Just go for the feet!

Deciding, 'fuck it,' you think that it'll be safer to not pushing your luck. Hands quivering with excitement, you reach out, and lightly grasp her top foot. She doesn't react, simply looking at you, arms still crossed. You remain standing there, looking up at her, not sure how to proceed. She must have mistaken your weariness for something else, because she sighs, tossing her hair to the side, "I know, I know, my nail polish is wearing down. I didn't expect you to care that much, jeez. Can't a girl have other interests than just her feet? I mean, I make sure to keep them out of the tub when I bathe; isn't that enough!? Like, honestly, it's just..."

Hearing her going off into some sort of a tangent, and seeing how nonchalantly she talks about her feet, as well as how she refers to them in the same manner someone might refer to breasts, or body shape, your cock throbs with excitement. In the same way that people can be dismissive of fashion, or grooming, it seems that women can be neglectful of their footcare, but at the same time be aware of the fact it's something they're supposed to tend to. In the middle of some frustrated slurry on the idea of women's beauty standards, you simply wrap your hands around the woman's pale ankles, before pulling them up to your face.

The sudden movement makes the peeved receptionist let out a small gasp, interrupting her impromptu speech, as her rolling swivel chair is pulled towards you. Her balance having been offset, her appendages tighten; her hands on her armrests, and her toes on your face. Grunting, she lets out a pout before crossing her arms, seemingly aware of the fact you're in a position where you won't be listening anytime soon.

Having always dreamed of this day, there was certainly an aspect of this you hadn't fully expected. As you take a deep inhale of those pale, pretty soles, the concept of the fact people were genuinely tending to these, for sexual purposes, hits you with the same strength as their odor. Legs growing wobbly, a strong, viscous scent of salted cheese assaults your nose. Unable to help it, due to the unexpected nature of the situation, you let out a deep groan. Pulling back, your eyes barely able to focus on the punk's decorated face, you ask her a question.

"When's... the last time you washed these, you said...?"

Hardened expression softening slightly, it seems like the receptionist, who you still couldn't even recall the name of, relaxes slightly. Pursing her blue lips, her eyes flicker over you for a moment.

"You... never ask about my footcare routine... I didn't think you cared..."

Seeming to lose herself in her thoughts for a moment, she cracks her gum one more time. Meanwhile, those soft, milky toes scrunch up and spread in an unintelligible pattern, the overwhelming scent slowly getting more noticeable. After a few patient seconds of waiting, she speaks.

"Eight days. And I always make sure to wash them every ten. I also make sure to wear socks, and coverings whenever I'm going somewhere that might get dirt on them; as well as rub them roughly with a towel every night before bed, to make sure they don't get too unsanitary..."

Hearing the woman you'd assumed had not a single care in the world talk about the amount of time she took out of her day to make her feet so... attractive, mixed with the fact you could, literally, do as you desired with them just sent a barrage of emotions through your head that you hadn't been expecting. It seemed like you were getting a whole new perspective on how this world worked, and you were loving every second of it.

As she continued calmly explaining her routine, you still holding her size nines up to your face, you contemplate how to respond to her seemingly mellowing nature. Was she worth learning more about, and getting closer to, or did you just want to use her for her body, and move on to see what else you could get away with in this reality?