For this toe-tease, feet lead the way in a sole-stirring foot fetish story of seduction.

For Ena Dahl, feet take center stage in this audio erotica story of lust and control.

Foot Fetish Stories: Power, Play, and Worship

I Like My Feet Worshipped

I arch my right foot. I notice you’re watching but pretend not to see how much it turns you on when I dip my big toe onto the floor, slide it towards you, then back. But I’m well aware; I know these subtle suggestions drive you mad. That’s exactly why I do it, to play with you and that wickedly perverted mind of yours.

With legs pursed and body angled towards you, I point ballerina feet to elongate my arches, drawing a perfect line from ankles to toned calves. Your eyes trace along my fibula, up to my thighs. I see this and raise my feet off the floor again—just for a moment—then place them back, gently. You sigh.

My whole body twists now, mimicking the exquisite shape of feet; ass popping, lower back arching, and propelling my chest forward. I tilt my head back to stretch like a cat, purr a little. Then, I look at you, lackadaisical, like I hadn’t noticed your lust prickling my skin.

I love you, devoted foot fetishists. There’s something unique about how your brains work. I like knowing I’m with someone who pays attention to detail, who cares about the little things.

And there are many fine details to attend to. Nearly one-fourth of the body’s bones are found in the feet. Just a single foot consists of no less than twenty-six bones, thirty joints, and over one hundred muscles, tendons, and ligaments. My favourites are the metatarsals—the five long bones that stretch across the top, from the phalanges to the cuneiforms.

These become visible as I move and curl, making them protrude through the delicate skin to draw suggestive lines that meet the anterior tibialis. And, wow, is anything more titillating than this long, lean tendon and how it tenses from the big toe to the knee? I might be biased, but I think not.

While it might sound like it, I’m not a podophile myself. Instead, I’m someone who admires the intricate beauty of the human foot, yours included. But they don’t turn me on. You, lusting after my feet, though, that does. 

"I’m a foot fetish giver. A toe-tease."

“Fie, fie upon her! There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out at every joint and motive of her body.”

Even Shakespeare describes what I do to you. I speak with my feet, knowing you’ll respond.

You know, you’re not as odd as they think. 

Feet are second behind sex organs as the most commonly eroticized body parts

, which could be explained by the fact that 

feet occupy adjacent areas of the brain’s somatosensory cortex

. Some even think we could be programmed to like feet from childhood, as feet are often the first part of a parent a toddler touches.

Whatever the reason, the Journal of Sexual Medicine conducted a study suggesting that about 

10 percent of the Belgian population has a thing for fee

t. Noteworthy foot fetishists include Elvis Presley, Andy Warhol, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Marilyn Manson, Dita Von Teese, Ludacris, and James Joyce. Based on the evidence above, I suspect Shakespeare joins their ranks, too.

You’re in good company, you see, but I doubt the majority are as spellbound by my digits as you are.

I can control you with them, torture you even. And while I usually let you be in charge, I’m the boss now. With the smallest of movements, I pull you towards me, hooked by an intangible thread.

You suggest, also playing blasé, not wanting to reveal just how defenceless you are.

I answer by swinging my body sideways, landing my pods in your open lap to recline back on the sofa. You start with stroking, lightly running your fingers alongside and underneath, tracing toes. Your touch sends a tingling sensation up my spine that makes my brain buzz. I begin to feel something else buzzing too. You push your crotch against me. I push back. It’s a tug of war. Who controls whom? I’m losing track.

I used to think only submissives worship feet, that the action defined our roles in the bedroom, and vice versa. I’ve since been proven wrong, partially by you.

A person can be dominant on their knees, in charge with their tongue coiled around toes. You can find submissives on top, even with a flogger in hand. Neither tools nor body placement determines who’s in control. Power is more fluent than that; it’s in our words, spoken with our mouths or with our bodies alone. It’s in our minds.

As you lift my foot to your lips and let my big toe part them, we’re both in charge, and equally at each other’s mercy. Watching my eyes, you slowly swallow the whole thing, suck and twirl it around, then slide it out.

Funnily, I feel this in my gut more than anywhere else. Is this explained by reflexology? Where feet are thought to be fitted with pressure points that correspond to parts of the body. They say our toes have meridians that connect to our organs; the big toe sends signals to the liver and spleen. Is that what I’m feeling?

My crotch floods with warmth in response as I rock back and forth in concert with your movements. You have your way with each of my toes, tantalizing my digestive system via secret pathways.

Growing up, we learn that feet are smelly, gross, even, but you eat mine like a fine delicacy. Humming, oooh, and aaah, your lips lick in delight, and I sense you’d devour them if you could. The thought gets me so excited, I smother your face before sliding down to your crotch.

I pride myself on the monkey genes that allow me to unbutton your pants almost unaided by your impatient fingers. Once released, you burst out, but I quickly catch you between my soles.

You release a long string of saliva to cover your glans.

Instead, you pull one foot to your mouth again, this time pushing me down your throat. I feel myself tickling your uvula, triggering a spontaneous gag of sticky spit to envelop my foot. I hurry down to cover you in it.

My feet may not be as dexterous as my hands, but your arousal eclipses my lack of finesse as I slip ‘n’ slide down your shaft. You groan and reach long arms past my wet folds to a slick smacking sound.

I want to be inside your mouth again. I want you inside me. Hoisting myself forward, I slide against you to lift my hips and legs. My toes part your lips, again, just as you part mine.

I enter you. You enter me. I thrust into you. You thrust into me. I control you. You control me.

Interlocked, like the Ouroboros—the ancient symbol of wholeness and unity, the snake eating itself—we continue, as one, until we both surrender.