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Don't Judge the Judge
🕑 Added 2021-02-27 16:40:29 +0000 UTCF/f - Judge Sanders notices a Latina stenographer in her court always has perfectly pedicured feet, but staring has consequences. 10k words.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2016 themaneloco
Don't Judge the Judge
Being the only female judge in my city carries weight. It had been a long road of ambition, education and professionalism to reach the height that I had. I'd barged my way through sexism and misogyny to sit comfortably in one of the most respected positions in the community. When I sat on that bench overseeing a hearing, it said 'Judge Sanders' on the nameplate and everyone knew it. I was in charge.
Being a moderately attractive woman with that level of power also drew its fair share of admiration and respect. I was a popular body around the courthouse and most considered me a delight to work with. I also had the reputation of being professional and fair in my verdicts. I was a force to be reckoned with, and I thought nothing would get in the way of my ascent.
Things changed when the court hired a new stenographer. Previously, recruitment had favoured ladies of an older variety; glasses and greying hair being the staple look. However, this time the newest member of the courthouse was a young, petite Latina by the name of Emilia. She couldn't be any older than her mid-twenties and a lot of the male employees were quickly smitten with this fresh face around the building. She'd yet to sit in on one of my hearings, though I'd noticed her around. What stood out was that her dress attire wasn't at all suitable for the formal environment. Whereas every other employee wore smart suits or modest, formal dresses; Emilia would turn up in a knee-length, bright summer dress, even in the cold weather.
At first glance, I was a bit annoyed by Emilia. She drew a lot of attention away from me; attention I'd worked very hard to obtain. After all, it was difficult for a woman to achieve what I had at this age and any attention and respect that was geared in my direction was most deserved. This girl was stealing it away by simply being exotic and pretty, not an ounce of hard work involved at all. I disapproved of her recruitment on all counts.
Words of disapproval quickly spread. A few of the older judges in particular took a dim view of the new employee, as they felt her attire was disrespectful to the traditions of law. Some did comment in a lecherous way regarding her above-average appearance, but the general consensus was that a quiet word with her was needed. I readily agreed. That was until spring came around and she wore a pair of designer heels to work one day. My opinion of her flipped in an instant.
I kept my sudden change of heart to myself, fearing that my peers would consider me soft or a hypocrite if I suddenly championed her corner. I couldn't tell them why I had taken such a liking to this girl out of nowhere.
You see, even though I'm a married woman in my forties, I'd always had a thing about fashionable shoes. Emilia's summer dresses usually led down to a pair of high heels, wedges or sandals and after noticing them for the first time, I couldn't stop myself from looking down whenever I passed her in the hallway. What didn't help was that her feet were very pretty, and always perfectly pedicured. On a few occasions I'd noticed the glimmer of jewellery too, whether it be a toe ring or an anklet. Frankly, I had no longer had any problem with the way the girl dressed, if anything, I liked it.
I wouldn't consider myself a lesbian, but there was just something about her choice of footwear that grabbed my attention. Perhaps there was a little envy in it as I'd never been comfortable wearing such shoes. I didn't think they looked particularly good on my chunky ankles and my feet were far from what would be considered pretty. Emilia would wear them with such confidence and strut around the building with an elegance that I silently admired. It was as if my love of fashionable shoes could be lived vicariously through this sassy, young Latina. I had wanted to start a conversation with her where I could drop a compliment in, but lacked the courage. Despite being in the enamoured position of being the first and youngest female judge in the courthouse, there was something about Emilia that drained my authority. I felt exposed and vulnerable whenever I saw her in her strappy wedges. She was on the very bottom of the ladder in terms of career progress within the courthouse, yet, I was intimidated and infatuated by her.
Emilia knew she was a knockout too. I'd seen her countless times taking photos of herself in the restroom mirror, whilst flicking her hair and pouting her lips. Even when disturbed by another occupant such as myself, a judge, she wouldn't betray a single air of self-consciousness. If we accidentally made eye contact, I'd sheepishly look away. If anything, I felt like I was the one being inappropriate by disturbing her mini photoshoot. This girl had a natural presence, one that surpassed my own that I had worked so hard for.
So, it brought a tremor to my limbs when I first saw Emilia's name listed as the stenographer to sit in one of my hearings. The whole morning, I daydreamed of ogling her dangling heels as she typed away. I was even worried that it may distract me from my performance as a judge. I took my job seriously and prided myself on being fair. But there was something about this girl, something that I couldn't resist. I actually felt guilty for being so against her at first.
I was left disappointed however, as Emilia turned up to the court in a smart dress suit and closed pumps. I reasoned that maybe it was because I was a female judge, and she didn't feel the need to dress in a revealing way to court my favour. Whatever the reason, I was underwhelmed by our first day of work together. It was not the hours of dangling and dipping I'd envisioned.
The hearing was fairly straight forward, and with the way Emilia was dressed there was nothing to distract me from overseeing it in a professional and efficient way. She typed away without a problem throughout; clearly, she was good at her job and had gained it on merit. That I had to hand to her.
When the day was over I packed up my things ready to leave, but noted that Emilia was still at her seat. She was bent over and rubbing the heel of one foot, her face noticeably showing some distress. I saw an opportunity to finally break the ice with her.
“Good job today,” I said. I peered down at her shoes as she lightly massaged her heel. “Are you okay?”
Emilia looked up, her brown eyes somewhat hidden amongst the parting of her darker hair. I'd heard that her family had emigrated from Venezuela, and it was clear to see in her dark features and tanned skin. “These shoes have been pinching me all day,” she said. “My feet are so sore.”
“Are they new?”
“Kind of. They're not the sort of thing I'd usually wear. I guess my feet just aren't used to being stuffed up in shoes like this.”
“Why are you wearing them then?” I asked, I tried to mask my intrigue with a little chuckle.
“I was told by HR that I had to dress more appropriately, whatever that means.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes.
I averted her gaze at that revelation. I was probably one of the people responsible for that, but I had changed my opinion, I really had. I tried to reassure her. “Yes, I had noticed. You usually dress so nicely and I've noticed you always wear such fashionable shoes.” I stopped myself before going any further, but felt my face reddening from my frankness.
Emilia tilted her head slightly and offered me a curious look. The rubbing of her foot ceased. “I've never had a case with you before, right?”
“We haven't, no,” I said.
“Oh, well, yes, I love my shoes. It's a bit of a bummer that I can't wear them anymore. I like my toes being free.”
Being a judge, I usually command a level of respect from the other court employees; but Emilia seemed to speak to me with comfort and relaxation, as if we'd known each other a long time and there was no need for formalities. From somewhere, deep within me, I felt the urge to give in to her. I wanted to give her the opportunity to get her way and see if she would take it. I can't explain where it came from, but the thought of her freely strutting around my courtroom in her heels gave me an idea.
“Tell you what,” I said. “You can wear whatever you like when you're working with me.” I tried to sound like I was doing her a favour, when really the offer was fuelled entirely by my own desires. I was also somehow apprehensive of her response, fearing she'd call me out at any moment. Even though my words were largely harmless, I was nervous that she'd see right through me. My back felt wet with sweat.
“Really?” She said, again with that obvious curiosity in her eyes. She looked me over intently, as if sizing me up and pondering my intentions. “Well, if you don't mind-I'd really like that.”
And with that it was settled.
Emilia's attire would vary each day depending on whether it was one of my hearings that she sat in. If she was typing up for a different judge, she'd wear formal, smart clothes with closed pumps. But if she was working with me, those dresses and revealing shoes would come out again, and I'd spend most of the day ogling her perfect feet.
We grew somewhat closer over the next few weeks, only in a friendly capacity. It was all polite, but mundane talk. She'd tell me how her weekend went or what she had planned for the evening, all while dangling and twisting her heels. As discreet as I tried to be, my glances downwards were noted and I'd catch the tiniest of smirks from her every time she caught me. And she really took advantage of my relaxed rules. She'd spend her breaks playing around on her phone, taking photos of herself and sometimes of whatever pair of shoes she was wearing that day, most likely just to show her friends. What I'd have given to get my hands on those. Sometimes I'd catch her browsing through designer shoe web pages, no doubt searching for her next pair. She was a fashionista at heart, and I provided her with the platform to flaunt it all day long without repercussion.
Her behaviour around me didn't go unnoticed and some of the other judges voiced their disapproval at me letting her wear whatever she liked. They claimed I was making a mockery of the court. I'd had some grief in the past with me being the only female judge, but through my judgements and professionalism, I'd won the senior judges over and gained their respect. My behaviour with Emilia was putting that at risk. It didn't help that I was in agreement with them only weeks before. They seemed at a loss regarding my sudden turnaround.
I played my relaxed approach to her appearance as a female-empowerment thing; whereby as long as she did her job well and was professional in that capacity, she was free to wear what she liked. It was a load of rubbish, but an inspired reasoning. I was almost proud. Most backed off after that explanation I'd plucked from the air, not wanting to be accused of sexism. If only they knew my true motives.
As the weeks passed by, I complimented Emilia often on her choice of shoes. Gradually, she became a lot more forward in showing off her footwear to me. She'd turn her seat in such a way that I'd have a full view of her legs and shoes during court. If she was in a pair of sandals, she'd slip them off and arch and flex her feet, often with a sideways glance to see if I'd noticed. And I did. I noticed everything, for instance that her toenail polish changed colour on a weekly basis. Her teasing had become ruthless. And the shoes, every day they'd alternate. If she wore a pair I'd never seen before, she'd ask me whether I liked them.
“Do you like my new heels, Judge Sanders?” She'd asked one morning, before court had commenced.
I tried to appear nonchalant, but I suspected my enthusiasm crept through. “Very nice Emilia, and your pink polish is very pretty.”
“Thanks Judge,” she grinned. “I'm glad you approve.”
On many occasions during a hearing, I'd stare a bit too long and she'd turn and catch me. My embarrassment was always heightened by an amused shake of her head or roll of her eyes. It was never explicitly voiced between us, but I was increasingly paranoid that Emilia was fully aware of my weakness when it came to her shoes. It embarrassed and ashamed me. Perhaps she just thought I was a sad old lesbian with a crush. I'd been starting to wonder if that was far from the truth, such was the level of my infatuation.
I'd sometimes feel immense regret when I returned home after a long day to my husband. It just wasn't right that I should be this infatuated with my female stenographer's feet and the footwear she chose to adorn them with. If anyone knew, especially my husband, I would be absolutely mortified. The age difference just made it all the worse. I tried to shake it off, however, I simply couldn't resist looking whenever an opportunity presented itself. The next day in work, there I'd be, gazing at Emilia's swinging feet. The exchanges between us were always civil and harmless, so I felt safe in my secret admiration and enabling of her flaunting. But still, that paranoia brewed at the back of my mind.
Things continued in the same way until one day Emilia came to work in a pair of enclosed ballet flats. My face must have visibly sagged as she immediately picked up on my disappointment.
“What's up, Judge? Something wrong?” She asked with a smirk, as if baiting me to voice my disappointment and cross a line. By this point her tone with me was absolutely informal. I'd had many opportunities to put her straight on that, but a quick glance down at her feet and I couldn't find the words. She even popped her heel out of one flat and twisted her foot on the ball, baiting me even further.
“Umm.” I struggled between shying away and asking her why her feet were covered up.
“You okay?” Emilia continued. We had sort of an unspoken understanding regarding my admiration of her footwear. She tolerated it if it meant she got to wear whatever she liked. But there was a twinkle in Emilia's eye, as if she was urging me to voice the obvious and confirm what we both already knew: I liked Emilia's feet, not just her shoes.
“I'm just a little tired,” I said, completely chickening out.
“Don't work so hard then,” she replied with a wink. Moments later she was in her seat ready to type, and not a glimpse of her feet was given for the rest of the day.
Emilia wore the same flats again the day after, and by the third day of those flats completely denying my ogling of her feet I couldn't take it anymore. I needed to know why she wasn't letting me look at those feet; how could she be so cruel? She got to wear her fashionable shoes to work, and I would get to admire how they looked on her. That was the unspoken agreement, right? I had to know why she wasn't playing ball anymore. It was a concern I may have crossed the line and creeped her out. Either way I had to know, it was too frustrating seeing those pretty feet hidden away all day.
Once court was over and everyone else had left, I ambled over to Emilia as she packed away her things. “So, won't we all be seeing your excellent taste in shoes anymore Emilia?” I tried to voice it like everyone in court had noticed, rather than it being my sole observation. I also said it in a friendly manner, hoping she wouldn't pounce and out me for what I was.
Emilia spun in her chair and offered me the biggest smile I'd ever seen on her pretty face. “Missing them, are you?” She teased.
I shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot before Emilia's intense stare, thinking of something witty to retort but nothing came to mind. I wasn't expecting her to be so forthright.
She seemed to enjoy my squirming before putting me out of my misery. “Things have been a bit tight actually,” she sighed. “I haven't been able to afford my regular pedicure this week. It blows.”
“Aren't you able to paint them yourself?”
“Oh, no way,” she said with mild shock. “I never paint them myself. My toes deserve the very best, don't you think?”
“Yes, Emilia. They do.” The words had left my mouth before I'd really given them any thought.
There was a moment of silence between us, as if she was genuinely bemused that I would outright admit such a thing; her mouth hung agape. Meanwhile, my lips were sealed in embarrassment between two reddening cheeks. Emilia cocked her head slightly, as if weighing me up, then that knowing smile returned.
“So what are we going to do about that, Judge?” She finally asked, seemingly sensing her chance had been laid before her. I could see the amusement strewn all over her face. She was teasing me and enjoying every second of it. But there was something more than that too; she was testing me. Further prodding followed. “Don't you like seeing my feet all nice and pretty in my shoes?”
“I suppose I could pay for your pedicure, if that would help?” I immediately looked at the floor after the words had left my mouth. I was so ashamed, a woman in my respected position offering such a thing to this young court typist. First, I let her strut her beauty around my courtroom, and now I was going to contribute to it.
“Really?” Emilia replied, in genuine surprise. She slipped her feet from her flats and stretched them out along the floor. Her toes were indeed unpolished, though still very beautiful; at least in that regard she was being honest. “You really want to do that for me?”
I looked down at her pretty feet. Was getting to see them a reward for offering to pay for her pedicure? If so, it did the trick. “Yes, Emilia,” I said sheepishly. My eyes lingered from the floor to those nude toes.
“Better get your purse then,” she teased.
I didn't hesitate and Emilia left the office that evening with my money firmly in her grasp. It wasn't a lot in terms of my salary, but there was a deeper meaning to it. It was symbolic. We both knew what it meant and things would never be the same after that day.
The next morning Emilia rolled in sporting a pristine French pedicure, a ring on the second toe of each foot and a gold anklet. The wedges of choice were her sexiest yet, and they really showed off the muscular tone of her calves. She was a vision from head to toe. I knew straight away it was money well spent.
I couldn't take my eyes off her shoes as she took her seat, and I even caught one of the lawyers checking her out below the ankles. She often got looks, but usually they were focused on her pretty face and svelte figure. I felt a sense of pride that it was my money that had made those feet look so perfect.
Throughout the day she teased me relentlessly, turning in her seat frequently and crossing her legs, kicking her foot up and down. I knew I was being rewarded for pleasing her.
Once the day was over Emilia approached me at the bench and asked if I liked her pedicure. I almost salivated over myself as I took a closer look and nodded intensely. Again, I felt that sense of pride, though blushed at Emilia's familiar knowing smirk.
Every day that we worked together for the next fortnight, Emilia wore a different pair of shoes to show off that French pedicure. Not much else was said between us regarding her footwear, and it was never mentioned that I had been the one to pay for her pedicure. It felt a bit naughty that it was a secret between us, that no one else in the courthouse knew of. If she mentioned it to anyone, I'd be unbearably humiliated and unable to offer any explanation to my behaviour. Thankfully, not a word was said by her to a single soul though the possibility of her spilling the beans was always hanging over me. I just let it flow and hoped things would pan out, putting any doubts to the back of my mind. Emilia would show off her feet every day, and I would get to look at them once again. That was the unspoken agreement between us and I relished every moment.
I was enjoying work more than ever until the end of that fortnight when Emilia turned up to the court in those ballet flats again. Not a word was said, but the message was clear. All day I tried to be strong and resist giving in to her, but as she packed up her gear at the day's close, I walked up to her money in hand.
“Thanks, Judgey,” she said whilst snatching the notes from my grasp. Her smile gleamed at the unspoken submission I had just offered up to her. I cringed at being called that name but couldn't find the right words to stand up for myself, with having just handed her money for her pedicure a second time.
It was now official, I had become Emilia's pedicure provider, and from that point forth she'd expect me to fulfil my responsibility whenever she required it. If I didn't, I wouldn't be seeing those feet.
The next few months saw that trend continue. I got to see Emilia's feet in her sexy shoes every time we worked together, and when the flats made an appearance I knew it was time to fulfil my duty. I didn't let her down once. She even let me pick the colour of her pedicure on one occasion.
Emilia seemed quite content with the arrangement. She had it good after all. She didn't even have to ask to get what she wanted, plus the money she was saving had to have been a help. I too was content. I got to see those feet on a daily basis, and I revelled in some perverse sense of fulfilment by being her secret pedicure funder. It was naughty, and so wrong, but I liked it. It made me tingle inside to know I was the most powerful person in that courtroom, but the newbie court typist had me paying for her pedicures. It was all teetering on the line of acceptability. I hadn't done too much that had crossed the line professionally. Sure, it was embarrassing paying for her pedicures, and the fact she knew I was helpless to resist pampering her feet made my stomach turn. However, only the two of us knew and she didn't seem intent on pushing things any further. In actuality, she showed little interest in me other than on a professional sense and me fulfilling this one duty when required. Part of my enjoyment was the secrecy of it all, and I hoped she felt the same way too. She hadn't given me any reason to assume otherwise.
Emilia was adept at keeping me on my toes though. Whenever I felt settled, she'd change things up. She was a most astute manipulator and I was naively completely out of my depth.
One Friday, Emilia approached the bench after the courtroom had cleared and only the two of us were left. “Hey Judgey, I'm gonna head to the salon tonight,” she said. “My nails need a touch up.”
I still hated her calling me that, but I felt powerless to correct her now that we had this secret between us. It was just such a symbol of disrespect on her part, but she got away with it every time.
Her telling me she was going to the salon was new however. I looked down to double-check that the flats hadn't made an appearance that day; on her feet were a pair of strappy sandals. My eyes drifted back to Emilia's and I saw her waiting expectantly. The message was received. I reached over for my purse and fished out a couple of notes. Seconds later they were in her possession.
Emilia smiled and swung her handbag around her waist. She pulled out the familiar pair of flats and placed them gently on the bench. “I guess I won't be needing these anymore.” She said. “Be a dear and throw them in the trash for me, will you?” She gave me a cheeky wink, spun on her heel and left.
She knew damn well those flats wouldn't be going in the trash. I spent the whole drive home with one held to my face, intoxicated by her young, feminine scent. The smell wasn't overbearing, but it was present. I took deep breaths, trying to extract the stinky fragrance from every inch of the fabric. They smelled good. Oh, so good.
I mentally revelled in being Emilia's personal pedicure provider whilst her shoe was plastered against my nose. The knowledge that I was at the beck and call to the needs of my typist's feet turned me on immensely. I took perverse pleasure in the idea that I was training myself to form an attachment to Emilia's scent with every sniff, addicting myself to the natural perfume of her feet.
Each night after that, it would be my secret tribute to her feet's perfection. I would sniff them intently before joining my husband in bed. It made me extra frisky and heightened our lovemaking. I felt guilty, but that guilt never surpassed the euphoria felt when inhaling Emilia's tatty flats. She'd now invaded my home, even though she'd never stepped a foot in there.
It was a Sunday that things stepped up a further level and I felt my control of the situation dwindling. I'd spent the afternoon with my husband shopping, and had just dropped him off at the local social club. He was an avid football fan and enjoyed spending his weekends watching the game with a beer amongst old friends.
Whilst driving home, I spotted Emilia huddled on a bus stop. She was such a petite girl and for once looked fragile for it. She wasn't dressed in her usual designer clothes and shoes, but rather gym gear. With it belting down with rain I felt a bit sorry for her, so I did the decent thing and pulled over. I wasn't given the opportunity to lower the window and offer her a ride home. As soon as she recognised me she'd opened the door and climbed in before I could mouth a word. Her respect for me was almost non-existent by this point, not that I could blame her.
“Thanks, Judgey,” she said. She flipped down the sunshield and checked herself in its mirror. She spoke while wiping the rain from her forehead and untangling a few strands of matted hair. “What a crappy day, huh? You're a saviour.”
“Not the best weather,” I said. “Are you soaked?”
“It's mostly sweat from the gym. I've just had a long workout; been on the treadmill for about an hour.” She continued playing with her hair while looking in the mirror. Even after a workout and being caught in the rain, she was still a pretty girl.
I looked down at her beat up sneakers and my thoughts lingered to her sweaty socks. An hour on a treadmill must have really made them nice and ripe. Would the smell be even more intense than her flats? It had to be. I must have stared a bit too long as Emilia caught me in the corner of her eye.
“Really?” She said. She leant back in the seat and gave me a look of disbelief. “Even like this you still like them?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I tried to act like I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Come on, after everything, you still can't just say it to me?”
It was true that we'd been through a lot together the past few months. Though it was plainly obvious to us both that I was obsessed with her feet -by this stage I was paying for her pedicures on a weekly basis- it had never been explicitly spoken between us. How it had gotten to this level without me having to admit the obvious was a mystery, but here we now were. Emilia had finally called me out. My only response was silence.
“Just admit it,” she said. She sat with her arms crossed and stared blankly at me. I felt like a scolded child having to own up to breaking something.
“Okay.” I took a deep breath and stared straight out of the windscreen. My
fingers gripped tightly at the steering wheel. I closed my eyes and finally admitted the truth. “I like your feet Emilia.” My face burned with the humiliation of being forced to finally state out loud what had been obvious for months. I, a respected judge, was completely obsessed with this young girl's feet. This was a huge step for me. I'd been lying to myself that it was about the shoes; it was all about her feet. She knew that now too.
Emilia was quiet and I feared that our arrangement had come to an end, and possibly all professional respect with it. I peeped over and saw that she was playing around with her phone.
“Does it bother you that I like them?” I asked with trepidation.
She looked up at me with annoyance. “Huh?” She said. “As long as you keep taking care of them-it's fine. Now are you going to take me home or not?”
At Emilia's direction I drove her home and pulled up outside her apartment. It was modest and on the outskirts of the city, not the best area and I was surprised she caught the bus home every day. Perhaps she didn't really have a choice; she didn't appear to own a car.
I waited in silence for her to get out. We hadn't spoken at all during the drive and I was still unsure how she felt about my finally admitting the truth. From her body language she didn't seem bothered, but she was a tough one to read.
Emilia finished texting on her phone and looked at me with a smile. “Thanks for the ride, Judgey. You're always taking care of me, aren't you?”
“Could you please not call me that?” I whined. All those years of law school and countless cases and this was my reward.
She laughed and shook her head. “I'll see you Monday, Judgey.” She opened the door and was halfway out before she stopped and turned. “You know what. I've an idea. Like I said, I've just been running on the treadmill for an hour and my feet are killing me. You want to take care of me a little bit more? Rub my feet for a bit maybe?”
“Yes!” I said, way too enthusiastically. By this point I figured I may as well jump at the opportunity. Since everything was already out in the open and she was offering it on a plate, how could I resist?
Emilia almost burst out in laughter at my excitement. “They're sweaty. You know they're gonna smell, right?” She bit her lip and nodded her head. She was testing me again; seeing how far she could push me. She already knew what I was going to say. “You'd actually like that, wouldn't you?”
I closed my eyes. “Yes.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Yes, I'd like that.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Nuh uh. Tell me what it is that you'd like.”
Once again, my face burned with humiliation at being made to state things how they were. She seemed to love watching me squirm. Her brown eyes were brimming with enchantment. I took a breath and told her what she wanted to hear: the truth. “I'd like to rub your sweaty, smelly feet for you, Emilia.” What had I become?
“Better come inside then,” Emilia said with a smile, and she turned towards her apartment.
Emilia was stretched out on her sofa, her socked feet propped up on a footrest. With a glass of red wine in her hand and eyes closed, she was completely relaxed. I meanwhile had been massaging her soles for the past ten minutes, soothing the stresses from her tired muscles and drawing moans of approval from her. Her sneakers were discarded close by, but their pungent, damp smell lingered.
She wasn't shy in telling me where she wanted her feet rubbed or ordering me to apply more pressure. I did everything I was told. It was actually the first foot massage I'd ever given, but I found the experience exciting and exhilarating. It was like a calling. I was finally where I belonged.
Emilia looked at me through narrowed eyes while taking a sip of her wine. “I should have had you doing this for me a while ago. It feels so good.”
I simply nodded my head in agreement and continued rubbing. The fact she implied I had no say in it only made me rub with further intensity.
“How do they smell, anyway?” She wiggled her socked toes right beneath my nose. “Take a deep breath. Don't be shy.”
I sniffed loudly and that seemed to spur Emilia on. She put down her wine, and with an audible snigger, she stretched forward and cupped her socked toes over my nose. “Sniff,” she urged while she ground her toes around my defenceless nostrils. I sensed she was experimenting. Testing me once again. Seeing what she could get away with.
I took another deep breath and my eyes rolled back at the pungent intensity of Emilia's foot funk.
My suffering prompted her to clap her hands in glee and squeal with delight, before grinding her socked feet against my face a final time. “Take my socks off,” she said abruptly and she sat up on her elbows to get a better view.
I peeled both of her socks down her ankles, noting that they appeared stuck to her skin from sweat. Once removed, I placed them delicately atop her sneakers. I'd barely turned back to face her before I felt her damp soles press against my face. She ground them forcibly against my skin and wiped the sweat from her soles all over my cheeks and forehead. I could have got up at any moment and told her to stop. I dwarfed her in size after all, but I didn't. I just knelt there and let her do it. And she did it to the point that it became awkward. It was awkward that I let it go on for so long without voicing any opposition. Instead, I wallowed in the shame of it all.
I learned that there's something about letting another girl rub her sweaty feet in your face. It's a different level of humiliation and understanding. It speaks volumes between you; the fact you'll let her do it freely and get away with it. As her greasy soles slid up and down my cheeks, I caught peeks of her determined face. Her teeth were grit and her eyes focused. It was as if she was forcibly rubbing it into my face that I belonged right there.
“You're so obedient when you're in the zone,” she said. “It's like a foot zone you go into. Your eyes glass over. Look at you, you're just letting me rub my feet all over your face. ” She exemplified her point by tracing a toe over my lips. “I wonder what else you'll let me do.”
She was lost in thought for a moment, before a grin took over her face. “You know, I could shower before making you do what I'm about to, but I'm not going to. You get to appreciate my feet every day at their best, so you can clean them at their worst.”
Emilia withdrew her feet from my face and rested them atop the footstool once again. “Lick em,” she said with a smirk. “Lick all over them. Lick them clean. I want to see you slobbering all over my sweaty soles and stinky toes. Get to it.” She cocked her head slightly and watched with curiosity to see if I'd actually do it.
I looked between her face and her sweaty feet multiple times before I made my decision. The rings of Emilia's laughter pinged my ears as my tongue made contact with the sole of her foot for the first time. I initially flinched at the acrid taste, but then with the second lick I knew I was hooked. I lost all control and mindlessly lapped at her soles, all the while she watched me with eyes wide and mouth aghast. She appeared to be in true disbelief that I would debase myself this way before her. My tongue greedily made its way between every toe, licking out the funk in between that she'd worked so hard at the gym to build up and swallowing it with satisfaction. I was like a beast possessed.
Licking Emilia's feet opened up a whole other side of my personality and like a catalyst it unlocked a beast within her too.
“Tell me you're my pedi girl,” she demanded.
I ceased my licking in confusion, but with a second prompt from her and a kick to my cheek, I did as she wanted. “I'm your pedi girl,” I said. The words made me blush.
“Tell me you're my foot licker,” she whispered.
“I'm your foot licker,” I replied, almost robotic in my response, before returning my tongue to her foot.
She cracked up in laughter. “Say you're Emilia's foot licker.”
“I'm Emilia's foot licker.” I reddened at that one. Hearing it out loud really hit home. I busied myself with taking another lap at her sole to occupy my mind away from her taunts. The taste of her feet calmed and settled me somewhat.
Emilia was far from settled. She was buzzing above me. I'd never seen her so excited over anything. She seemed to enjoy the extra humiliation of making me state out loud what I was doing and why. She grabbed my hair firmly in one hand and pulled me up on my knees at her side. She crossed one foot across the opposite knee and forced my face against her sole. With her other hand she held out her camera phone. She positioned our heads close together, and snapped photo after photo of the pair of us. Her face contorted and twisted amongst laughter and disgust, whilst mine was captivated in the throes of passion, my tongue dragging along her sweaty foot sole. “That's it. Lick it like you love it,” she said while posing us for another photo.
“Kiss it.” Click. “Suck them.” Click. “Get your tongue in between.” Click.
She held her ankle and twisted her toes into my mouth. And another photo was taken. She was almost an expert at it, and ever so flexible. She somehow squeezed both our faces and her foot into every photo. Not a detail was left out. She had evidence of everything. Me licking her sole, sucking her toes, and digging out the crud between them with my tongue. She even had one with her sock stuffed in my mouth while my eyes rolled back into my head, with her at my side giving a thumbs up. Throughout it all I didn't try to stop or fight it. I didn't have it in me. It was all so overbearing and her determination was relentless. I wasn't given a single opportunity to oppose her will. Emilia had completely tamed me with her feet and all thoughts of my dignity, both personal and professional had dissipated.
“Say what you are again,” she said and I repeated that I was her foot licker, this time for what I assumed was a video. “Say you're Judge Foot Licker,” she ordered, camera held out and I did.
Eventually it was all too much and I just sat there with my head resting against the sofa's cushion. Emilia still put her toes in my mouth for a few more photos, but my unresponsiveness seemed to stem her fun. She sensed my exhaustion and toned down her antics. She resumed her spot on the sofa and hugged her knees, pulling the elasticated hem of her sweater midway down her shins. Her bare feet rested on the footrest with her toes poking out off the edge. “Come,” she beckoned me. “Kiss my toes.”
I conjured up some strength and crawled forward to place a peck on each of Emilia's toes, breathing in the stinky smell of her workout as I went along. Despite my tongue-cleaning, her scent was still both stifling and intoxicating. I struggled to escape its pull and went through each toe again for a second kiss. As my lips left her big toe, she pushed forward and I felt her toe enter my mouth and rest on my tongue.
“Why are you letting me do this to you?” She mused, while slipping the big toe of her other foot in my mouth alongside the first. She parted her feet slightly and stretched my mouth open with her toes. It hurt, but I didn't stop her. “I mean, look at you. I can do this to you whenever I want, can't I? You don't even try and stop me.”
I didn't answer her, not that I could with my mouth full and lips stretched. I merely closed my eyes in shame.
“Open your eyes,” Emilia said. She held her phone up in front of my shamed face. “And hold still.”
I did as ordered and let Emilia snap another humiliating photo for her collection. If any of these pictures ever got out: I'd be ruined. My career would be a shambles and my marriage a wreck, but still, I couldn't stop her. Something inside me liked the unfairness of it all, letting Emilia do what she wanted just because she could; because of those feet.
She giggled at how ridiculous I must have looked. “Imagine what everyone at work would say if they knew you were my personal toe sucker.”
I blushed once again and felt my face burning up with shame.
“Go on, suck them.” She said. “Show me what you are.”
I sucked those toes like my life depended on it. I did it for two reasons. Firstly, because I wanted to; I loved the taste of Emilia's toes, especially that sweaty crevice between them. Secondly, I did it because Emilia wanted me to. She seemed to relish humiliating me at her feet and I liked seeing her giggle and laugh while tormenting me. Her sadistic enjoyment made worshipping her all the more intense. The more she put me in my place, the more obedient I became. It was a vicious circle. I only feared what depths she'd take it to.
Her demeanour was almost scientific and watchful as she rolled her toes around, slipping a new one in my moist mouth and urging me to suck once more. Her expression would shift between disbelief and bemusement, seemingly amazed that I would let her treat me in this way. Paying for her pedicures was one thing, but this was a whole other level of depravity; one that I feared there was no way back from.
“What would your husband think if he saw this?” She said while I bobbed upon her big toe with vigour.
At those words I felt a renewed fight to resist; a sort of realisation of the depravity I was allowing to happen. I tried to pull away but Emilia was having none of it. She leant forward, grabbed a handful of my hair and held me securely in place, her toes safely nestled in my mouth. If anything, she only provoked me so she could enjoy suppressing my reluctance. I tried to speak, but she pushed her toes in just a little bit further to silence me. “Shh,” she said. “Just suck them like a good girl, you know you want to.” Her words were strategically chosen; encouraging and reassuring.
I melted and sucked her toes like a content baby.
She stroked my cheek in approval and parted her knees, leaning in so our faces were close. She knew she'd tamed me once again. “Look me in the eyes while you suck my toes,” she urged me, and I did, seeing nothing but satisfaction looking straight back at me. It was tough not to look away in shame, but I held her gaze; Emilia wanted to enjoy this moment to the full, and I was willing to let her.
As I slowly moved my lips back and forth on her toe, maintaining eye contact as ordered, I saw deeper beyond her satisfaction. Those brown eyes looked at me with superiority, and I looked back into them with acceptance. We saw in each other a new understanding between us; that she was above me. I may be her superior in age, experience and wealth, but it was all irrelevant, because here I was sucking her toes. I suckled gently to let her know I understood; she merely smirked in response.
The next day at work I felt a sense of dread as I waited for the court to clear. I’d lay awake in bed next to my husband all night, my face and mouth no doubt reeking of Emilia's foot sweat.
All day Emilia had been flexing her feet in front of me, but she hadn't once mentioned what occurred the night before. Whereas I was nervous and on edge, Emilia seemed at ease. It was as if she did not have a care in the world. Maybe she didn't; she wasn't a foot licker after all. What did she have to be ashamed of?
I felt embarrassment every time I thought about it. Her subjugation of me had been intense and brutal. She'd steam-rolled through any resistance before I'd had the chance to fully understand what had happened and the consequences that may result. A lot of it was blurred in my memory. I'd been so weak and let her humiliate me so much, but it had felt right deep down inside. I was caught in two minds. What was clear was that I'd let this thing go way beyond the levels of acceptability between two people working together, especially with my highly respected position. And the photos, oh the photos. Why had I let her take such pictures of me like that? Of the two of us. She had documented every depth I'd sunk to.
“Emilia. I need to speak with you,” I said to her when we were finally alone.
“What is it, Judgey?” She smiled mischievously.
I cringed at her calling me that in public. “Can we be serious for a moment please?”
Her face softened. “Sure, what's up?”
I felt a little more at ease by her reaction. “I'm a bit worried about what you're going to do with those photos. They could be a big problem for me if they got out.”
“Relax.” Emilia kicked off her shoes and propped her feet up on the desk, crossed at the ankles. Her soles immediately drew me in, their texture so smooth and soft, blemish free with minimal sprinklings of wrinkles. She wiggled her toes seductively. “I'm not going to blackmail you or anything if that's what you're worried about. Look at you, do I really need to?” She waved one of her feet around and giggled as I followed it with my eyes. “I can get you to do whatever I want, whenever I want with these babies anyway. We both know that now.”
“Will you show anyone?”
She shrugged. “Probably not, but who knows? Maybe a friend or something, but it won't be anyone that will come back on you. You have my word on that. I'm not a bitch. I just took them for my own enjoyment and the whole thing was a real hoot. As long as you fulfil your pedicure duties and be a good little foot girl for me when I need you; we're good, Judgey.”
I blushed at her words, though I felt optimistic that our secret was safe for now.
Emilia took her phone from her handbag and opened the gallery, flicking through the countless humiliating photos she already had of me. I could have snatched it from her and smashed it to pieces, but in all likeliness, she'd backed them up somewhere. She stopped on one photo and held it up to me. “Quite a collection I'm building up of you, huh? This one's my favourite,” she said.
The photo in question was one of me on my knees, eyes closed and licking her foot in sheer bliss. Her face was visible alongside me, contorted in laughter while she held me by my hair. Just one look at that and there was no doubt who was the one really in charge around here. I looked away in shame. What would the other judges think if they ever saw that?
“Get your mouth on my feet right now,” Emilia suddenly said out of nowhere.
“What? Here?” I asked in shock. I'd come to her to have a frank discussion, and here she was once again, ready to belittle me. Why did I let her get away with it? I looked around the courtroom. It was empty, but still, anyone could walk in and catch us. “Please, not here Emilia.”
“Do it.”
Refusing didn't seem an option at this stage. Even if she assured me that she wouldn't share the photos, the doubt still existed in my mind. I bent over the desk and wrapped my lips around a couple of her toes. They were awkwardly crammed into my mouth, but I wasn't going for elegance. I just hoped to appease her. The sooner she was satisfied, the sooner my public torment would end.
“Look at me,” she said, and once I did, I heard that familiar click of her camera. “Good girl, that was perfect.”
She kicked me away just as the janitor pushed his trolley into the courtroom and I pretended I'd dropped something on the floor. I figured that was the end of my humiliation with his interruption, but Emilia's foot appeared on the floor inches from my face. I looked up into those amused brown eyes and saw her mouth the word kiss. I did it quickly, placing a light peck upon the top of her foot, just above her purple toenails before the janitor reached us. Seemingly satisfied, Emilia placed the ball of her foot on my forehead and pushed me away.
“Found it,” I lied. I pretended to put something in my pocket and made my way for the exit.
“See you soon, Judgey,” Emilia said after me in a raised voice.
I cringed as I passed the janitor, his confused face making me wonder if he'd witnessed every detail.
Days passed without seeing Emilia and her feet. By luck, she wasn't down to sit in a single one of my hearings; the other judges being the lucky ones to enjoy her presence.
By Friday night I was feeling a bit depressed and desperate. On the one hand, I loved Emilia's feet and it was tough to be away from them. Part of me also revelled in the way she treated me with them, but I was a proud woman. It hurt my pride to be such a success in my career, but a wimp when it came to her. I moped around the house when I wasn't at work and in Emilia's presence; a week away from her was a long time. My husband noticed, and we'd argued over my change in attitude. That was how I found myself upset and parked outside Emilia's apartment. I'd hesitated for half an hour about knocking on her door. Eventually I found the courage.
Emilia answered the door wearing nothing but an oversized night-shirt, panties and a pair of slouch socks. She yawned as she leant against the door-frame. “Hey Judgey,” she said. “What's up?”
“Could I come in please?”
Emilia rolled her eyes and wandered off into her apartment. I closed the door and followed. She was already sitting on the sofa when I reached her. I dropped to my knees before her. It felt right and appropriate.
“I miss you, Emilia,” I whined. “I haven't seen your feet in over a week.”
Emilia was surprisingly understanding and candid. She stroked my cheek with her thumb and wiped a tear away. “You're so needy,” she said encouragingly.
“I know it’s pathetic. I feel like a right loser sometimes, but that's what you
and your feet do to me.”
“Aww, but you're MY loser.”
I was actually a bit taken aback. I thought she'd be reassuring, but instead she only confirmed my fear, but in her own way. “You really think I'm a loser?” I said, aghast. I was on the verge of a flurry of tears again.
“Don't beat yourself up about it. You're useful to me, right? How would my feet be all nice and pretty without you to take care of them? You don't just pay for my pedicures anymore. You're my foot licker now too. You should take pride in that. It's not just anyone that gets to care for these feet.”
I sniffled at her words. How tragic I was; a grown woman sobbing on her knees at a young girl's feet. “But, you could ruin me at any moment with all of those photos you have and the things I do for you. I just feel so overwhelmed. It's hard for me to deal with everything I've done. It's so wrong, but I know I can't say no to you. I can't resist your feet at all. Could you delete the photos at least so I feel a bit better? Please, Emilia?”
Emilia rolled her eyes. “Oh, that again. I'm not deleting those photos, so stop going on about them. I like looking at them too much when I'm bored. Just accept they're mine. Even if I did delete them you'd just let me take some more, so what's the point? But I've already told you silly, I'm not going to ruin you or anything. Think about it. Why would I do that? Who's going to look after my feet if I don't have you? I'm intending to have you pay for my pedicures for a very long time. And I like that it's you, a judge at work that does it. You all think you're so high and mighty you see, and you need this to remind you you're not. You know I never even went to college? All of your expensive years of education and you're just my foot licker. The sooner you accept it and work out these little tantrums the better. You can't just show up at my apartment like this desperate and needy. I'm going to have to train you to come only when you're summoned.”
Despite the bluntness of her words, I found it hard to disagree with anything she was saying.
Emilia's expression was sincere, and she patted the cushion at her side. “Tell you what, come over here,” she said. “I know what you need.”
I tentatively sat next to her and watched as she pulled one of her slouch socks from her feet. With one hand placed on the back of my head, she held the sock against my nose. Our eyes met and she nodded her head ever so slightly while pursing her lips. “That's it, breathe in that stink.”
My head dropped to rest on her shoulder as she began to delicately stroke my hair. With every breath I felt a little more content and relaxed, my worries seemingly
disappearing. “That's a good girl,” she cooed. “That's my Judgey. Breathe in the smell of my feet and think about where you belong. You know this feels right, you love that smell, don't you? Don't fight it, take a deep breath.” She rubbed the sock against my
nose and I breathed loudly at her command.
She gently patted the back of my head and urged me to sniff again and again. Whilst I did, she continued shaping my thinking. “What if everything in your life was just leading you to your true purpose: serving my feet. Without your career, you'd never have met me. So be proud of what you've achieved. That's the real reason you go to work every day now. That's your true responsibility; keeping my feet looking pretty. Don't forget that.”
She was good, she knew exactly what to say. With the smell of her stinky stocks clouding my mind, her words were reassuring and just what I needed to hear.
“Tell you what,” she said. “I know just what you need right now. You want to lick my feet while I watch my TV show? It starts in a few minutes.”
“Yes please, Emilia,” I mumbled without meeting her eye.
“Then tomorrow, how about you come to the salon with me and watch me get my pedicure? Then maybe afterwards we can pick out a new pair of shoes for me. Sound good?”
“Yes, Emilia.” I sniffled. I knew Emilia's shoe purchaser had just been added to my list of responsibilities.
“Okay, now come take off my other sock,” she said, while propping her feet on the footrest. “I'll let you do whatever you want to my feet, okay? You can slobber over them all you want.” She smiled.
I began to peel off her other sock, eager to get my first taste of those feet in over a week.
“But first tell me what you are,” she demanded.
“I looked up at her and saw that she was filming me with her phone. My shoulders sagged and I accepted my fate. “I'm your foot licker, Emilia,” I said while
blushing, right into the camera.
“Aww, don't be ashamed,” she teased while wiggling her toes. “I'm not judging you, Judgey.”
Humiliated, embarrassed and with a face redder than her nail polish, to the sound of Emilia's taunting laughter; I licked her feet like the hopeless foot licker I was.
