Chapter 1

I met this really nice guy through a friend of mine. He was gorgeous, funny, with these quick one-liners that had me laughing out loud without even trying. We first talked at one of her events, and then we got into those casual chats online, you know? I’d been single for months, my usual spot wasn’t anything special back then, and suddenly there he was—a guy way above average. What luck for me!

In our messages, nothing too spicy came up, but of course the talk touched on sex here and there. He was bolder, dropping flirty comments, and I mostly listened, holding back, feeling that little thrill in my stomach. We set up a meetup, and I already knew it was gonna happen—I wanted it, craved it. As long as he wasn’t a total weirdo, it’d be fine. But then, in the middle of his teasing, this unexpected convo came up.

My heart sped up a bit when he asked, from the other end of the line, with that mischievous curiosity in his voice:

“Do you have any weird fetish?”

I froze for a second, nervous, trying not to say something dumb that’d ruin everything. My hands were sweating on the phone, and I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, unsure, like I was walking on eggshells:

“Uh, I don’t know… I like guys with a toned torso.”

“Oh man, that fetish you’re gonna have to fulfill with someone else, it ain’t happening with me,” he joked, with a husky laugh that made me blush.

I laughed along, forcing it a bit to seem relaxed, and tried to dive deeper into the chat, still with my chest tight from insecurity:

“Ah, I don’t know, I’m more of a go-with-the-flow type, but I don’t have any weird fetishes, you can relax.”

“I’m asking ‘cause when the time comes, you might wanna piss on my face, and that ain’t my thing!”

I slapped my hand to my face, feeling the heat rush up to my ears, red as a tomato. I pictured that crazy scene, and a mix of nausea and nervous laughter hit me—what the hell! But I fired back with a little sarcastic quip, trying to hide the awkwardness:

“Oh, yeah, you can relax, I’ll avoid doing that.”

An awkward silence hung on the line for a few seconds that felt like forever, and I felt my heart pounding in my chest, wondering what was next. Then he broke the ice with that low voice, almost a whisper, like he was spilling a dirty secret:

“I have one, you might think it’s super weird.”

“What?” I asked, already nervous, biting my lower lip while gripping the phone tighter, my stomach twisting with anxiety.

“I like feet!” he blurted out, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and I blinked, confused, processing it.

“Okay, but feet right off the bat?” I replied, not quite getting it. I’d never seen the appeal in that fetish; what was the big deal, anyway? “I mean, isn’t that kinda weird?”

“Weird? But harmless,” he shot back, with a light chuckle that helped me relax a little. “In the end, you end up relaxed like you’ve been to a spa.”

Right then, I brushed it off, not giving it much thought. The guy wanting to suck on my big toe wasn’t my biggest fear—I was shaking inside just thinking about going out with a near-stranger I barely knew. It was clear we were meeting up and sex was gonna happen; I wanted it, felt the desire throbbing between my legs just imagining it, but the worry he might be dangerous kept me on edge, my body tense with a mix of anticipation and fear.

And it happened. We met at this cozy Japanese spot, low lights and the scent of wasabi in the air. He wasn’t in any rush, which I noticed right away and loved—it calmed me down, made me feel safe. He wooed me slowly, with subtle touches that gave me goosebumps: a brush of fingers on my hand while passing the chopsticks, a light stroke on my arm as he told a story, a gentle fix of my hair that had me leaning into him. So attentive, his eyes lingering on my lips, treating me like I’d been his girlfriend for months. I was loving it, melting inside, heat rising up my neck as I pictured what was coming next. I felt wanted, sexy, my body tingling with every move.

Afterward, we headed to his apartment, and damn, what a delicious guy—tall, confident, with that woody scent that filled my nostrils and left me dizzy. As soon as I walked in, he showed me around: the charmingly messy living room, the kitchen where he promised to cook for me someday, the bedroom with the king-size bed that made me swallow hard. I excused myself to hit the bathroom for a quick check, my heart racing from nerves and excitement. I stared at myself in the mirror, fixed my slightly tousled hair, reapplied my lipstick with shaky hands, touched up the makeup that was starting to smudge a bit from the night’s heat. I glanced down at my panties, hiking my skirt up just a touch, and made sure everything was good down there—no weird smell, wet with desire but fresh enough to keep me confident.

Just in case, I checked my feet.

I took a deep breath, feeling my pulse throb between my thighs, ready for whatever came next, and stepped out.

When I came out of the bathroom, he walked toward me laughing, his eyes locked on mine, loaded with an intensity that made me hold my breath—“the calm before the storm,” I thought, my body already buzzing with anticipation, a shiver running up my spine like the air had gotten thicker. He approached slowly, pressing his body against mine, his heat radiating through the thin fabric, like a living bonfire wrapping around me, warming my cool skin and making my chest rise and fall faster. I felt his chest press into mine, the firm muscle brushing my breasts, sending waves of heat down to my belly, a hot, wet pulse building between my legs.

He took control without any force, his hands sliding down my back with a rough, warm texture like scorched velvet, guiding me backward until I hit the wall, and I gave in without him asking—my body surrendering on its own, muscles loosening under his touch, a delicious weakness flooding my thighs. His scent hit me first, a mix of woodsy soap and fresh sweat, intoxicating, making me breathe deep, filling my nostrils and sliding down my throat, leaving his taste in my mouth. He ground his hip into mine, the hard bulge of his arousal pressing against my stomach, the slow, deliberate friction sending electric shocks through my core, my nipples hardening under my bra, an itchy ache begging for relief.

Our clothes started hitting the floor slowly, like time was dragging just to stretch out the sweet torture. He pulled my shirt up, his fingers grazing the bare skin of my belly, soft and hot against mine, leaving a trail of fire that made me arch my back, a low moan slipping from my lips as the fabric slid down my arms and pooled at my feet with a soft whisper. My scent mixed with his—a light floral perfume and arousal, salty and sweet, that I tasted in the air when he leaned in to kiss my neck, his tongue tracing my collarbone with a salty, hot flavor like melted honey, making my skin tingle and a liquid heat spread through my pussy, the inner walls clenching in anticipation.

I unbuttoned his shirt, feeling the smooth buttons against my trembling fingers, and when the fabric parted, his bare chest pressed into mine, skin on skin, his heat burning like embers, making me gasp as we rubbed our bodies together, my breasts flattening against his torso, the friction sparking through my whole body, nerves on edge. The smell of his bare skin was stronger now, musk and pure lust, and I tasted him when I nipped his shoulder lightly, salty and metallic like heated iron, making me lick my lips and crave more. His pants came down next, the belt clinking on the floor, and I felt his cock free, hot and throbbing against my thigh, the velvety, rigid texture rubbing my skin, sending a tremor through my belly, desire building like a wave about to crash.