[ENG] Conference Wife (Fiction)

[paradigm88]

It's been a while since I posted anything new. Busy summer, busy year on the creative side for me left me with limited storytelling that would be suitable for the main audience here. But I just wrapped one up that I think is.

For context, many of us have what we call a "work wife/husband." It's someone we work with who we share a trusted partnership with, we share gripes, we give and get support. It's not a romantic pairing, but we rely on that support like we would that from our real-world spouse.

...But what if it changed? What if you grew attracted to one another? What if it was because of shoeplay?

"Conference Wife" follows a couple who see each other a couple times a year at business conferences, and after one fateful evening and a pair of loose-fitting shoes, they start seeing each other in a different light. It's inspired by real observations, but not autobiographical. And there's definitely a part two here, but nothing I plan to stretch over pages and pages. It's amazing how quickly a story can build into something longer than you ever imagined.

I'll post it in segments in this thread. Enjoy!

[paradigm88]

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket as I stood at the registration desk, watching as a volunteer went to find my name badge. I had actually felt pretty relaxed all afternoon, getting checked into my hotel room early, taking a power nap after the drive, and now checking in at the conference.

But that buzz gave me a new sense of urgency.

I reached for my phone as the registration volunteer walked back over with a name badge dangling on a long lanyard, grabbing a tote bag from the same table as she returned. “Here you go,” she said pleasantly, setting the name badge and tote bag down in front of me.

She could have given me a lecture, but I had just seen Leigh’s name flash up in my alerts as I glanced at my phone.

“Thank you,” I replied, at least somewhat distracted as I grabbed the tote bag and lanyard off the table.

Away from the table, I set the tote bag on the floor and returned my focus to my phone. Leigh’s text was brief, but sometimes it only takes a little, innocent message to get your pulse racing.

“Hi, are you here yet?” the text read.

I met Leigh Calloway a few years ago at one of these conferences. Leigh worked for one of our vendors, and I got to talking to her at her booth during the expo. Later that night, we ran into each other at dinner, where we found neither of us really knew anyone else at the conference.

Everyone else had conference friends, so we became conference friends, too.

The next year, Leigh was in front of me to check in, and we laughed about it. And since then, we had kept in touch. We checked in with each other a couple times a year to wish each other a happy birthday or whatever. But for the most part, it was killing time for the conference, where we’d talk at length and go out for drinks and catch up like we’d been close all year.

Some people I knew had work wives, or work husbands. Leigh was my conference wife.

“Just got here,” I texted back.

“I’m in the expo hall,” Leigh replied. “When can you stop by?”

I was already on the way.

I walked into the expo hall, looking through the booths for Leigh’s conference home. There was probably a map in the program in my tote bag, but I didn’t need that. I just needed a few quick glances down aisles of pipe and draping to see Leigh, standing in her booth, her thumb flicking at the screen of her own cell phone.

“Hey, you,” I said from halfway down the aisle.

Leigh stopped and looked up. “Hi!” she said, stepping forward in her booth as I walked up. No further words were needed as we gave each other a big hug. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” I said. “How’s it going?”

Leigh sighed. “It’s been very quiet today,” she said in a hushed voice. “And they forgot chairs.”

Most people launched into how their husbands, wives and kids were, or what had happened in a year. With Leigh, there was no catching up. “Chairs?” I asked.

“Yup,” Leigh said. “They’re all locked up until tomorrow. I’ve been standing since I got here at noon.”

“Oh, man,” I said.

Leigh nodded. “At least it’s only an hour before the opening session,” she said. “I can’t wait to sit down.”

“You could just sit here,” I said, motioning around the booth.

“Oh, no.” Leigh laughed. “Not on the floor.”

Leigh was friendly and girl-next-door pretty. She had a modest sensibility, like a high school teacher or a banker. But in her semi-casual pre-conference look today, she was particularly cute. She wore her dirty-blonde hair short, layered atop her shoulders. She usually wore contacts, but she opted for glasses when she was still setting up. She wore a dark blue cable-knit turtleneck and tan dress pants, and some kind of practical brown shoes peeked from the hem of her slacks.

Unfortunately, Leigh lived three hours away. Both of us were entrenched in our real lives enough that moving would be a hassle. Besides, we had no idea if we were actually compatible, or just compatible enough to be social at a three-day business conference. And Leigh also had a long-term boyfriend.

So conference spouses it was. But if Leigh were single, I wouldn’t not be tempted.

Someone walked over to talk to Leigh, so I quietly left her to work while I perused the expo hall. We would get to talk later, preferably not in the middle of a wide-open expo hall. But as I walked around, I kept glancing in Leigh’s direction.

Alas, we were there to work, so eventually I wandered off and got into my own conversations, caught up with people I knew. I kept glancing at my watch; the opening session would start soon, and I wanted to sit with Leigh, if I could. But the conversations drew on, and at last I could excuse myself to get over to the opening session.

I walked into the ballroom, stepped to the side of one door, and scanned around the room, looking for Leigh. At last, I spotted her on the other side of the room, so I started to move in that direction. But as I got closer, I saw she was sitting on the end of an aisle, some of her customers surrounding her. And she had not left a free chair.

I sighed and leaned against the wall. I didn’t want to sit down; maybe someone would move. I could always hope.

As the speakers started, I watched Leigh a few rows ahead. She was leaning forward in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, playing with her hair as she tried to pay attention. She glanced around the room, but she didn’t look in my direction.

As the emcee droned on, Leigh shifted in her chair, uncrossing her leg and setting her feet flat on the floor. She looked down at the floor, at her feet, sliding them forward and then stretching her legs in front of her. She turned her toes in toward each other, still looking down at her shoes. I wondered what she was thinking.

Then Leigh set her feet flat on the floor, and slowly, she slid her legs back slightly toward her chair. But her brown shoes stayed put. And so did my attention.

Leigh had never played with her shoes in front of me. She usually didn’t wear shoes she could play with; it was dressy boots, or practical slip-ons, or one and only one time, a pair of heels with a strap. But as work wives and apparently conference wives could, she had lamented her sore feet a few times. So I was always hopeful.

And I watched as Leigh’s shoes stayed still as her legs gently inched forward, then slid back, the hems of her pantlegs grazing the carpet.

Leigh was being very subtle. Even though I hadn’t seen her feet, I recognized the motions. She rubbed her soles on the insoles of her shoes, on the backs, somehow. At last, she slid her feet completely from her shoes, her heels softly landing on the floor.

I tried to be discreet, but I definitely wasn’t looking at the stage.

Leigh’s shoes were brown backless clogs with a wedge heel. Her pantlegs hid most of her feet, but she was resting her toes on the backs of the clogs. She was wearing white socks, but I couldn’t tell if they were dress socks or not. Leigh wiggled her little toes, then hooked them on the back of the shoes and pressed down. Her clogs flipped up a bit, then landed flat on the floor.

I tried to remember the last time I had been interested in a girl wearing clogs.

Leigh slipped her feet back into her clogs, then slid her feet back, crossing her ankles under her chair. Leigh bounced her crossed foot nervously, and her clog popped away from her white heel. Leigh uncrossed her feet and stuffed her foot back into her loosened shoe.

Then Leigh stretched her legs in front of her, pointed her feet and dropped her clogs to the floor. She looked down at her feet, still pointed like a ballerina’s, and made circles with them in the air. She stopped and flexed her feet up, curling her toes back toward her, then pointed them again before slipping her clogs back on.

I glanced up at the stage, but only to seem like I was actually engaged before returning my eyes to Leigh’s shoeplay show.

Of course, now Leigh had “broken the seal,” and she couldn’t keep her clogs on. She crossed one leg over the other, dangling her left clog until it slid off her foot, almost landing in the aisle. She retrieved it and tried sitting with her feet flat on the floor, but then she slid her feet out of her clogs and rested with her toes planted on the backs of her shoes, exposing her arched soles.

So Leigh stuffed her feet back into her clogs, slid them forward again, and slipped them off, now resting her feet atop the clogs, wiggling her toes, then resting her toes on the backs of the clogs. She slipped them back on and crossed her ankles in front of her, stretching her legs, but once again she started wiggling her left foot, shaking her clog loose and letting it fall to the floor.

This time, Leigh swung her right leg back, crossed her left leg over her right knee, and reached down to rub her stocking foot. She played with her sock for a moment, then put her clog back on and crossed her feet again.

Poor Leigh looked so restless and uncomfortable. She pointed her feet and did circles with her ankles again, clogs on the carpet beneath her. She rested her toes on the backs of her clogs and popped them up again, but this time, her right clog slipped out and rolled over on its side. She stretched to put her shoe back on, then tucked her legs back under her chair, slipped the clogs off completely and crossed her stockinged feet in front of her.

There were about three minutes total where Leigh somehow managed to keep her feet in her shoes, but it seemed like it was stronger than her.

At last, it sounded like the opening session was drawing to a close. Leigh sat there, leaning forward, legs tucked under her chair, feet barely in her clogs now. Everyone stood up, and Leigh did too, kind of popping her left heel from her clog as they applauded the speakers for the night.

As the crowd started to file out, I wanted to catch Leigh for a drink, maybe an encore performance.

[continues]

[paradigm88]

Leigh was in no rush, though, so I waited by the door. At last, Leigh’s friends filed out, saying good night and waving as they made it to the aisles. Leigh stood there for a moment, adjusting her foot in her shoe, and yawning when she thought no one noticed.

I walked against the traffic, approaching Leigh at her seat.

Leigh saw me in the crowd and she beamed. “Oh, hi!” she said. “I was wondering where you went.”

“I didn’t see a free seat so I just hung out over there,” I said, motioning to the wall where I had been standing.

“I’m sorry,” Leigh said, frowning. “We walked over from my booth and we just kind of got carried away talking before the speakers. What did you think?”

I thought her shoeplay had been fabulous. But I shrugged. “It’s a conference,” I said.

Leigh laughed and touched my arm gently, leaning closer. “I know, right? It’s pretty much the same thing every year. I kind of zoned out on the guest speaker.”

“It’s been a long day,” I said.

“Really long,” Leigh said.

“Would you like to get a drink before we turn in?” I asked.

“Yes, please,” Leigh said. “As long as we can sit down.”

“I’m sure we can find a seat,” I said.

“Oh, good,” Leigh said, her eyes flashing with hope. She touched my arm again, that gesture of intimacy, like she was telling me a big secret. “Oh my gosh, my feet hurt.”

There it was. “Oh, no,” I said. “Did you wear the wrong shoes?”

“No, no,” Leigh said. She slid her left foot out in front of her, sort of between us, and looked down, so I would look down, too. “I love these shoes. They’re actually really comfy.”

I got a better look at Leigh’s clogs. They were brown with a faux buckle strap across the top. They had a middle-aged mom vibe to them, but Leigh wore that aesthetic so well, they were actually cute on her. “They look comfy,” I said.

“They’re my favorites,” Leigh said, sliding her foot out and leaving the empty clog in front of her. “I’m sorry. Can I lean on you?” She had already rested her hand on my shoulder to give her a little balance.

“Of course.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said. “I just have to fix my toes.” With her left hand on my shoulder, she brought her left foot up to her right hand and adjusted the toe of her stocking, balancing on her right foot. Leigh stretched her leg out in front of her, making circles with her foot in the air. I admired her ribbed nylon sock, just sheer enough that I could see a little of the red polish of her toenails peeking through.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “My feet are just so sore right now.”

She said it like it was the first time a woman had ever complained about sore feet. It wasn’t even the first time Leigh complained about sore feet, though it was the first time she had done something about it.

“Why don’t we go sit down and get a drink?” I asked.

“That sounds good,” Leigh said, gingerly slipping her clog back on.

We walked together to the hotel bar, catching up on life. I told Leigh about the hockey game I took my father to, about the concert I went to over the winter. Leigh told me about the 5K she ran in before Christmas, about how she almost adopted a dog a month ago. It was mundane stuff, but in all our work-related chatter, we had never brought it up.

And there was something easy about talking with Leigh. Maybe it was because she was taken, but I felt no intimidation, no need to keep her captivated. As we got to the hotel bar, I realized how much I missed having someone like Leigh in my life.

Leigh ordered a glass of wine, and I asked for a beer, and we looked around for an open table somewhere. Across the room, I saw the perfect spot: two plush armchairs around a solid oval table by a window. “Leigh, why don’t you go sit down?” I said while they prepared our drinks.

Leigh went to save our seat, and I waited a moment to get her glass and my beer bottle. I carried them back to the table, where Leigh was already sitting, looking at her phone, elbows on her thighs and her brown shoes pointed in toward each other.

I sat down and handed Leigh her glass of wine, and she set her phone on the table, face down, before taking the glass. “Thank you,” she said, closing her eyes as she savored the first sip.

“No problem,” I said.

“I’m glad you found this one,” Leigh said. “I was hoping we wouldn’t be stuck at a high table.”

Leigh had rolled her clogs onto their sides, her heels resting on the carpet but her toes still tucked into the backless brown shoes. “Better?” I asked, motioning to her feet.

Leigh was staring at her feet, but looked up at me, and her face flushed red. “A little,” she said.

“You know, you can just take ‘em off if you want to,” I said in a hushed voice.

Leigh looked relieved as she slipped her left foot from her clog, then her right. She gently nudged her clogs aside and slid her feet forward on the floor, stretching her legs. I studied her trouser socks, the sheerness of the ribbed nylon, her little white feet vulnerable on the charcoal carpet.

“I hope no one was watching during the speaker,” Leigh said in a low voice. “I was playing with them the whole session.”

I had most certainly been watching. “You said you’ve been standing all day,” I said.

“Mmm,” Leigh said, rubbing her left foot on her right foot, pressing her toes into her arch. “I guess I’m a little out of practice.”

I guessed Leigh meant she didn’t wear her clogs often. “I don’t remember you wearing them last year,” I said.

“The clogs? They’re new,” Leigh said. “My ex hated clogs. He thought they were too frumpy.”

“Your ex?”

“I didn’t tell you,” Leigh said with a gasp of realization. “Trevor and I broke up last fall.”

Leigh had certainly not told me. I had a million reactions in mind. “I’m so sorry,” I managed.

“It’s okay,” Leigh said. “It was a lot of little things. I’m happier now.”

Neither of us said anything for a moment. Leigh smiled as she sipped her wine. She sat up straight, her nylon feet planted in front of her on the floor.

“Well, I think they’re cute,” I said.

“Thank you,” Leigh said with a giggle. “I’m actually kind of obsessed.” She reached out with her left foot and gently petted her empty clogs.

“With the clogs?”

“Mmm, yeah.” Leigh tipped over her empty right clog. “Clogs are like my favorite shoes ever now. They’re all I want to wear right now.”

“Oh?” It felt like Leigh would just ramble about her shoes if I let her.

“Well,” Leigh said, wiggling her feet. “Trevor wanted me to wear booties, tall boots, heels, all the time. So after we broke up, I was like, I really wanted a pair of clogs. So I went and got these. And the first weekend I wore them, I was, like, instantly obsessed.”

“Because they’re comfortable?”

Leigh reached down and picked up her right clog with her left hand. “They just felt natural,” she said, looking at her shoe. “Like, I would wear boots and sneakers all the time with Trevor, or out running or at the gym. But the first time I wore my clogs, I felt like me again. I didn’t feel trapped in my shoes.”

“And now you’re obsessed.”

“Basically,” Leigh said, setting her shoe down next to her other clog. “I have these in black, too, and I have these flat clogs that are kind of like loafers, and I have my cozy sweater clogs. I kind of want a pair of dressy ones, but I don’t love pointy toes.”

“You are obsessed,” I said.

“I know,” Leigh said. “So, I’ve been working from home a lot the last year, and obviously I don’t wear shoes at home. So I’m not very comfortable in heels anymore. But these are delightful. And I love when I get home, they just slip off so easily.”

“Or in a hotel.”

Leigh blushed. “I do it a lot at work, too,” she said. “It’s kind of a bad habit.”

“Only if you get caught.”

Leigh laughed. “Oh my God, I got caught once in my boots,” she said. “We went out to lunch, and Trevor went to the bathroom, so I took my boot off to fix my sock, but I never put my boot back on. So when he was all ready to go, I had to put my boot back on and he noticed. Trevor was so upset.”

“Why was he upset?” I leaned in closer.

“Because I took my boot off at the table,” Leigh said. “He thought it was very inappropriate.”

Trevor apparently didn’t have any taste. “Good thing he’s not sitting here,” I said.

“Seriously,” Leigh said. She crossed her right leg over her left leg, pointing her ribbed nylon foot. She reached down and gently rubbed her foot as she sipped the last of her wine.

“Still sore?” I asked.

“Not really,” Leigh said. “Just touching my foot.” She smiled, maybe a little flirtatiously. “These socks are so soft.”

“They look soft,” I said. I wanted to touch them, too.

“Oh my God, they feel so good on the carpet,” Leigh said. “My feet slipped out of my clogs during the opening and I rubbed my toes in the carpet and it was like, ‘ooooh.’” She giggled. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?” I asked.

“I’m going on and on tonight,” Leigh said. “You don’t really want to hear about my socks.”

I did, actually. “You said you were obsessed lately.”

“I am,” Leigh said, uncrossing her legs and rubbing her right stockinged foot into the carpet. “I don’t get to talk to people anymore, like, just talk.”

“And you apparently want to talk about your feet.”

“Yeah,” Leigh said, smiling as her cheeks reddened. “I mean, not all the time, but my feet feel cute today.”

“And tired,” I added.

“So tired,” Leigh said, looking down at her stockinged feet. She had turned her toes in toward each other, her nylons stretched tight across the little bumps of her toes. “I think it might be time for me.”

“Bedtime?” I asked.

Leigh nodded. “It’s been a long day here,” she said. “And I have another long day tomorrow.”

“I guess I should turn it in, too,” I said. “What room are you in?”

“Room 911,” Leigh said.

“Room 913,” I replied.

“Perfect!” Leigh said excitedly. “You can walk me to my room.” She paused. “If you want to, of course.”

“I’d be glad to,” I said. I set my empty bottle next to her wine glass on the table and stood up. Leigh was still sitting, so I extended my hands to her and helped her stand up.

“I need to put my shoes on,” Leigh said, as if I somehow missed that she hadn’t yet. But, catching the hint, I held her hands tightly as she stepped into her waiting clogs, one by one.

Leigh kept her hands in mine as she looked up with a wordless smile of appreciation.

It was less conference wife, and more conference girlfriend.

[continues]

[paradigm88]

We walked back toward the lobby, toward the elevators, Leigh with her purse and each of us with a tote bag. “How early are you down here tomorrow?” I asked.

“Eight o’clock,” Leigh said. “Standing all day.”

“No wonder you’re turning in early,” I said. Usually, I would be up for another beer, but I wasn’t wasting an opportunity to spend time with Leigh.

“Yeah,” Leigh said. “I love it but it’s a lot.” She stifled a yawn momentarily before giving in.

We stepped onto a waiting elevator. Since everyone else was still mixing and mingling, we were the only two on the elevator doors as they glided shut. I looked down at Leigh, who was shifting around uncomfortably as we stood.

“Leigh, take your shoes off,” I said.

“My shoes?” she asked, looking up at me. “Now?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Okay,” Leigh said tentatively. She looked down as she slipped her clogs off in front of her, one by one.

And before she could change her mind, I crouched down and plucked the frumpy brown clogs from the floor, standing back up.

Leigh pouted, her sheer white toes wiggling against the carpeted elevator floor. “Those are my favorite shoes,” she said.

“And I can’t just let you stand next to me in pain,” I said.

Leigh smiled. “I was trying to be subtle,” she said.

“The last half hour wasn’t very subtle,” I teased.

Leigh laughed. “I’ve been on my feet all day,” she said, as if she needed an explanation.

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. “Then let’s get you to your room,” I said.

We stepped off the elevator, Leigh padding alongside me silently in her nylon feet as we walked to our adjacent rooms. “I feel like you’re walking me home,” Leigh said.

“It does feel that way,” I said.

Leigh smiled. “No one’s ever carried my shoes for me, though,” she said.

“Maybe you never asked.”

“I didn’t have to tonight.”

Leigh’s room was first, and we stopped at the door. I stood there holding Leigh’s clogs in one hand. Leigh stood in front of me, a few inches shorter in her stockinged feet. We looked into each other’s eyes.

“Um, I know we’re just friends,” Leigh said.

I nodded. I wondered where Leigh was going.

“But would you rub my feet?”

“Sure,” I said, maybe too quickly.

“Like, right now?” Leigh said, every bit as quickly.

“Well, maybe in the room would be better, so you could sit,” I said.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, almost dropping her room key as she fumbled for it in her pocket. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, letting me follow through before she pushed the door shut.

Leigh flicked the light on, and I looked for a place to drop her empty clogs. She had unpacked a few things, and I noticed a pair of black wool clog slippers on the floor, where the linoleum entryway changed to carpet. I set Leigh’s clogs down next to her slippers, dropping my tote bag as well.

Meanwhile, Leigh had tossed her tote bag and purse on the entertainment center in front of the TV. Still crouched by her clogs, I watched as she walked around her room, unfastening a bracelet, her dress pants dusting the carpeted floor as only her silky stockinged toes peeked out.

“Do you mind if I lay down?” Leigh asked as she sat on the edge of her bed.

“Of course not,” I said, standing up. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Leigh scooted up onto the bed, her white ribbed soles exposed. “It’s just been such a long day,” she said. “I want to stretch out.”

I pulled the desk chair over and sat down. Leigh was reclined on the bed, laying on her back, her little nylon feet at the very end of the comforter. As I positioned the chair at the foot of the bed, I tried to remember the last time I had given a girl a foot massage.

“Just be gentle,” Leigh said in a soft, timid voice. “And no tickles please?”

Leigh’s stockinged feet were exquisite, small and slender with graceful arches. Her white ribbed stockings, just sheer enough to show off her painted toes, made her feet look delicate and vulnerable. I wondered what anyone had done to her feet to make her ask for a gentle touch.

So I took Leigh’s left foot in both my hands. She was right; her trouser socks were the softest hosiery I had ever felt. I gently rubbed my thumbs into her silky arches. I felt like I was squeezing a warm cloud.

I kneaded Leigh’s toes, then decided to treat both of her feet at once. I petted the tops of her feet with my fingers while pressing my thumbs into the balls of her feet, into her arches. Leigh was silent; her feet tensed up as my thumbs traced her soles to her tender heels, but then she pointed her feet at me, like a ballerina.

I cupped my hands around Leigh’s heels and squeezed them a few times. Her toes curled and uncurled with each squeeze. I worked my hands back up her tiny feet, rolling the sides of her feet in my palms before nestling my thumbs under her little toes. I rolled her toes between my thumb and fingers, spreading them out ever slightly.

Leigh was still quiet, so I gently petted her soft feet, from the tips of her toes to the hem of her dress pants. “Ooh,” she cooed as I rubbed her ankles.

“Is that good?” I asked.

“Oh my gosh, yes,” Leigh said at last. “You’re very gentle.”

“You asked me to be,” I said.

Leigh propped herself up on the bed. “I was nervous,” she said. “I was so afraid it was going to tickle.”

“Haven’t you had a foot rub before?” I asked.

Leigh rubbed her stockinged feet together. “Um, no,” she said shyly. “I mean, I rub my feet all the time, but that’s different.”

I couldn’t just leave Leigh hanging. I took her left foot in both of my hands and kneaded her sole and the ball of her foot, more vigorously this time. I took care not to do anything that would feel ticklish, but I savored her soft stockings with every squeeze and press.

Then I switched feet. As I kneaded her right foot, Leigh bent her knee and rubbed her left foot against the comforter. The soft brushing of her stockinged sole against the bed was the only sound in the room.

As Leigh eased her left foot back toward me, I moved my right hand to her waiting toes, rubbing my thumbs under the soft spot beneath her little nylon toes. Gently but firmly, I pointed her feet toward me, like a ballerina stretch. Leigh curled her toes tightly and sighed as I held her feet there for a moment. I shifted my hands again, rubbing the base of her big toes together before letting her flex her feet back up again.

And then, for a couple minutes, I just rubbed my hands up and down the sides of her feet, my thumbs planted in her arches. My God, were her nylons soft.

“How was that?” I asked.

“Um…wow,” Leigh said in a hushed tone.

She was laying down again, her eyes closed.

“Good wow?”

“Like, ‘don’t stop’ wow,” Leigh said, wiggling her toes.

I kept rubbing her feet. “Your feet are so soft,” I said.

“I know,” Leigh said. “I didn’t realize how good it felt to walk barefoot in them.”

“Until the elevator?”

“Yeah,” Leigh giggled. “I was so nervous when you told me to take my shoes off, and then I did and I was like, I want to walk around the whole hotel in my stocking feet now.”

“We could have taken a walk,” I said.

“I still kinda want to,” Leigh said. “But this is better.”

Leigh’s feet were submissive in my hands. I had been kneading them and folding them and pointing them and playing with her toes, and I was pretty sure she would have let me squeeze them into a ball if I wanted to. I sort of wanted to tickle them, but that had been Leigh’s one request.

“Then I’m glad you asked,” I said, stroking the tops of her feet with my fingertips as my thumbs pressed under the base of her big toes.

“Me, too,” Leigh said with a sigh.

I tenderly rubbed the sides of Leigh’s arches and she curled her toes and feet tightly, her nylon soles wrinkling.

“I was sort of embarrassed to,” Leigh whispered.

“Why?” I whispered back.

“Because it’s my feet,” Leigh said. “You don’t just ask a friend to rub your feet.”

“No, you just rub your own foot in front of him and hope he catches on.”

“Well, yeah.” Leigh giggled again. “Was that obvious?”

“Maybe a little,” I said. “It was cute.”

“I had a little cramp in my foot.” Leigh flexed her right foot as I rubbed it. “And you had encouraged me to take my shoes off, so I didn’t think you’d mind.” She paused. “And I guess I hoped you’d volunteer.”

“For your first foot massage?”

“I didn’t even think about it,” Leigh said. “I just wanted you rubbing my feet.”

I was being a bit less gentle with Leigh’s feet now, kneading them with both hands, one at a time. “And here we are.”

“Mmm.”

The room was silent, the brushing of Leigh’s soft nylon feet the only sound we could hear. I raised Leigh’s right foot to my eye level and leaned close. I studied the knit of her nylons, stretched sheer over her red toenails, perfect and clean and unblemished. I breathed in, inhaling the slightest floral aroma. I lowered her foot an inch or two and kissed the top of her toes, feeling the impossibly silky stocking under my lips.

Leigh gasped.

I lowered her foot to do the same to her right, but instead Leigh propped herself up and lunged forward, quickly tucking her legs behind her on the bed as she embraced me in a tight hug.

And we sat there for a minute, all pretense of casual conference friendship cast to the side as I felt Leigh’s slim body against mine, her sweater-knit arms looped around my neck, her coconut-scented hair in my eyes.

“You kissed my feet first,” she whispered playfully.

“Your feet wanted it more,” I whispered back before kissing her on the lips.

“I know,” Leigh whispered at last as she leaned back, sitting on her folded legs.

Leigh had always been pretty but unavailable. In the moment, she was radiant, her eyes glowing behind her glasses, her hair glossy and fluffy, her sweater clinging to her curves, her silky white feet frozen in a ballerina pose.

She held out her hands and I took them. Apparently, she was available as I wanted her to be.

I stood up from the desk chair and kicked it back toward the desk, still holding Leigh’s hands. “Would you like that walk?”

“I would,” Leigh said, unfolding her legs and standing up to face me. “But I should probably get to bed. It’s a long day tomorrow.”

“A long day standing,” I said.

Leigh nodded. “A long day before I get to see you,” she said.

“A long day in clogs.”

“I don’t think I’ll wear the clogs tomorrow,” Leigh said, turning in my arms and nestling close to me, her back against my chest. I could smell her coconut hair again.

“No clogs?”

“Well, I want to wear heels for dinner,” she said. As she said that, she stroked my shin with her stockinged sole, rubbing up and down softly.

“Heels?”

“Maybe,” Leigh said. “It’s a long day.”

She turned back to me, and I kissed Leigh again, my hand on the small of her back.

I grabbed my things and we walked to the door of Leigh’s hotel room, where we gave each other another kiss. “Good night,” I said, opening the door and taking the few steps to my own room.

But as I unlocked my door, Leigh hurried out of her own room, still in her stockinged feet, and gave me another kiss on the cheek. “Good night,” she said, giggling as she stood outside her door for a moment, posing on tiptoes in the hallway.

I smiled as we ducked back into our rooms for the night.

[end...for now]

[MM12]

This was very very well done. Nice job!

[thieph]

Great story, glad to see new work from you

[Hamilton]

I'm glad you're writing again. I enjoy reading your work.