Curling Toes

Curling Toes

 I sat in the guard office of the Mall, drinking coffee with Alec, the Mall Security Chief. We watched through the glass as hundreds of customers made their way down the hall to the restrooms scattered along its length.

“When you first opened I thought that was the stupidest thing I have ever heard of; Private Mall Foot Massage," Alec said, leaning back and taking a sip of his cheap, 'guard house' coffee. "I gave you a month. Now look at you; have to dress in a security guard uniform to keep your identity secret. The whole ‘mystery man’ foot massage thing is brilliant. The women are lined up out the door of your place.”

“It’s relaxing and stimulating for the ladies," I said. "But also intimate; so I decided to stay hidden in the booth. It’s less threatening. I know some of the ladies like to fantasize about the man who is rubbing their feet, ankles and calves; so the ‘Mystery Man’ can be whomever they wish.”

“All I see is a crowd of women lined up to pay you two bucks a minute, in five or ten-minute increments. You should be ready to retire in a year. How do your hands take it?”

Alec looked over at my hands, it didn’t bother me anymore when people stared. I have large hands, large by any standards and coke-can wrists to go with them. Genetics and farm work when I was growing up. That’s the only explanation I’ve ever settled on.

“It’s not bad; I can do it all day. It’s relaxing.”

“Wouldn’t relax me, I’ve seen some of those gals lined up. My God...”

“I never look at any of my customers. All I see are their feet, ankles and calves.”

“I don’t see how you do it, I love all women, all shapes and sizes; I just love women. But, some of those lining up are so beautiful they make my heart weep. You’re lucky you don’t see them.”

“I’m even luckier they don’t see me. Well, thanks Alec, I appreciate you letting me hang out here. See you at lunch.”

“I don’t mind buddy; I just wish you’d give up some details about those gals. I know they talk while you're rubbing them.”

“Come on Alec, they would not like it if I start revealing their secrets. It’s ‘Mystery Man Private Foot Massage’; the ‘private’ is part of my success.”

I walked along the back service corridors of the Mall. They run the whole length of the structure, and the shoppers never see them. The back door to the stores can be found along their length. I wore a security guard uniform so no one would ever figure out ‘who was rubbing them, giving them pleasure, fueling their inner fires.

Alec said I could have frolicked with a different lady every night. Some dreams should remain just dreams.

I slipped in the back door to the foot massage salon. It led directly through a tunnel into my massage area. The front portion of the store was open, with a reception counter and dozens of plants. Real plants, replaced monthly by a plant service. They were always green, lush and colorful. The walls were delicate pastels whose restrained hues were broken by art chosen to set a mood. Mostly oils of men and women dancing. Tuxedo’s, flowing gowns and joyous movement. Nothing else for sale, a few comfortable leather couches and chairs, and my receptionist slash cashier. She kept my identity secret, though she’d been offered scandalous sums to reveal it.

It was an open area; a ‘horrible waste of retail space’ I’d been told. A small glass cubicle sat in the middle, towards the back. A thickly cushioned recliner sat inside with an opening to slip your feet and lower legs into. A remote seat adjusting panel was mounted on a swing arm next to the recliner. It featured 30 different adjustments to get you into any comfortable position you desired. The sounds of a light rain meandered softly through the sound system. Once inside, the glass door was closed and you could hear none of the bustling mall activity going on just a few feet away.

Back where I worked, was a computer monitor which showed the number of minutes the customer had paid for, a silent digital timer, lightly warmed scented oils and my chair which could be rolled around and out of the way for the finale. The customer saw a screen on which the days poem was frozen, they saw their legs disappear into a black hole, surrounded by soft woolen cushion and nothing else.

A pair of feet entered through the opening into my domain, and I glanced at the screen. Fifteen minutes, a long time regular. I recognized her feet. When I had first opened, I had a twenty-minute option and a ten-minute option, but complaints rolled in like angry thunderclouds, and I printed a voting card. I allowed everyone to vote for the five and ten-minute option; or leave everything as-is. The vote finished nearly unanimous in favor of the shortened times. I allowed a couple of the long-time customers to have the fifteen-minute option; but I didn’t advertise it. They were among my first customers, and their feet had developed a special relationship with me.

I dipped my hands in a bowl of warm jasmine scented oil and gently gripped her left foot. The foot’s owner gave a soft moan as I began working the oil between her toes.

“Hello mystery man,” she said. “I dream about you. You know that. Just a hint, what do you look like?”

“Who do you want me to look like?”

“Let’s not do that again,” she said, letting out a soft moan as I rolled both thumbs along the underside of her foot. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“You said you wanted me to look like Johnny Depp, and I told you; I have been mistaken for him. I have that same mischievous turn of the mouth.” I said this as I rubbed the warm oil along the underside of her calves, and my fingers worked it into the large calf muscle.

“Oh,” she sighed. “I don’t care, just keep doing that.”

I continued to work the oil into her skin, applying as much pressure as I felt she enjoyed. It’s such a pleasurable experience, not just for the customer; I enjoyed it as well. The feet are pounded all day, every day and they are located so far away that we do not pay them the attention they deserve. All those muscles, tendons, ligaments and bones. Stressing and stretching to keep us upright, and mobile. I know how pleasurable the rubbing and handling was for them, and it never failed to excite me. When I was through, they were happy; in some way my hands had lightened their load.

I wound up the session by standing and engulfing her entire calf in my hands and pushing the skin and muscle upward as I applied real strength to the massage. I had received offers of marriage, money and monkey business several times during this phase of the massage. I was also usually aroused by this time and occasionally had to forcefully stop myself from working slippery hands further up to the knees, the thighs...

“It hasn’t been fifteen minutes yet?” She said, sadness overcoming her relaxation.

“Yes, too short I know. But, your feet will love you for this treat.”

“What do you want?” She asked, pulling her legs back through the opening.

“What more could I ask for, you pay me to rub you. I am the luckiest man in the world.”

She laughed, “See you soon mystery man.”

And so it went. Some ladies, newcomers to the massage, were reluctant, these I started gently and within seconds they relaxed and gave in to the pleasure. Some I could tell were ashamed of their feet, uncomfortable with them. I told them their feet were beautiful; and I let my hands reinforce the sincerity of my words. When I finished they not only knew their feet were there, they knew they were a source for more than walking around. They had found a new erogenous zone, a playground for pleasure.

Mall Mystrey Man Foot Massage began as an idea, because of my hands and the comments directed at me. The idea nagged me until I finally had to try it. I had enough money saved. Now, six months later; I began to think it was a gift, my calling.

I went out the back and locked up for the day; then walked along the corridor to the door leading out to the parking lot. I opened the door and a woman; a beautiful woman, stared at me. I looked away quickly and walked across the delivery drive to the row where I had left the car.

I heard footsteps, the clack-clack of high heels dogging my steps from behind. The sounds came faster, and the woman was beside me.

I stopped, “Can I help you ma’am?”

“I know who you are, look at those hands. You’re the mystery man who makes love to women’s feet all day.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’m a Mall Security Guard.”

She snapped several pictures of me in my guard uniform with a digital camera before I could get my hands in my pockets. “I have you now.”

“You’re mistaken ma’am. I have to get going.”

She came around in front of me. She was gorgeous, about five-feet-four-inches tall, dressed in a black skirt and a loose, willowy green silk blouse. Black two-inch heels and pantyhose, or stockings; but that thought was making my loins ache, so I pushed it aside. “Please lady, let me by. I’m not that guy and even if I knew who the mystery man were, I would get fired if I told. I need my job.”

“No way mystery man, come to the Hilton across the street, rub my back and my feet; I will give you a thousand dollars cash, right now. Just a private massage. Otherwise, I scatter these prints around the mall and your ruse is up buster." She held out a wad of cash and stared me in the eye.

“All right, what’s the room number?” She gave me a keycard with the number printed on it and asked me to give her twenty minutes to get ready.

At the hotel, I slid the card through the reader, and the doors light turned green, beckoning me to go ahead, proceed, move! I pushed the door open, and she was laying on the bed, on her stomach, nude. The big double windows were open and the last of the sun was casting a mixture of weak light and shadow across her still form.

I had brought in a jar of scented coconut massage oil, a personal favorite. I walked to the foot of the bed, and stared at her still damp, nude form. Pink and glistening with moisture from a recent shower, she smelled beautiful; like a rose. Suddenly, I found my clothing unusually restrictive.I stared for a moment, cleared my throat, “I’m only going to rub your back and your feet.”

“Sure mystery man, just rub my back and my feet; that’s all I want.” She remained head down, buried in the pillows.

I poured oil into my cupped palm and waited while my now overheated body temperature warmed it. I moved to the side of the bed, avoiding her eyes and placed both hands on her shoulder blades. I gently spread the oil across her upper back and then began to work it in, pushing my thumbs along either edge of her spine all the distance up her neck and spanning out across her shoulders. I kneaded and twisted, pushed and rolled; all the while remaining silent. I did the length of both arms, pulling from the shoulder and down along the forearm which I squeezed tightly. I mashed and mangled her hands and fingers until they were red and hot from the friction. I moved to her waist and worked the gently swaying area just above her bare, pale cheeks and had to force myself to look away. She moaned softly as I pushed the heel of my hands up and down her lower back.

I took control of my breathing which had slowed to a shallow wheeze and forced a great lungful of air inward in an attempt to clear my head and relieve the pressure against my pants.

Moving to her feet I poured more oil and went to work. Her feet were beautiful; they sang to me in limp pleasure as I engulfed them with my slick hands. I worked my way up the back of her leg to the hollow of the knee. My hand slipped under and cupped her knee, which I began to roll and work the skin across the cap of bone beneath.

The large muscles along the top and outside of her thighs were beckoning, and I began to work these big muscles with both hands. Kneading and gripping. With each squeeze I watched mesmerized as her cheeks opened and closed, revealing a hint of pinkness and short bright orange hairs.

She moaned a deep guttural tone and I moved back to her feet, slipping her toe briefly in my mouth I suckled and nibbled her toes. I drug the bottom of my teeth across her arch and gave a light nip. Her hips stirred up slightly from the bed, and I noted her hand had slid under her stomach and was doing its own massage.

Beyond control, I grasped both cheeks, the softest skin a man can experience and brought my face between them, lapping, casually, like a contented kitten who knows he has all the time in the world. I laved my tongue anywhere it seemed wanted, and dawdled only momentarily to gauge the responses from the now rythymically undulating vision of fiery need I hovered over. She had swollen to a moist, flushed, hot zone of entry. “Please,” she groaned.

I reluctantly pulled my head out of the softness and shed my pants in an Olympic medal-worthy single motion.

That first warm, engulfing feeling seemed to last long enough to write a treatise of joy and appreciation to the Gods. It is unlike anything else, and I remained buried, rigid, swimming in the feeling for as long as I could before relinquishing myself to hardwired knowledge, to piston, create heat, friction. I pulled out and bent over to lave her again before reentry and restart the motion with an open-palmed smack to lend contrast to the proceedings. My hands continued to grasp and squeeze as she responded with a sound one never hears in public, stiffened and began the muscular pulsing I can feel in my center. I left her go limp and took myself to the bright light zone.

Sated we lay together, I nibbled her ear and thought of nothing. She made a noise as if purring like a cat. After what seemed too short a time, she rolled over and grabbed the cash off the night table.

“Another good day,” she said, handing me the money. “You make the deposit tomorrow morning, schools out and I will take the kids to the babysitter.”

“Sure babe, Just make sure you get to the receptionist desk on time, we’ll have a riot if we open too late.”

“I married you for those hands mystery man,” my wife said, pushing her finger along the hairs on my knuckles. “I never knew sharing them would be so exciting.”

© Copyright 2006-2007 Greg Crites

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