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Synopsis: A university bombshell catches someone staring in class and teases him relentlessly with tasks and texts. (5,771 words)
This F (Femdom) story features:
Blackmail, Foot Fetish, Sock Fetish, Teasing, Erotic Humiliation, and Orgasm Control.
The lecture hall was a little better than half full, and the lights at the front were just dim enough to cast a yellow glow of the the first third of the stadium seats. It was halfway through a long Wednesday lecture, and the class had drifted into the haze of the overhead projector and the scribbling of notes. I leaned back my head and rubbed my eyes as I stretched slightly, and as I leaned forward again to my notebook I heard my pen clatter to the ground.
I groped around for a moment in the golden semi-darkness but my hand felt nothing, so I slowly ducked down and looked beneath the seat. As I grabbed it and began to raise my head again, I couldn’t help but notice a small flicker coming from underneath the seat of the sandy-haired blonde girl sitting in the row ahead, three seats to my right, who was wearing dark blue jeans and a grey hooded sweatshirt bearing the name of the university.
Her name was Mallory, and her bright eyes and wry smile had been a near continuous source of daydreaming for me over the semester. As she began writing a new line in the blue ink of her notes, my eyes drifted furtively beneath her chair, from the heather gray elastic at the top of her sock to the pale, rosy pink of her heel and her ankle. She was wearing a well-worn pair of Birkenstock clogs, which looked as though she had had them a long time and seemed to have been selected primarily for their comfort.
Over the remaining hour of the class, I watched in distraction as she idly began to tap her right foot, slowly and discreetly at first, and then gradually beginning to flex it against the toe of her shoe so that it slipped off and dangled invitingly a couple of inches from her heel. It revealed the first glances of the several large, colorful polka dots that adorned her socks; orange, green, blue, purple… A couple of times she let her shoe drop and flexed her foot against it, revealing the slight imprint of her sole in her shoe. Her socks looked dirty, like they had been worn the day or two before, and there was a light, faint discoloration tracing her foot as she occasionally wiggled her toes.
I was so entranced that didn’t notice when the professor said to hand in our assigned papers from the week before. People at the edges of the rows began getting up and making their way to the front, but Mallory was still seated, dangling her shoe lazily. All of the sudden she snapped it back as the fluorescent lights flicked on, and she got up to join the line at the front. I thought in that moment that I had caught a flash of her deep blue eyes as she stood up, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I collected my paper and walked down just as she got back to her seat, and people began getting their things and filing out as the professor announced that that was all for the day. Turning back, I lost sight of her in the resulting chaos and by the time I reached my seat again she was gone.
I gathered my notebook and bag, and pulled on my jacket as I made my way out into the hall, listless in my longing, and disappointed that I didn’t get the chance to see her one last time before the weekend. I stepped out through the main doors into the chill of the early autumn air, and walked down to the library with her image fluttering my mind. I nodded, smiling, to the girls behind the counters at the information desk, and headed for my usual corner, a warm, infrequently-visited section behind the microfiche periodicals with a couple of large, comfy chairs that were never occupied.
I sat down and pulled out my books, setting my bag on the little table in front of me, and leaned back, searching for my pen. I reached down into the right pocket of my jacket, and paused for a moment, feeling something soft. I touched it with my fingertips for a moment, before feeling a piece of paper tucked inside next to it.
Looking around behind me, and seeing that there was no one, I grabbed the bunch together, and pulled it out to look. It was the same pair of dirty, dotted grey socks, with a note saying, “If you think you can handle the real thing… 555-4693. M.”
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