The courier agreed to a foot fetish

Hello everyone. It's me again, and again, the story isn't about me. Or rather, it's about me, but not in the way you might think. This time, the story is told from the perspective of a man—an acquaintance of mine with whom I once got to talking about this topic. He allowed me to record it but asked not to use his real name. Let's call him Igor. He's 34, lives alone in a rented one-room apartment on the outskirts, and works remotely in IT. I'm quoting his words almost verbatim, only editing them a bit for readability. So. It happened last fall. I was working on a project, sleeping five hours a night, and eating whenever I had to. That night, I finished a call around twelve thirty, realized I hadn't eaten anything decent all day, and went to the app to order something. I opened it, chose burgers, fries, and a cola. I looked at the delivery time—thirty-five minutes. Okay. I ordered, went to take a shower, and then sat down to finish watching the series. The doorbell rang around one-twenty. I opened it. A girl stood there—a courier. Young, about twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. She was wearing a yellow delivery jacket and a cooler bag over her shoulder. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a mask, but her eyes—I noticed—were green. She handed me a package. — Your order. Bon appétit. I took the bag. And as she turned to leave, I looked down. She was wearing short shorts—not athletic shorts, but cut-off denim ones. And her legs. Tanned, smooth, not skinny and not plump—normal woman's legs. And on her feet, flip-flops. And on her toes, a red pedicure. Bright, fresh, as if straight from the salon. I felt like I'd been electrocuted. “Girl,” I said. She turned around. - Yes? "Listen, I have a strange question for you. But I'm willing to pay." She became wary. I saw it. She stood there, holding her bag, ready to leave. - What question? - You have very beautiful legs. She was silent. She looked at me. I realized I had spoken too bluntly and added: — I'm not a maniac. I just have... a quirk. I like women's legs. Especially feet. I'd like to take some photos. Of your legs. For money. A thousand rubles for ten minutes. If you don't mind. She continued to stand. Then she looked down at her feet, as if she were seeing them for the first time. “A photo?” she asked again. — Just the legs. No need for your face. I won't touch you. I'll just take pictures. You can stand, sit, whatever you like. She thought about it. I saw her calculating. A thousand for ten minutes—that's not bad. She probably makes about the same in an evening. - What if I refuse? - Then you leave, and I'll close the door. No problem. She was silent for a moment. Then she said: - Okay. But only the legs. “Just the legs,” I confirmed. She walked into the apartment and took off her shoes at the threshold. I suggested she go into the kitchen—the light was brighter there, and it was a normal place, not the bedroom, so she wouldn't have to worry about it. She sat down on a stool, and I sat on another one across from her. I put the bag of food on the table and forgot about it. “What is your name?” I asked. - Kate. - Igor. Nice to meet you. I took out my phone and opened the camera. She was sitting with her hands on her knees, looking off into the distance. She had her legs together, her feet pressed to the floor. I took a couple of shots from a distance—a wide shot, then a closer one. She didn't move. I realized I had to get her to talk somehow, otherwise nothing would work. — How long have you been working in delivery? — Six months. I've been working part-time since graduating. — And what are you studying to be? — As a designer. Graphic. — Oh, that's interesting. Did you do your pedicure yourself or at a salon? She smiled for the first time - the corners of her lips were hidden under the mask, but her eyes twitched. — At the salon. Yesterday. A friend gave me a gift certificate. - Beautiful color. It suits you. - Thank you. I took a few more pictures. I asked her to cross her legs, and she did. Then I asked her to switch them. She did. I photographed her toes, the pads, the heel. All this time I could feel myself getting hard. My jeans were getting tight. I sat leaning forward so it wouldn't be seen. "Can I ask you to stand up?" I said. "I want to take a full-length picture. Your legs, not you." She stood up. I shot from below, then from the side. She was holding herself normally, already relaxed. I walked closer, crouched down, and pointed the camera at her feet. She looked down at me. "Are you really just taking pictures?" she asked. - Is it true. - Why do you need this? I straightened up. I put the phone on the table. I decided there was no point in lying. — I like it. Not just the photos. I love women's legs. Especially feet. I like to look at them, touch them, kiss them. It's a fetish. Everyone has their quirks, and I have one. She didn't flinch. She stood there, looking at me. I continued: — I can pay more if you allow me to do more than just take photos. - How many? — Five thousand. For licking your feet. Just your feet. You sit, I'll be on the floor. Nothing more. If you don't like it, we'll stop and you can leave. The money is still yours. She was silent. I could see her thinking. Five thousand was a lot. She was probably willing to do a lot for that. “Just the feet?” she asked again. — Just your feet. And you can look at your phone if you want. Or close your eyes. Whatever. She sat back down on the stool. She took off her slippers—I didn't even notice when she took them off, probably in the hallway. She put her feet on the floor. I knelt down in front of her. I looked at her feet—tanned, with red nails, smooth. Her toes were straight, not crooked. Her heels were soft, without cracks. I felt my cock twitch. “May I?” I asked. She nodded. I took her right foot in my hands. The skin was warm and smooth. I ran my thumb over her instep, then her toes. She didn't pull away. I brought her foot to my face and licked it—from heel to base of toe, slowly, with the entire surface of my tongue. She shuddered. “Does it tickle?” I asked. - A little. But normal. I licked again. Then I took her thumb in my mouth and started sucking. She looked at me. I could see that she wasn't disgusted, but rather curious. I moved to the other foot and did the same. Then I took both feet, placed them on my thighs, and began running my tongue between her toes, along the arch, and along the heel. She was breathing evenly, but I could feel her calves tensing. I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled out my cock. It was hard as a rock. I started jerking off, never leaving her legs. She looked down and saw. Her eyes widened, but she said nothing. “Can I...?” I began. "Do what you wanted," she said. "Just not for long." I nodded. I continued licking her feet—faster now, greedily, sticking my tongue between her toes, sucking on her heel. She wasn't looking at her phone anymore. She was looking at me. I jerked off quickly, feeling myself coming. A couple more minutes—and I came. On her feet, on her toes, on her red pedicure. Cum flowed down the instep, dripping onto the floor. I breathed heavily, holding her feet in my hands. “That’s it?” she asked. - All. I got up, got a towel from the bathroom, and dried her feet. She put on her slippers. I took five thousand out of my wallet and gave it to her. She took it and put it in her jacket pocket. “Thank you,” she said. - Thank you very much. She went to the door. I followed her. She put on her shoes, opened the door. She turned around. - That was very unusual. Have a good evening. - Yes, I know. Thank you. Goodbye. The door closed. I returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table. The burgers were cold. I ate one, but didn't taste it. The next day I ordered food again, late. But a different delivery person arrived. I never saw that girl again.