A new client had contacted the London escort agency and to my surprise, asked specifically for me. It’s always flattering when someone insists on seeing only you, though it also carries a kind of pressure. When I saw his request, my excitement dipped a little. He wanted me submissive. That role never came naturally — I usually held the reins — and it took a certain kind of man, strong in presence as much as physique, for me to even consider letting go. He also confessed to a fascination with feet. That part, at least, didn’t unsettle me. I had always enjoyed the way such a focus could shift power, soften edges, draw desire to unexpected places.
We met first in the lobby of a discreet hotel in Marylebone, then drifted to the bar. I’d expected to carry the conversation — years of practice had honed that skill — but I found I didn’t need to. Tim, as he introduced himself, was one of those rare men who could be both disarmingly polite and quietly self-assured. Tall, broad shouldered, sharp jaw softened by a careful smile. Even his hair seemed composed, as though he’d been styled by a breeze that liked him.
At first, we stumbled through polite talk about the restaurant’s design, the wine list, safe topics that didn’t quite land. Then he surprised me, leaning in with a nervous flick of his tongue across his lips.
“Why are you working as an escort?”
I almost laughed. It’s the question everyone asks eventually.
“I like it,” I told him simply, though I lowered my voice, leaning closer. “A friend talked me into it once, and I realised quickly I wasn’t built for restraint. This work fits me… more than I probably care to admit.”
His laughter rang out, warm, and I joined him. From there we slipped into music, films, the kind of talk that stretches time. Somewhere in the middle of our easy conversation, his curiosity about my interests led us to speak openly about kinks. I admitted that a foot fetish experience can be far more powerful than people expect.
By the time we reached his room, we were already teasing each other like old conspirators. Compliments slipped into conversation, half playful, half daring. In the shower, our laughter turned to breathless silences, water trickling over skin that had stopped caring about temperature. When he carried me, damp hair against his chest, I let him. For once, I didn’t need control.
On the bed, his mouth traced a path of heat along my skin, pausing just enough to make me ache. My body was strung tight with anticipation, yet every time I reached for release, he denied me with the quiet authority of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
And then, lower still, he found my feet. I had braced for the expected — for him to want something from me — but instead he gave. His mouth was reverent, almost teasing, the delicate brush of tongue and lips against places most men ignored. A shiver climbed through me, startling in its intensity, as though every nerve had been rewired. My will, usually iron, began to fray.
He watched me with a smile that said he knew precisely how close I was, and that he had no intention of granting mercy. Impatience swirled with pleasure until I hardly knew whether to beg or bite him.
This wasn’t just a fleeting indulgence. It was the kind of evening that reminded me why men come searching for foot fetish escorts — not for the novelty, but for the depth of sensation it can unlock.
The story doesn’t end here. Discover what happens next in the sequel: Foot Fetish in a London Hotel .