was tallish, taller than the girl downstairs anyway, still slim, proud of my 26-inch waist. Many of my friends now had waists measurements that were catching up with their age but I’d stayed trim. My legs were still smooth and shapely and my breasts, because they were not especially large, had not been negatively affected by gravity. My nipples were pert now as I looked at myself and pinned my long copper-red hair up so that I wouldn’t get it wet. I told myself that it was just the cold of the air conditioning that had caused them to harden. I ran a hand down my long pale neck and smiled. It wasn’t so hard to see why Tom liked me. If I weren’t his Mom that is.
I slipped beneath the bubbles and reached out for my phone. I fingers trembled somewhat as I access the private pages and punched in the address of the website Tom had been frequenting. I didn’t want him finding out what I’d been doing. The website had videos, pictures, stories and a message board. I was able to find the search facility on the message board and it didn’t take me long to find footlovingson. Tom was a frequent poster, over 300 posts since he’d joined just a few months ago. I’d have a lot to read, I thought. This was my chance to back away. I didn’t have to do this. I could forget, pretend it had never happened, just go back to normal. It wouldn’t have been too difficult. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t guessed he’d been looking at porn, all guys do right? I just had to pretend that I didn’t know what sort of porn he liked. I made my decision. I clicked the button that read ‘Find all posts’.
Behind the screen I noticed that a foot had emerged from beneath the bubbles. The white foam clung to it and contrasted with the shiny red nail polish. The foot was smooth on the instep, glistening with water as it caught the light. I could see from my end of the bath the water between the soft wrinkles of my sole. Tom liked them, he said. He’d wanted to cum on my wrinkles. I bet Katie didn’t have wrinkles, I thought viciously, she was too young for them. However wicked Tom was for thinking and writing the things he had, he was right. I did have sexy feet. I smiled at that thought and wiggled the toes provocatively before turning back to the screen.
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