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Synopsis: A convenient living arrangement gets complicated when it turns out that Elaina is a domme with a fetish.
This F (Femdom) story involves:
Foot Fetish, Sock Fetish, Footdom in Socks, Trampling, and Domestic Servitude.
I slid open the door to the patio of my apartment and stepped into what felt like a sauna, squinting in the harsh July sunlight. I felt the thickness of the hot air on my face as I sat down at the little patio table and lit my cigarette, and as I pulled out my phone I decided to check the temperature– 96 degrees. I cringed as I saw it and flipped back to the text message Elaina had sent me just a few minutes before:
“On my way home.”
We had entered into an unusual arrangement over the last nine weeks or so. I had needed a roommate to afford the ungodly cost of housing in my city and when it happened that she was looking for a place at the same time it seemed to make a lot of sense. I had known her through being friends with her younger sister, had met her a few times here and there, and I found her quite attractive so when she suggested moving in together I was pleased, not least of all because I thought even if nothing ever happened between us it would be nice to have her around.
She was tall, about 6′ 1″. Taller than me certainly, and when we saw the place for the first time I couldn’t help noticing that her high ponytail was nearly brushing the ceiling. She had a slim and alluring, but powerful shape, an extremely casual style (she was usually seen in a long sleeved t-shirt and pajama bottoms when at home and she rarely wore anything fancier than jeans when she left), and a “chill”, laid-back attitude. She laughed often, smoked a little weed now and then, and was more than comfortable hanging out with me at nights.
There had definitely been something between us when we first met, flirting a little here and there before we had even thought about living together, but for a couple of unimportant, incidental reasons nothing had ever come of it. It was something of a shock then, in the early days of living together, to see her lounging around the house, to hear her in the shower, and to find myself in her room and on her bed from time to time.
We were good roommates. We didn’t argue about bills, or cleaning, or noise. We would have little parties and do things together, little shopping trips and home projects, and we became friends apart from just being people who lived in the same apartment. But by the second or third week together it was apparent that we were becoming something more.
We had been unpacking some boxes in the living room and putting stuff up on the walls, and the whole apartment was starting to get hot because of the season. I was hanging a framed print of hers on the wall, an oddly appropriate vintage poster for Attack of the 50 Ft. Woman actually, and when I turned around to ask her how it looked I was surprised to see her laid out on the couch with her feet up on the arm of it, shaking her ankles for a moment before kicking off her worn black, low-top Converse.
“I’m tempted to just let you hang all of my stuff,” she said, closing her eyes as she put her hair up in a ponytail and wiggling her toes in a pair of faded royal blue ankle socks. “My feet are killing me.” I knew, from a moment of uncontrollable curiosity I had indulged a few days prior, that she wore a size 13, and I could see that her socks were wearing, and damp.
“Oh yeah?” I replied. “You’re just gonna lay there, all comfortable, while I do all the work, is that it?”
“That’s right,” she said with a tough, satisfied smile, “and when you’re done with that you can rub my feet.”
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