Stories of Work, Part One; Fred
The payphone in the hallways rings, and the desk girl calls out, "Anastasia, it's Foot Fetish Fred for you!" I run to pick up the receiver, sliding it on to my shoulder as I tuck a stray hair behind my ear. The clients usually don't conduct phone interviews with us, but rather come in to see us in person. "It's a far drive for me to get down there," whines a nasal sheep voice over the telephone. That explains it, I suppose.
I work at the largest commercial dungeon in Los Angeles. I love my job: it allows for great stories. Usually, when someone begins a tale with the words, "a funny thing happened to me at work today," people immediately recall some pressing engagement that they were ought to be at five minutes prior. I, however, receive requests to retell the anecdotes of my professional shenanigans; while I would like to imagine that this is due to my storytelling ability, I can't deny that the glamour attached to working at a dungeon probably has more to do with people's fascination.
Foot Fetish Fred likes feet, he tells me, and he wants to make sure that I'm okay with what he wants to do. He is into role-play, and he needs to know that I don't find incest role-play objectionable. I don't, and this is written clearly on my online profile, but I humour him.
"Are your feet soft?" he stutters, "Do you ever take road trips? Long ones? What shoes do you wear when you drive? Do you ever drive barefoot?"
"All the time," I chirp, pretending to be oblivious to the effect I'm having on him. "I love driving without shoes on!"
Fred moans softly, clearly aroused. He'll be here soon, he promises, and excuses himself to call the desk girl back and schedule an appointment.
The girls all know Foot Fetish Fred, because he sees every girl once, and only once. Every girl had an almost identical story of what his session was like, and they were eager to warn me about him.
He comes in, a short and overweight Hispanic man, and earnestly informs me that I look like his sister, who allegedly resembles Cameron Diaz, tall and slender and blond and blue eyed.
We enter the session room, and he lays down on the floor, instructing me to undress and sit on the couch. I do so, stripping down to my thong, and spreading a towel under my bottom. I rest my feet on his chest at his instruction, and he begins to tell me the story.
He always was in love with his sister, he said, and her feet. She teased him awfully, mercilessly, and it haunts him to this day. He tells me that they drove far away one day, in his car, and that he was six and she was twelve. I indulge his fantasy, suspend my disbelief. He tells me that the car was his, a present from his parents, despite the fact that he could not yet drive it, and that his sister wanted to borrow it to go on a drive.
I play the part of the sister, and am immediately relived to learn that the task of creative improvisation does not fall to me. He feeds me every line, and I regurgitate it to him, trying my best to deliver it with a straight face. He responds in a childish whimper, and then, in a soft voice tells me what I must say next. He cues me to wink and to twirl my hair and to smile at him and to rub his legs with my bare feet.
He lets me borrow his car, and we begin our long drive. He asks me, in a stuttering whimper, to take my shoes off, and I say no! We continue driving, and I eventually take off my shoes and he asks me to rub him with my bare feet and I tease him ruthlessly and I finally concede and wink and giggle and mock him while I do so. He masturbates himself, ejaculating in a graceful arch all over his own chest, and I smile behind my hand. He does not tip, just thanks me and leaves, and I see him the next week booking a session with our newest submissive.
"You look like Cameron Diaz, you know that? You're real pretty. My sister looked like Cameron Diaz. Tall and blond, just like you, you know that?"
This man will always have his fantasy, his fetish, and who else will indulge him, if not us, who will accept him, irritating stammer and all, if not us? We are underpaid therapists, with floggers instead of PDAs, stilettos instead of business suits. We offer a haven, an escape from a world that would label an incestuous foot fetishist as a pervert, a sicko. We love him, love them all, and that makes us their salvation.
I work at the largest commercial dungeon in Los Angeles. I love my job: it allows for great stories. Usually, when someone begins a tale with the words, "a funny thing happened to me at work today," people immediately recall some pressing engagement that they were ought to be at five minutes prior. I, however, receive requests to retell the anecdotes of my professional shenanigans; while I would like to imagine that this is due to my storytelling ability, I can't deny that the glamour attached to working at a dungeon probably has more to do with people's fascination.
Foot Fetish Fred likes feet, he tells me, and he wants to make sure that I'm okay with what he wants to do. He is into role-play, and he needs to know that I don't find incest role-play objectionable. I don't, and this is written clearly on my online profile, but I humour him.
"Are your feet soft?" he stutters, "Do you ever take road trips? Long ones? What shoes do you wear when you drive? Do you ever drive barefoot?"
"All the time," I chirp, pretending to be oblivious to the effect I'm having on him. "I love driving without shoes on!"
Fred moans softly, clearly aroused. He'll be here soon, he promises, and excuses himself to call the desk girl back and schedule an appointment.
The girls all know Foot Fetish Fred, because he sees every girl once, and only once. Every girl had an almost identical story of what his session was like, and they were eager to warn me about him.
He comes in, a short and overweight Hispanic man, and earnestly informs me that I look like his sister, who allegedly resembles Cameron Diaz, tall and slender and blond and blue eyed.
We enter the session room, and he lays down on the floor, instructing me to undress and sit on the couch. I do so, stripping down to my thong, and spreading a towel under my bottom. I rest my feet on his chest at his instruction, and he begins to tell me the story.
He always was in love with his sister, he said, and her feet. She teased him awfully, mercilessly, and it haunts him to this day. He tells me that they drove far away one day, in his car, and that he was six and she was twelve. I indulge his fantasy, suspend my disbelief. He tells me that the car was his, a present from his parents, despite the fact that he could not yet drive it, and that his sister wanted to borrow it to go on a drive.
I play the part of the sister, and am immediately relived to learn that the task of creative improvisation does not fall to me. He feeds me every line, and I regurgitate it to him, trying my best to deliver it with a straight face. He responds in a childish whimper, and then, in a soft voice tells me what I must say next. He cues me to wink and to twirl my hair and to smile at him and to rub his legs with my bare feet.
He lets me borrow his car, and we begin our long drive. He asks me, in a stuttering whimper, to take my shoes off, and I say no! We continue driving, and I eventually take off my shoes and he asks me to rub him with my bare feet and I tease him ruthlessly and I finally concede and wink and giggle and mock him while I do so. He masturbates himself, ejaculating in a graceful arch all over his own chest, and I smile behind my hand. He does not tip, just thanks me and leaves, and I see him the next week booking a session with our newest submissive.
"You look like Cameron Diaz, you know that? You're real pretty. My sister looked like Cameron Diaz. Tall and blond, just like you, you know that?"
This man will always have his fantasy, his fetish, and who else will indulge him, if not us, who will accept him, irritating stammer and all, if not us? We are underpaid therapists, with floggers instead of PDAs, stilettos instead of business suits. We offer a haven, an escape from a world that would label an incestuous foot fetishist as a pervert, a sicko. We love him, love them all, and that makes us their salvation.