Support Service:
A New Year's
Short Story –
Part One
“Sorry,” the big, broad, bald man laid out, leather-clad and face-down in a sprawling pose on the low bed beside her, yawned as Reena Lathan stripped his feet of their heavy, black, lace-up, work boots and thick, sweat-soaked socks, “they’re a little gross.”
Reena just smiled as she took one foot in her hand and began to tenderly wipe every inch of his feet with rubbing alcohol. “Don’t worry about it,” she told him. “I’m used to it,” she said. Truth be told, she liked it.
“You’ve been doing this all night?” he asked, his face half-crushed into the pillow at the other end of the bed. “What a way to ring in the New Year.”
“It’s my volunteer hours,” she said as she switched feet. Donovan’s annual “Spank in the New Year” celebration was coming to a close. Well past midnight, the numbers were in and people were saying it’d been one of the club’s busiest nights. And Reena believed it. “I’ve been here since ten, offering post-scene foot massages.” To Dommes with tired, over-arched feet in impossibly tall stiletto boots. To bottoms with sore heels and blistered balls from standing and struggling and teetering on bare, abused feet. To Doms whose feet sweltered beneath leather and steel toes. And it had been a long night.
Don’t get her wrong, Reena was a fan of feet—finding the ridges and planes, the bones and veins, the arch and heel and toes a fascinating study of where a person was, had been, and was going. But, after three hours of after care service—three hours of bathing and rubbing and massaging feet of every kind—even her appreciation was being tested.
Even so, she thought as she watched the last few dungeon scenes dwindle down from crescendo-ing strikes to soothing strokes. She had a job to do and she took her duties seriously. Donovan’s was a highly exclusive, highly elite club; one that, by all rights, someone like her—who was still paying off student loans and barely brushing off the bottom of the mail-sorting, coffee-fetching office ranks—should never have been able to belong to. Lord knew, she couldn’t afford her loans, her rent, food, and the club dues. But thankfully Donovan’s offered discounted rates to those who volunteered at the club.
All in all, it was a great deal. Three hours, three nights a month got had her monthly dues reduced by more than half and allowed her to attend events she’d never have been able to afford a ticket to. It was a great way to pay back a club and a community that gave her so much.
“Three hours of feet, huh?” the Dom whistled as he shook his head as much as his prone position would allow. “I couldn’t do it. Hat’s off to you, girl.”
Reena shrugged. “I don’t mind,” she said before she flexed her hands against a raging cramp that had settled in half an hour ago that now burned along the base of her left thumb. “I’m happy to do it,” she said as she started to rub his large feet with her homemade foot oil.
“You got a thing for feet?” the man asked, bending a bit at the waist so he could curl and curve around to look at her.
A fetish. He meant did she have a fetish.
“No,” she said with a shake of her head, “I don’t have a thing.” She liked feet, sure, but it wasn’t, like, a fetish or anything. She just liked them. That’s all.
Reena closed her eyes and breathed deep, the scent of skin, sweat, and wear mixing with the oil’s sweet citrus and cool mint both calming and invigorating at the same time. She inhaled as she let the scent waft up to her as she worked it into the toughened flesh. She knew that most people hated the smell of feet, found the idea and the odor of overworked soles offensive. Knew that she ought to too. But there was something indescribably earthy about that scent that intrigued her.
“Oh God,” the Dom groaned in relaxed relief as her fingers dug deep into the flesh of his foot. His feet flexed in her hand, the flesh arching deep, as the rest of his body followed suit, his back bowing and his head thrown back as he moaned almost ecstatically. “Thing or not, that is good.”
Reena smiled as she pressed her thumbs hard into the heart of his foot, eliciting more low growls of pleasure. She may not have a fetish, but she did have to admit that there was just something about feet that drew her. In the strong, sharp knuckles of his toes, the way those bones snaked like gnarled roots up the rise of his foot. In the coarse, dark hair spattering in patches—thin and sparse as ankle became arch or along each toe—that tickled her palms. In the variety of textures—smooth sole, callus-capped heels, fragile flesh that thinly covered yet securely held the bony bridge together.
Read Part Two Here
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