THE FOOTMAN OF L.A. (II)

After Jennifer left, I thought for a moment of just going ahead and jerking off. It was what I really needed, and it was a huge struggle not to. But I couldn't risk it: in the distance I could hear the bustle of cleaners, doors slamming, vacuum cleaners roaring, baskets being emptied. The cleaning staff moved through the office like locusts, respecting no one's privacy. There were some fine tales of in flagrante discoveries on the grapevine. I dressed rather quickly, struggling and straining to tuck my rigid prick into my pants. I packed my laptop, grabbed a heap of uncompleted documents. That damned usage report, too. I stopped by the restroom, and saw that I had that manic, bleary look we all get on late nights, when the stress levels get too much.

I drove home in a trance. When I got there, I found a terse message on my answering machine from Jennifer, calling from her car phone. "You there yet, footboy? No? Later then."

Then another, more friendly: "Hi, Brad. Enjoyed it. I'm waiting around for a plane at LAX so, why not call you? Um, hon, do yourself a big favor. Don't like, uh, get into the maniacal self-abuse thing this weekend. Hands off the flagpole, huh? And don't get all guilty and grumpy or paranoid, either. Jennifer's a happy girl. If you're good, I may favor you with some mo' Toe Fu on Monday. Like that? Haha! Be good. *click*"

I spent a long, nervous weekend. She'd sounded bouncy and pleasant, but who knew how she'd be after a weekend of frantic boffing with some guy, or whatever she was in such a hurry for. I'd been dumb, but not just in making myself vulnerable to blackmail. No, I was doubly dumb for cultivating such a powerful lust for this young woman's cheesy feet.

On Sunday afternoon, over a drink, I looked at several of Fiona's long memos about the network reorganization. And the usage report. What on earth was going on? What could they have found? To send Val into a snit, to loose Jennifer on me? Not that I was complaining too much about the latter.

I'll keep it brief: remember, we were in the early days of Internet here, with no web, not much in the way of graphics, with BBSs still important, with Usenet much less busy. . .An idyllic time to many. Fiona's department had decided that there was a lot of misuse, private e-mailing, illicit software, copyright stuff to worry about. So, with her new server and network, she'd included a bunch of software patches to capture, spool and flag inbound and outgoing mail from all but a few authorized business destinations or information sources. While she was at it, lots of other traps were set. Like [*.wk1] readers, you know the sort of thing. Simple but effective. LAN managers can get that way, with new toys.

And so there I was, trapped, like a butterfly on a collector's pin. I suppose you can get obsessive about e-mail, and I had. In and out of the newsgroups all day. Personals to BBSs, live chat every now and then with strange, seedy people. My only consolation: I accounted for a page or so of the report, but other partners, including old man Feldstein's youngest son, were also featured. Was this a career-ender? I didn't think so, then. All I had to do was stop. That was the point of this being confidential report. If it had remained confidential, that is.

Monday rolled around. To my amazement -- I'm not very celibacy oriented, or much into self-control -- I'd done as I'd been told, and not pleasured myself. Was this even more unnatural, I thought?

First thing -- we often kick off at 6AM in the M&A biz to synchronize with the East Coast crowd -- I went looking for Jennifer. But, no, Yolanda, her attractive black secretary/PA said, she would be in "later," coming up from Baja on a commuter flight. She'd been "away looking at commercial fishing opportunities," I was told. Well, maybe. Upwardly mobile types get away with a lot, when the money's rolling in, as it was that summer. I was itching with impatience, and struggling not to look like a dishevelled perv with a big boner by mid-morning. I flicked from one assignment to another, tried to stay awake during a meeting.

Val was very cool, distant. What did she know, now? Too much, I was sure.

When I got out of the chatfest, there was a perky voicemail message from Jennifer: "Brad? You busy for lunch? I'm brownbagging it. Want to stop by my office at 11:45? Ciao. . ."

You bet I did. I arrived punctually, oozing smoothness and politesse for Yolanda's benefit. I'd sent out for some salad and soda. Jennifer was sitting with a small mountain of Chinese veggie oddities. We ate in near silence, talking about loose ends from another Friday rush job. After a while, her PA disappeared to lunch. Jennifer motioned me to close the door. "And lock it. She'll be a while," she said confidently.

I'd scarfed my food. She was still picking at hers. She reached under her desk and produced a pair of very battered, rundown, ragged sneakers and put them on the desk. She nodded to me: "Check these out, Brad. You'll like them. Well, I'm presuming a bit there. You do still like my feet, don't you?"

I sniffed at them. God, they were aromatic. To anyone else, repulsive, I'm sure. She smiled happily. "My running shoes, Brad. Not too fresh, but very good for you. Put your face in them, please. . ."

Do I need to pretend? I did, giving a little sob of happiness. I buried my nose, first in one, then the other. I brushed the damp spongy liner with the tip of my tongue, sensing its metallic bitterness. I heard her voice: "Don't they smell completely revolting? Ha ha! I keep those in the trunk of my car, Brad. They're too rancid to even bring indoors at home." She chuckled. "But you like them just fine, don't you?" I nodded eagerly. A huge hard on betrayed what I was thinking.

She reached into her drawer and produced a small tape recorder, and clicked it on to record. Calmly, she told me: "I'm going to ask you some questions, Brad. But first, I think you should get out of those clothes. You look very sweaty and uncomfortable. . ."

I hesitated, looking at the open 35th floor window behind her, with its view of midtown Los Angeles. She reached round and twisted the venetian blind to a half-closed position then said rather sharply: "Now, no excuses, huh? Everything off, please. Naked. That's the way you'll need to be from now on, whenever you're around me, sweetheart. . .But I think you understand that quite well already. . ."

I stripped, rather hurriedly. I'd seen myself do this in recurrent dreams all weekend, and I paid no heed to the possible consequences. I tossed my clothes in a heap on her credenza. She spooned Ma Po To Fu and string beans in garlic into her mouth greedily, and slurped on a huge Coke through a straw, as though she was home watching some TV sports show.

When I was completely nude, I stood looking at her dumbly, wondering what to do next. I wanted to fall to my knees and suck her toes, run my tongue up her legs, wank myself, do anything to prove my subservience to her. Instead, I just stood there.

She snorted. "Sit down, you pathetic dork. Okay, now let's hear all about you, shall we?" And with that, she began to question me, delighting in asking the most searching personal questions. . .

Like what I thought of female dominance of men, how I felt about oral sex, whether I considered myself an exhibitionist, how often and where I masturbated. . .with the tape running. I knew I was making myself a candidate for blackmail or manipulation. But I didn't care, for some reason. Guys really *do* think with their pricks.

"You may hold that prong of yours," she said with a polite smile. "But I don't want to see any rubbing going on, understand? You're to wait for my permission before you will be allowed to ejaculate. If I permit it at all, that is. . ."

I groaned, but did as I was told. She smiled tolerantly as I confessed to being completely obsessed by her, since Friday, and to yearning to worship her, any part of her at all, with my tongue. After twenty minutes or so, she finished her nibbling, and gathered all the foil pans and oddments into a heap and dumped them in the trash. She looked at me and said: "Oh, you're certainly a submissive kind of guy aren't you? I knew that you leaned that way when you started staring at my feet though. It was kind of obvious, what was in your mind. And then of course, I've had the opportunity to read lots of your mail. Fascinating. But I didn't dream you were this. . .interesting. So, hmmm. What'll we do with you then? You're a strange dude, Brad. . ." I looked at her pitifully and then down at my penis: "Please. . ."

"Oh? You want permission, do you?" she grinned. "Good boy. Okay. This office is so smelly from my shoes and that lunch concoction, no one'll notice. Let's see how it squirts, shall we?"

It took me only a thirty-second frenzy of masturbation to bring me to the edge of orgasm, gazing pleadingly at her and croaking: "My lady, mistress, oh please. . ."

She shook her head in mild disapproval at that, and I restrained my shout of passion as I suddenly came, squirting semen all over my stomach and thighs. My penis pumped a dozen times, making a fine mess. She smirked and clapped her hands together at this copious offering.

"A wonderful tribute," she said sarcastically, but not at all meanly. "What a lot, too! Oh damn, we should have caught it in something. Never mind. Eat what you can. Go on!"

I smeared some of it up with my fingers, licked them hesistantly. Oh Jesus, how vile, I thought. She frowned, said: "No, no, like this. . ." and carefully spooned a puddle of semen up with a plastic spoon, and fed it to me, chuckling at my shamed expression. Another three spoonfuls, with her pausing and carefully cleaning some droplets from the corner of my mouth with the edge of the spoon, and returning it to me. "Just like feeding a baby," she teased, affectionately.

Finally she gave me a handful of napkins to clean up. "Mop the rest of it up, Bradford, darling. Next time, I must remember my video camera, huh?" I nodded. She watched me finish sponging myself, then ordered: "It's a shame, but you'll have to put your clothes back on now."

I dressed quickly, feeling vulnerable. She rummaged in her desk drawer and produced a ziplock bag. She pased it over. It contained a pair of thick white cotton running socks. Or rather, formerly white socks. They'd seen better days. "Don't open it!" she cautioned. "It's smelly enough in here already. They're fresh from my run on the beach this morning. Very fresh. . .still wet from my feet. A little treat for you to enjoy tonight, in bed, Braddie-poo. . ."

I smiled gratefully. "Jennifer. . ." I ventured, not sure what to say now, how to address her after being rebuffed earlier.

"Yes?"

"How can I. . .I mean. . .what do you want from me?"

"Hmmm. . .just what I'm getting, I think, Brad. Some serious respect, devotion. A complete lack of restraint when it comes to doing what you're told, however filthy or shameful it may seem. . .isn't that what you're offering me, Bradford. . .?"

"Yes," I gasped eagerly. "Oh, I so want to. . ."

"I know just what you want," she snapped, raising her hand. "But it's going to be conditioned by the speed at which I want to enjoy you, you big baby. . .Now, tell me. Are you my slave?"

"Yes!" I gasped.

She grinned. "So am I right in thinking you're willing to undergo the Ten Stages of Submission? Tell me. . ."

"Yes," I said, without even thinking about it. Who cared what she meant, after all?

"Without even knowing what they are?" she chirped, seemingly amazed at my unhesitating compliance.

"Yes, I promise. . . please. . ."

"Very well. On your knees."

And to my delight, she kicked her shoes off and let me kiss her bare feet, and repeat after her: "Jennifer, I'm your sexual slave. I promise faithfully to submit to you, and obey your orders without question."

"One more thing," she said, as I grovelled, her big toe in my mouth. "When it comes time to vote on new partners here, remember who your friends are, huh?"

I looked up and told her: "Oh, I promise, I would have voted for you anyway." It's true. She was the epitome of what the firm was looking for, using different criteria to mine.

"Okay, I'll believe you, dork," she smiled. "Now, get lost. I've got work to do."

That night, I couldn't wait to get undressed at home and take her socks out of the plastic bag. They were sweaty, from multiple use. Vile. Horrible. I lay on my settee with one pulled over my mouth and nose and rubbed myself like a madman with the other.

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