A Stranger’s Touch – Part 1

A Stranger’s Touch – Part 1

foot massage eroticIt’s not that often that I travel to this city by train, but the meeting was set in a hurry and there was no flight available with such short notice. So here I am, ready for a five-hour trip from Nürnberg to Prague, bored to death.

When I enter my compartment, though, everything changes.

You are already sitting there, and I notice your perfect body as soon as I lay my eyes on you. You don’t turn around, though. You continue looking out of the window, as if you are worried to see who has just entered the compartment, with who you’ll have to share that small space in the next hours.

I put my suitcase on the luggage rack, I sit on the row of three seats in front of you, so that you’ll not think I don’t want to speak with you. I notice only then, that you have a large suitcase on the floor, in front of you.

“May I help you with that?” I ask, without even thinking of addressing you properly. My German has never been that good, and you turn around to answer me, realising I’m not from your country.

Your eyes conquer me. Such a light, and yet deep blue! I can’t restrain looking at your lips as you answer me, and to give a glimpse at your breasts, only partially covered by the short, green summer dress you are wearing.

I don’t realize I’m being too bold, but my sight lowers even further, checking your flat belly, your naked legs and feet, clad in a pair of thin sandals. I think you have beautiful feet, and you know how to take care of them: they seem smooth, and the new red polish on your nails is like a magnet for my eyes. For every man’s eyes, I think, for what it matters.

“I’d be very grateful,” you answer – and I can say I like your voice, too – but look at me suspiciously before adding, “You’re not Czech, are you?”

I’m already standing in front of you, now. I grab your suitcase, place it on the rack over your head and go back to sit, this time – with your luggage removed – directly at your front of you. The train moves, as I answer you, thinking we are going to be alone at least until the next station.

“I’m not, indeed. I’m Danish, can you tell it by my voice?” I ask, wondering if I scared you.

“Definitely,” you giggle.

For the first time I see your smile, and suddenly I feel like the initial barrier between us has already shattered.

We speak for a while, you tell me you used to speak French. You try to tell me something that I don’t understand, and we laugh together for a while.

Then the conductor arrives. He asks us for the tickets, and I notice he stares more at your cleavage and at your naked legs than at your travel documents. As he leaves, he turns around looking at us with a knowing smile, and adds “Wish you a great journey” and strangely closes not only the door behind his back but also the curtains, leaving us completely cut off from the outside.

We feel both a little embarrassed, now. It is clear he thought we are a couple and wanted to give us some intimacy. Of course, we are not, but because of him, we both feel a wave of warm blood rushing in our bodies as if that simple, external act had initiated something.

We try to speak again, but there is no easy topic now: my mind is busy fantasizing about something else, and probably yours, too. Embarrassed, without thinking, you remove a sandal and cross a leg in front of you.

Your naked feet, your red painted nails, are now just an inch from my leg. I feel already excited. I look at them, then at you. You think something is wrong and ask “Sorry, I didn’t realize it would disturb you…” and start uncrossing your legs, but I stop you instinctively placing my hand on your leg.

“N… No… Please, you don’t disturb me at all,” I say, and feeling bold I add, “you actually have very nice feet, you should be proud of showing them,” hoping you’ll understand my bad German.

Silly me, how did I even think about saying something like that? You’ll for sure get scared, you’ll run away, ask for help, think I’m am a pervert or-

But you don’t do anything at all. You leave your legs crossed and your feet there and smile at me. I realize only then that my hand is still on your naked skin, so I retract it, looking away.

“Thank you, those are sweet words. I do like my feet, too… But feeling proud of them? Come on… that’s overrating them! And they may look good but they always hurt so much…”

Your voice is playful now, as if my compliment opened you a little more than before, and put us again on the path of flirting, removing that uneasiness that the controller has left in us. And I don’t know if what you just threw at me is a hook, but I catch it anyway and try to move forward.

“Do they hurt even now? They seem perfect to me,” I say, hoping you’ll understand where I want to lead you. I still don’t know you, I don’t understand if you are the kind of woman to react to this kind of playing or if you’ll soon make it clear you’re not interested in the game.

“After a day at the office, then dragging that heavy suitcase to the station wearing just those flat sandals? You bet they do. But being a woman can be harsh sometimes… You must dress properly, suffer to some extent; it’s nature.”

I catch a glimpse of sadness in your words, but you don’t overdo it. I wonder if you meant that women are meant to be seductive to find a partner to mate, if nature wants it to be like that. But it doesn’t seem you want to change the subject, so I don’t continue.

“Would you let a stranger massage them?”

You look at me, shocked, as if I have just asked to fuck you. I realize the question was a little too abrupt.

“Sorry, I mean, my mom is a reflexologist, she thought me more than a couple of things about feet massage. It may help you. And anyway, we have lot of time to-”

When you interrupt me, you’re back at smiling.

“I would never let any stranger touch my feet,” you say, “So, please, don’t let anyone know.”

I’m the one shoked, now, because you have just raised your feet a little, offering me to grab it.

I feel my cock tingling. Not only because when I touch your feet I feel your naked skin for the first time, but also because as I do, you lift your leg and with it your dress slides up, uncovering most of your leg.

A quote from the famous movie “Pulp Fiction” pops into my mind: “Look, I’ve given a million ladies a million foot massages, and they all meant something”. Samuel L. Jackson had never been so right.

“Eh-ehm,” I clear my voice, to try to look professional, “so, I think this point may hurt a lit-”

“Ouch!” you scream.

“Mmmm… I may need to start with a more gentle massage,” I say.

I caress your foot, massage your fingers, under them, your sole, pushing my fingers up your ankle and calf. You don’t complain. Actually, every now and then, you close your eyes, rest your head back and slightly moan.

“Now, this feels better,” you say, “I’m happy I decided to trust this stranger…”

Just a little afterwards, you remove the other sandal and give me the second foot to massage. You don’t remove the first one, though, you rest it on my knee, on my leg. I can feel its warmth, I can feel your fingers moving on my thigh as I massage the other foot. I can almost see your panties now, too: the position, your slightly parted legs and your sort dress pulled up. My cock is getting hard.

Then, you moan again, this time a little louder. Every time I touch your ankle, you do it.

“Please, stop doing that,” you almost yell.

“Does it hurt too much, there?” I ask.

“No… The opposite! And it may… hum… soon become a problem,”

“A problem?” I ask genuinely curious.

You don’t answer. You stay there, with your eyes closed, you lean back your body on the seat and slide your ass a little farther, for me to reach your legs easier.

“Mmmm… oh, God!”

Again, your moan. But you open your eyes this time, and look at me, straight into my eyes.

And what I see there, it’s a wild beast, awakened.

Your second foot suddenly slides farther away, until it reaches my crotch. And in a moment our roles invert, and your foot is now pressing against my hard cock, showing me your lust.

0

About the author: Max

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.