How to rub a woman’s feet


For a man, to rub a woman’s foot is a great honor and a great pleasure, under any circumstances.  What woman does not deserve a foot rub when she wants it? What man should not feel honored to serve when called upon?  But add to this brew a spark of attraction, and the recipe grows more tasty.  Add to it a little light dominance on her part, and the erotic charge increases tenfold.  Stir in hypnosis and few things could be more intense, or more deserved by both masseur and mistress.

There are many ways for woman to let a man know that it is time for him to rub her feet.  None of them is the wrong way.  There is the verbal method: “Rub my feet!” This works fine. There is the more intense version: “Rub my feet, slave!” This works well for men who merit that term of address.  Either can be made more effective by the use of these terms as post-hypnotic trigger.  But post-hypnotic or not, words are not needed.  Placing the feet, bare or shod, in the lucky man’s lap communicates volumes.  Placing the foot, shod in high heels, on the coffee table or chair next to the man is also eloquent.  A finger snap accompanying this gesture can produce a galvanic response, a jolt of dominance that leaps across the gap and electrifies both.

But the subtlest, and in some ways most powerful, way for a woman to bring a man to her feet is a classic.  While standing, simply catch the victim’s eye, then slowly bend at the waist, raise one foot, bringing it inward toward the other knee, and remove the shoe, as slowly as possible.  A seductive look and striptease motions with the shoe are of course worth considering.  But they are not needed: a woman might also contrive to appear unaware of the effect she is having; she might choose to fumble with the shoe as if unable to get it off.  This should bring the man to her aid, and within a few seconds, he will be holding her tired foot and begging for the chance to relieve its aches.

The man, once happily ensnared, has also some intriguing choices. It is of course permissible to sit on the couch with the woman’s foot in his lap.  This works well while watching TV together, and permits the woman to sink back in a grateful swoon during the massage, rising to consciousness only when and if the man loses focus in his rubbing, to recapture his attention and direct it where it belongs, her feet.

But for a purer experience, the man should address his mistress on his knees.  Assume a comfortable position, resting back on the haunches; for with skill and luck, you will be there a long time.  In either case, begin by gently rendering the lady’s feet clean, warm, and dry:  this can be done with a washcloth soaked in warm water and wrung dry, which is then wiped over the sole and toes of the foot gently.  When that is complete, carefully dry the feet with a clean towel fresh from the dryer.  Wrap each foot in a towel and apply gentle pressure to make sure they feel dry.  This will ensure that blood is flowing to the feet, making it easier for them accept the massage without tension or pain.

But just as the purest experience will come from kneeling at Goddess’s feet, the purest way to clean the foot is with a footbath full of warm to tepid water and a light sprinkling of bath salts or just one or two drops of bath oil or body wash.  Make sure the water is not too hot—the feet, I am glad to say, are sensitive.  Soak them together gently—long enough to relax them but not so long as to render them soggy.   Then remove them from the footbath and take it away (don’t take a chance of spills or slopovers later, when they might spoil the atmosphere).

At this point, the woman has a choice.  She can sink back and accept the man’s ministrations.  Why shouldn’t she?  She deserves this act of worship.  But if she is a certain type of woman, who has a certain type of dominance over a certain type of man, she can do more.

Zusa is that type of woman.  Beautiful, sexy, smart, perceptive, dominant, and skilled at hypnosis, she can decimate a man’s will with a quick look or a well-placed word.  In my ideal foot rub, Zusa reaches this point and decides to help me serve her more skillfully and wholeheartedly.  Gently she rubs my head, and murmurs words I can barely make out, but that have the cadence of hypnosis.  At once my world shrinks like the focus on a camera zeroing in on a small scene.  My hands to serve.  Her feet to be served.  My eyes, to guide my hands.  Her voice, to subdue and direct my will.  I am an extension of her voice.  It flows through me to my hands.  The entire circuit exists to serve her and bring her pleasure.  It is a complete circuit, like an electrical circuit; everything is in place.  I can almost hear a hum in the background, the crackling of power and Eros and sensuality.  The hum tells me that at her feet is where I was born to be.  I will remain there happily until released from the workings of her spell.

I am a pair of hands.  They are lightly coated with foot cream or lotion.  (Do not use bath oil; cream or lotion will be absorbed into the skin, leaving them clear and fresh, while oil will make them—well—oily.)  Here is what the hands do next:  first, they arrange Susa’s feet side by side, resting on my thighs.  Then, the twin thumbs nestle together at the bottom of her heels..  Slowly they move up and slightly outward, then, once they have reached the base of Zusa’s toes, they move slightly outward toward the outer edge of her feet, then pass back toward the heel again.  The motion is like the path of the arms in the breaststroke.  Up straight, out, and back.  With each pass, they move slightly far apart, until, after two or three dozen passes, they are moving all the way from the inside to the very outside of the sole; until my thumbs have passed over every square millimeter of the bottoms of Zusa’s feet.

At first the pressure is very very light, but soon the thumbs are firmly running across the skin, pressing the muscle beneath, to loose tension within it.  The more passes of the hands, the better will be the blood flow—the more relaxed the sole will become, the more responsive the nerves, the more relaxed she will feel.  I make sure not to hurry; this task is bliss, and luckily for me it will take as long as it takes.  Zusa’s voice murmurs something in my ears; I can’t be bothered to understand the words; I can’t be bothered by anything that would take my mind away from my work, away from serving her.

After the soles are soothed and sleepy, I turn my attention to the toes.  Not in the way you may think: this is not about me, it is about Zusa, and her feet still have needs that must be addressed before she can even think of sex or Eros.  I gently place her feet side by side in front of me and cup my two hands around the outsides of both feet.  It is essential that I hold them strongly enough that she feels no danger that they will drop, but subtly enough that they seem to float.  Now, with my thumbs, I reach up and address the tender, tense places between her toes, moving outward from the center.  A thumb between the big toe and the second toe.  Gentle pressure up and down between the toes, in rhythm, three to five times up and back, until the tension stored there just begins to dissipate.  When that is done, I return to the big toes.  One at a time this time—I take it delicately between thumb and forefinger and draw it slightly away from the foot, stretching it very slightly, for a second only, before letting it go.  One at a time, each toe gets a gentle tuck goodnight.  Then the soles and toes are done.

Next, the outsides and tops of the feet.  This calls for great delicacy and care.  These parts of the foot are very prone to soreness and tenderness.  Too much pressure can produce sharp discomfort.  They are not like the soles, to be wooed with firmness. The very gentlest of touches here, as you explore the top and side of the foot, the spur of the ankle, the ankle itself, and the hamstring.  Just kiss the skin with the fingers.  Let the smallest reaction, the most minute change in breathing, guide you—because if you wait until she indicates discomfort, you may have shattered the entire mood with the sharp throb of inexpert exploration.  Softly, softly, catchee monkey; and remember you are seeking the subtlest of effects, only a slight loosening of the Achilles tendon, a slight increase in transverse flexibility.  That subtle effect is worth striving for, but slowly enough that you, as Hippocrates would have said, do no harm.

Eventually, though, I reach the point where that slight relaxation has taken place, where the foot sits lightly in my hand, where it gives itself to slight movements up and down, left and right.

Nor, for most men, comes a delicate question: toes or soles? To any man who assumes that it is always one or always the other, this should be a warning sign to check his receptivity and technique.  Women have different preferences.  True, the toes are tempting—especially Zusa’s, with their dark red polished nails.  But: this isn’t about you.  It’s not about what tempts you.  It’s not about what you want. It’s about her.

That is no problem for me.  Not because there I am better than other men, but because I am lucky enough to be profoundly hypnotized.  My trance has gotten deeper and deeper as I work, as Zusa whispers in my ear, as Zusa snaps her fingers to keep me focused.  I know, whether because I am reading her signals or because she has told me in one of these one-sided conversations I quite never remember, that she is in no mood for me to suck and kiss those toes.

Instead, I gently put my submissive lips to one of the most sensitive parts of a woman’s body: the soles of her feet.  Gently.  Faintly.  Butterfly kisses.  The barest hint of lips and tongue. Just enough that, if she is relaxed and drifting, she may almost wonder whether she is imagining it.  She may wonder whether she is dreaming.  A good dream, of a safe, sensual erotic space where she is the queen and you are her servant.

This dream is real for me, however.  It is my dream come true. Zusa is a Queen; she rules me and she rides me and I serve her and I worship her and I gently gently kiss her feet and by her breathing and her happy moans I know that she is enjoying what her thrall can do for her.  But that knowledge, those sounds, reach only the distant, unhypnotized part of my mind.  If Zusa is enjoying herself, that is not my business.  My business is to worship and to kiss.  My pleasure is not important.  My pleasure may come later. If Zusa permits me to remember these moments, then the memories will bring me pleasure later, and I will thank her from far away, and, happily, far, far beneath.

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