I'm not sure exactly when it started but as a small child I became obsessed with women's feet: the curves, the scent, the garish red toenail polish, the sexy way they looked whether bare or in hose or sandals or open-toed mules. Perhaps it came from crawling around and playing on the floor when women would come over to visit with my mother. They would often kick off their shoes and there I was face to face with their feet. It wasn't long before they became the focus of my sexual fantasies, laying in bed and beating my little penis to multiple dry orgasms, visions of women's feet dancing and prancing in my head. One day, while playing on the floor in my parents' room, i noticed my mother's closet was open and there before my eyes were a pair of pink and white leather open-toed mules with two inch wedge soles. I used to love it when she would wear this pair of shoes as she never wore hose with them and I could spend countless hours on the floor near her feet staring at her long and shapely ruby tipped toes and the curve of her arches. I crawled into her closet and took hold of her mules and brought them to my lips, kissing them the way I had fantasized kissing her toes, sniffing them and catching that heavy vinegary-cheddar set of her feet, licking them and tasting the salty residue her feet had left there. Her toes had left imprints and I licked those imprints, and then up and down the inner soles that had so recently pressed upon her beautiful feet. As I indulged I felt my little penis stiffen and I beat on it, slapping the head of my penis barely protruding over the tight foreskin, slap-slap-slapping it until the foreskin and the head reddened, soon followed by those delicious dry orgasms, which always left me wanting to beat it again and again and again.

Once a week, my mother would bathe me and she would always clean the head of my penis with a wet cloth, pulling down on the foreskin, telling me that it was supposed to loosen it up and allow the foreskin to slice over my weenie, but no matter how she pulled it back the foreskin never did loosen. Even today, I have a long foreskin, that is far too tight and only allows the head of my penis to barely protrude a bit, often to the wonderment or consternation of the women I've made love with. I used to love those bath nights and fantasize about them. I loved feeling my mother's hands toying with my penis, rubbing it with the washcloth, and that lovely sensation of her pulling my foreskin down hard so that it lay tight over much of my cock head. As she kneeled beside the bathtub, her breasts would jiggle as her hands washed me, and I loved to watch them move. They seemed so alive to me. I desperately wanted to feel them to see if they were as soft as they looked, but I never get the chance to touch them.

As the years passed, my fascination with women's feet became more and more of an obsession with me. I used to stare at my female classmates' feet, especially when they were class in Scholl's exercise sandals, which for some reason electrified me. I would get hard in class and request to go to the bathroom and once there I would lock myself inside of a stall and beat off and then return to class and try to avoid the objects of my desire.

We had an art teacher, a Miss Potvin, who clearly was a sadist. She would spend class hours talking about boiling misbehaving children in oil and other horrendous tortures. Her eyes were cruel and thee was nothing nice about her. One of the bizarre things that she would do, would be to demand that misbehaving students, and were we were ten and eleven years old, sit at her feet beneath her desk. Having a big mouth and not afraid to open it during art class, I I spent a great deal of time there beneath her desk. Looking back, I can't believe that I didn't try to look up her skirt but this was in the days before sex education, and the closest I had come to knowledge of the female anatomy came from National Geographic magazines and those incredible color pictures of native women with their breasts hanging down to their waists. In any case, my focus, predictably was on Miss Potvin's feet, typically clad in hose. She would kick off her shoes and her feet stank of sweat and a delicious cheesiness. I would get my face next to them and deeply inhale their rich aroma and my penis would stiffen, and there beneath her desk, at her feet, my classmates only a few feet from me, I would beat on my penis all the while sniffing her feet. Sometimes her foot would come into contact with me, often my face. Other times she would prod me with the toe of one of her feet intentionally.

I would run all the way home after these encounters, lock myself in the bathroom at home and beat my cock mercilessly, chaffing my red and sore foreskin and bruising my cock head, delighting in the repeated orgasms, with the filmstrip playing in my head changing from Miss Potvin's feet to my mother's feet to the feet of my mother's lady friends, to the feet of my female classmates. Sometimes the floggings that I'd give to my penis were so intense that it was hard to walk without further irritating the broken skin there.

I masturbated several times a day not only as a kid, but later as a teenager, as a young adult, through middle age and now that I am on the south side of sixty. To this day, I am a slave to the allure to the eroticism of women's feet. Some women love having me worship their feet, my tongue slipping between their succulent toes, lapping at their soles, sucking their toes, kissing and licking them. Others tolerate it disdainfully, while others still look upon my desires as perversions. At 61 I only wish that my penis would stiffen at the sight women's feet but alas, I can't get hard anymore. But even flaccid, I flog it for all its worth until i cum, not in the thick ropes of yore but in a minute dribble of semen. I figure that I've masturbated over fifty thousand times in my life, and still get off on women's feet as I did over have a century ago. I only hope I am blessed with many more years and many many more women's feet to worship and adore.