Bob sits in his cubicle on Wednesday. ‘Hump Day,’ as Chuck Walorski would surely quip to all the females in the office, hanging around them while they try to quickly buy their instant cappuccinos from the employee break room machine.  Bob hates Chuck. He hates all the male employees – with their ugly, crumpled slacks and wide, misty-patterned ties. Their pink, swollen necks chapped and blazing from daily shavings. Stiff, fat midsections, many of them with full tits sweating under baby blue and salmon-colored dress shirts.  The little leather dress loafers they wear, with dangling doilies pittering atop their feet, as they amble through the company’s halogen halls. They wear shiny, almost diaphanous dress socks, pulled nearly to the knee, varicose veins barely bridled by the nylon. Wriggling their stinky toes under their desks, digging their wide heels into the wet leather soles, while they call Lorraine or Cindy or Tara around for those endless afternoon meetings. All the women seem to spend time in these meetings – Bob is rarely responsible to meet with anyone, often sitting alone in his cubicle while almost every other employee floats off to closed office rendezvous whose function and purpose remain mostly mysterious to Bob.

His responsibility at the Standish Company is constant data entry – fact-checking numbers, and submitting forms into a database. Today is very busy – there are thousands of documents to inspect, and it is the end of the month, so he must triple-check his submissions, eating lunch at his desk while other employees walk in twos and threes to the deli downstairs, smoking cigarettes, flirting, sharing cell-phone pictures.

"Bob licked his dry lips, he felt light-headed as the blood rushed to his engorged rod, pressing with might against his tan trousers. A dark, tiny wet bead of pre-cum appeared where the straining cockhead pressed along his thigh."

Bob is foregoing lunch completely today – some of his figures aren’t adding up and his computer continues to freeze up and delete work. Almost no one is in the office right now – some are in a meeting on the third floor, including idiot Walorski. A group of women from Bob’s section of cubicles have gone out together for lunch, so Bob is feeling impatient. He often eats at his desk and watches the girls chat and pick at their salads and yogurt cups. They exchange pleasantries, but people mostly let Bob be. In this way, the girls forget he’s even there, and Bob likes this because then he can be sneaky.  Last month, he sat motionless, pretending to read a stapled memo, sipping a coke…his nervous gaze was fixed on Molly Kappo’s stretching foot, momentarily shoeless and sheathed by a damp, slightly transparent black sock. A hint of red nail polish glinted from a long, pointed toe. He took a photo with his smart phone as she contorted her foot back into the cradle of it’s black leather pump, then returned to it’s dipping and dangling display, seemingly performed for Bob’s greedy gaze almost every day. Bob snuck his little pictures and added a joke here and there during lunch, to put the women at ease. Bob could be very clever when he wanted to be, oh yes.

Later that night, Bob logged onto his secret fap account, where he’d uploaded many thousands of photos of his co-worker’s arching feet, stretching toes, dangling heels, in all manner of stocking tease, socks, barefoot, or clasped in severe heels or winter boots. Bob has nearly 5,000 followers on his page. He also exchanges photos and stories privately with a couple from Germany, a man from the Netherlands, and a very many men from the USA and Canada.

Once, a year ago, the office women got into a conversation about their shoes and began trying each other’s on. “You wear very high heels,” Carla said, looking at Mia’s 4-inch stiletto pumps, steadied by their thin, buckled ankle clasps.

“Try them on,” Mia said smiling, as she unclasped the tiny buckles. She removed her nylon encased foot from the shoe. White nylon, stretched tight, and a run had been plucked, from the reinforced toe seam, and along the damp underside curve of her sweaty, sheathed foot. She wriggled her toes and shot a look right at Bob, a sly smile crooking the edge of her pouty, cherry-red lips.

“You too, Jacqueline. I want to try yours on, too.” Before not two moments, six women had kicked off, unclasped, and unlaced their various shoe wear. Bob licked his dry lips, he felt light-headed as the blood rushed to his engorged rod, pressing with might against his tan trousers. A dark, tiny wet bead of pre-cum appeared where the straining cockhead pressed along his thigh. He pretended to sip from his now empty Coke can.

"His manhood is raging and sticking out of his opened zipper – bobbing and dripping without any touch at all. He doesn’t know when he removed it from his pants, but he has lost all inhibition at this point. He chews and sucks on the panties now..."

With all the nylon encased feet revealed, the office began to flood with the smell of the women’s sweaty, leather-bound feet – that heady aroma of leather mixed with hot nylon. Bob inhaled deeply, he could smell the pheromone-laden wafts from the toes of sweet Lisa, the heavier and ranker low notes of Vanessa’s bare, Camembert feet. 

“Oh, my feet STINK!” Jacqueline laughed, and actually raised her foot to her nose, revealing the dark reinforcement band under her short skirt, the gusset of her warm, nylon-encased crotch seemingly visible to Bob for one brief moment.

That was more than Bob could stand. After the lunch toe show, he meekly left his desk, hard on still beating in his pants, his underwear cool and slick with the slime of the total ejaculation at his desk.  He carried an empty manila folder over his tented trousers, and speed-walked to the men’s room. Inside a toilet stall, he pulled his red and angry boner out through the  zipper, still impatiently throbbing. A few yanks on his shaft and another load of jizzum spilled out, splashing across the toilet seat and floor.

Bob heard a rustling and his breath caught in a panic. In his horny fervor, he’d not noticed the pair of maroon penny loafers stuck to the floor of the next stall, elegant pinstripe pants bunched up around the ankles, the first hint of muscular calves encased in baby blue nylon. Bob quickly stuffed his dripping penis into his slacks, flushed and ran. He’d have to be more careful in the future, he thought. 

Today, working alone, Bob’s eyes begin to wander, from cubicle to cubicle. He notices Tara’s desk has a duffel bag underneath it – of course! She’d switched out of her high-heeled pumps before heading out for lunch break today, and those likely still-warm heels are now just barely jutting out the top of the bag. Before he can even review the logistics of the act, he finds himself rising from his desk, staff already stiffening.

 No one is around, the office is quiet – for now. There are still people in the building though, and anyone could come by at any moment, really. He creeps down on hands and knees, takes a shoe from the bag, and inhales from the soft, worn leather. He inspects the bottom of the second shoe while pressing the first over his nose and mouth, like a gas mask – the shoes are so well worn, a proper footprint has been ground into the hard exterior sole. He begins to lick that outer sole, then. He sucks the long stiletto in and out of his pursed lips, like some hard alien member.

Bob’s not acquired an actual shoe before, his experiences at the Standish Company tend to be largely visual – sneaking his little pictures, and adding them to his collection at night on his PC. He’s losing himself in this moment. What he’s doing is very dangerous – how could he explain himself under Tara’s desk on all fours, moist tent in his khakis, his face red-raw from rubbing against the course exterior of the heels. Indeed, if anyone returns now, Bob’s going to be caught red handed.

This fact is melting away as Bob looks back into the bag and discovers more treats – Tara, who has perhaps the most toned and elegant body in the office, has stuffed her yoga gear into the bag. She goes before work several mornings a week, and these are likely well worn and full of sweat. Bob plucks the first wad of athletic gear from the bag – a pair of futuristic, stretchy yoga pants – and as he holds them up, a pair of off-white cotton panties fall to the floor.

“Christ in heaven,” Bob says to himself, snatching up the special prize, and turning his full attention to the gusset. Indeed, Tara wore these panties a mere few hours ago in her hot yoga session, and it appears she probably had them on the previous day, as well. Bob is completely randy now. A calm seems to come over him as he reverently presses the cool, slightly slimy fabric to his nose. He cups both hands over his face, and sniffs, slow and long. He is stoned on the rank smell of Tara’s crusty workout panties. The odor is pungent, acrid. He begins to lick the panties, starting at the butt, cleaning them all along the tuck and towards a hard tan streak, where the sweetest flavor seems to be concentrated.

His manhood is raging and sticking out of his opened zipper – bobbing and dripping without any touch at all. He doesn’t know when he removed it from his pants, but he has lost all inhibition at this point. He chews and sucks on the panties now, it is no longer an olfactory experience, but a culinary one. A final gift inside the bag: two balled up athletic socks from the morning’s yoga session. He pulls one out and inhales: a lighter helping of the collected concentration of Tara’s leather heels. He stuffs the socks in his pocket as a souvenir, perhaps she wouldn’t notice a missing pair of socks, maybe he could take the panties even? He begins now to fuck the crevice of one shoe, whilst sucking those cotton panties. He presses the other heel over his nose, huffing and pumping the severe black slit, scraping his massively engorged member until it is candy-apple red. From deep within his balls, he begins ejaculating absolutely massive wads of hot, pearly white cream. He can hear each spurt as it ricochets into the pointed toe of the shoe. “Pap! Pap! Pap! Pap!” as Tara’s shoe fills with more and more jizzum.

The shoe is nearly overflowing with hot cum, Bob panting and red-faced, as the stairwell

Pops open, and five of Bob’s female co-workers burst through, led, of course, by Tara herself. Forget the plan of carefully replacing Tara’s garments, he is caught absolutely red-handed, and he begins to immediately re-harden at the thrill of this. The women don’t even immediately notice him down there, on all fours, the front of his pants a mess of pearly cum streaks, bright red boner glowing against the earth-toned pants, panties stuffed in his mouth, as he lowers his head to lap his own excretions off the tip of the shoe, displaying his shameful act for all of the co-workers to see. 

“Oh my GOD!” One of them yells. “Look at Bob!” The women gasp, giggle, and Tara confidently strides up to him, as he yanks and tugs at himself: “Bob, I knew it, I just knew you were some kind of freak!”

Bob looks up to see a sixth pair of shoes, as the heels and tightly laced boots part way: a maroon pair of penny loafers,  silky dress slacks, powder-blue nylon dress socks…the feet from under the stall, all those months ago…

“Girls, perhaps it’s time Bob joined us for our private meetings, what do you think?” Then, he takes several steps towards Bob, and raises one large, leather dress loafer to Bob’s chapped lips. “Be in my office with the others for our 2pm session, please Bob,” and pushes the sole of his well-worn shoes to Bob’s lips. Bob grimaces, but places a full, desperate kiss to the shoe…

**Written by Aldi Goodie**

#footfetish #erotica #nylons stocking tease