I shouldn’t admit it, but I was nervous on the way there. Outcall hotels around Liverpool Street all blur into one after a while—same carpet, same half-hearted art—but I couldn’t shake the fizz in my stomach. He’d told me he had a foot fetish. That was enough to throw me. Not in a bad way, just… it changes the whole texture of a night, doesn’t it?
He’d asked my shoe size earlier in the week. I kept wondering what he was planning. Some men say that kind of thing and never follow through. Still, I booked myself a last-minute pedicure, fussed with nail polish that wouldn’t dry properly, then turned up ten minutes early like I always do. Habit.
I knocked. No answer. Long pause. My head started inventing reasons—wrong room, bad joke, he’d bailed. Then the door opened and he was just there, smiling like he’d been waiting all year. That look… it got me, more than I expected.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound breezy.
“Hi, beautiful,” he answered, stepping back.
Inside was pitch dark. My first thought: power cut. London hotels never surprise me with much, but that would’ve been new. Then I saw it—candles, everywhere. Dozens, maybe more. The air smelled of warm wax and something vanilla. Honestly? A little corny. But sweet. The sort of effort you don’t see often.
“Do you like it?” His voice was right behind me. I jumped.
“Yeah,” I laughed, too loudly. “Yeah, it’s… it sets the mood.”
His hand slid to my hip and I just let myself lean closer. Silly really, but in the dark you forget to act cool.
“What are you in the mood for?” he whispered.
Anything, I wanted to say. Instead, I brushed my lips along his jaw. “For you, I can be in the mood for anything.” Corny as hell, but he liked it.
He kissed me then—slow, deliberate, a little shaky at first. When he pulled back his eyes had that glint. “I’ve got something for you.”
The box appeared. Black with a violent pink bow, sitting on the bed like it had been waiting its cue. I untied it with clumsy fingers. Inside: heels. Shiny black, pink soles, dramatic in the candlelight. Exactly the kind of shoes that drag eyes down whether you want them to or not.
“Oh God, they’re perfect,” I said before I could stop myself, actually hugging him like a schoolgirl. Professional mask gone.
“Can I put them on you?” he asked.
So I sat, he knelt. Strange intimacy in that. His hands worked the clasp, slow, careful. His fingers brushed my ankle and for a second the whole night tilted. That’s what I like about foot fetish, if I’m honest. The patience. The detail. Men forget that most of the time.
He slipped the heel into place like it mattered. Candlelight flickered, the room smelled of vanilla and warm wax, and I thought—whatever happens next, this bit, this quiet part, is already enough.
If you enjoyed this candlelit encounter, lose yourself in more tales of desire and discovery — from An Escort’s Taste of Domination to the longing of Kissing an Old Flame.
