New Story: Exposure Therapy

Synopsis: George works in a female-dominated company. A minor comment about feet results in his job transforming to prove that he's not footphobic -- but whether providing foot rubs or admiring their extremely worn shoes, nothing ever seems to be enough. And it's straining his relationship with beautiful Clarissa, who hates having her feet touched!

Story:

When I was in my late 20's I picked up an office job I wasn't particularly thrilled about, and I would have left for greener pastures if not for my manager Clarissa. She was a little bit older than me but we had a similar sense of humor and I found her very attractive. She had jet-black hair, a slender build, pale skin and a sort of aristocratic face. Combine that with biting sarcasm and a quick wit and you've practically described my dream girl.

Other ladies in the office would gossip about us and I suspect that she would find excuses for us to work together on projects. But one thing struck me about her: that I had never seen her feet. A lot of women would wear open-toed heels to work, and even flip flops (they had a casual dress code). But not Clarissa. It puzzled me, but it's not like I could ask her, "Hey, how come you never show off the part of your body that I have a raging fetish for?"

My answer came one day at lunch. she and a few other women were talking about boy drama in the break room. Normally I'd have tuned it out but they said some key words that caused my ears to prick up even though I was sitting at a different table.

"I went out on a date last night with a guy I met on Bumble," said Jaquelyn, a young blonde marketing manager who worked on the side as an influencer, "And we went back to his place and he wouldn't shut up about how much he wanted to kiss my feet and have me step on him!"

"No fucking way!" Clarissa exclaimed. "I'm sorry, but if that were me, I'd walk out the door and never talk to him again. I literally can't stand having my feet touched."

Hearing this news caused my heart to sink. There goes any romantic future between the two of us. I love women's feet – truth be told, my imagination was putting me in the place of Jaquelyn's Bumble date and burying my face in her size 10's right out of the platform wedges she liked to wear so much. But this dark cloud had a silver lining!

"Really?" Asked Emily. She was a super tattooed alternative woman with a nose ring and spoke with a vocal fry. "You might want to talk about that with your therapist. Not wanting your feet to be touched can be a sign of an unresolved trauma."

"So you're saying that because I'd rather die than put my toes in some guy's mouth, it means I have a mental issue?" Clarissa replied sarcastically. She was wearing her usual pair of kimchi cross-strap flats, and had one foot on top of the other as though to hide them even more from an unwanted gaze.

"Intimacy is a spectrum," was Emily's woo-woo reply. "If you are deliberately blocking out one form of its manifestation, you will never be a whole person."

"I'm fine being a work-in-progress, then," Clarissa said with finality. "So what did you do?"

"I stepped on his dick and then we boned!" Jaquelyn said and the entire table burst out into girlish laughter. But then they realized I was sitting in the same room and this conversation might have crossed a work boundary, so they quickly changed the subject. As if I'd ever report them to HR! That night, I fantasized about Jaquelyn stepping on me – or better yet, Clarissa.

A few weeks passed and I never had an opportunity to dig into this issue the way I would have liked. Then one spring day, a miracle happened. Clarissa showed up to work in flip flops! It was probably the least productive day in my entire career because I kept finding the stupidest reasons to be around her instead of being at my own desk. Her toes were long and slender, with no polish on the nails: neatly descending from big toe to pinkie. I'd love to describe them more, but that's as good a look as I got.

The flip flops became a normal part of her wardrobe, thank goodness. But then, it escalated even further.

Clarissa and I were having lunch together: she was eating one of those pre-made salads and I had my usual sandwich and chips. Her feet were encased in the usual kimchi flats – how badly I wanted her to kick them off and give them to me for cleaning. It turns out, I got something even better

"Hey, George. This is kind of awkward, but I need your help with something personal," she said to me.

"Yeah? Shoot," I replied.

"So, my therapist has been telling me to do something called 'exposure therapy'... Basically, I need to show people my feet. That's why I've been wearing flip flops to the office."

"You think I notice your damn footwear?" I lied.

"You will from now on," She replied mysteriously. "But to get back to the point, My psychologist feels that I need to expose my feet to men specifically. You count as a man, right?"

"What, like to torture people? I'd rather take a demotion!" I said with a smile.

"Shut up!" She said with a little laugh. We were always busting each other's balls like that. "Look, you don't have to say 'yes' but she really thinks it would help me. Would it be alright if I rested my feet on the table?"

My heart skipped a beat. I prayed that she wouldn't notice how flushed my cheeks were getting, the tremors in my hand, and the fact that my cock was getting harder than it did for my girlfriend at the time.

"I'd do anything to help you, Clarissa. Go ahead and prop those piggies up!"

"Okay... Promise you'll be nice."

I'll never forget the blush that appeared on her aristocratic face as she kicked off her flip-flops, scooted her chair back and propped her feet up on the little circular table that contained both of our meals. And for the first time, I admired the bottoms of her feet. I wish I could say that they were flawless appendages sculpted by a gifted artist. But in actuality, they were quite average: perhaps a size 7, a little wide at the balls, somewhat pronounced arches and very, very smooth.

"So... What do you think?" She asked nervously.

'That I could love these feet for the rest of my life,' I thought to myself. I had dated a lot of women. Some with higher arches, some with larger feet, some with prettier toes. But hers were the best all-around. Like they were the average human woman's foot, but good in so many ways that the altogether package was stellar. I didn't say any of this, of course. Our relationship wouldn't bear it.

"Yeah I mean they're good," I began, "In that sort of Frankenstein, gothic horror way. You could probably work for the police to torture people with them! I'd confess to a murder I didn't commit to get those things out of my face!"

"How about I stab you in the face?" She grinned, pointing her plastic fork at me in a clenched fist. But she didn't take her feet down.

"I'm kidding. They're perfectly average."

"'Average'!?" She cried out. "That's even worse than the Frankenstein comment! My therapist is going to have a field day with this one. I've already told her all about you and your snide little comments."

I felt a swell of pride to think that she was talking about me with her psychologist. And I already liked this unknown woman for putting so much foot fetish action in my life. But to my dismay, Clarissa changed the subject to something work-related: a project was overbudget and we had to blah blah blah. The rest of the lunch break passed normally, except for the fact that I could admire my girlboss's soles while enjoying a meal; no sandwich has ever tasted so good.

I was so hyper-focused on Clarissa that I hadn't noticed that Karen from HR was sitting at a table nearby. Karen was in her early 40's with a short-cropped haircut befitting her name. She was always butting in to people's conversations and finding excuses to ream them but no one dared stand up to her. A few days later, she pulled me into her office for a one-on-one.

"George, please, take a seat," she said, pointing at the chair across from her mahogany desk.

"Sure. It's good to see you. What is this about?"

"Well, I'm not sure if you remember, but at lunch a few days ago you were having a conversation with Clarissa about her feet." Hearing the words 'her feet' come out of Karen's mouth gave me an instant chubby. "Do you recall that conversation?"

"Yes," I murmured, hoping she wouldn't notice the tent in my pants.

"Well, I'm sorry to say this but that comment was actually a microaggression. So I'm going to need to schedule you for a sensitivity training."

"How is it a microaggression?" I demanded. "Her feet aren't micro. They're macro!"

Despite herself, Karen laughed. That day, she was wearing a black dress that showed off her womanly figure: heavy, but she carried it in the right places. I think she had a couple kids but it's not like she let herself go.

"See, comments like that could land this company in legal trouble... It could be considered footophobic. Women have the right to work in a harassment-free environment. And even if Clarissa herself wasn't offended, someone else could hear it and you could have hurt their feelings. Do you follow me?"

I've never paid more attention to any conversation in my life.

"Yes, Karen."

"Good," she said with that 'let me speak to your manager' smile. "Take me for example. Did you know I suffer from hyper-hydrosis?"

"No, what's that?"

"Basically, I sweat much more than the average person. Especially from the soles of my feet. If the office gets above 72 degrees, my feet are soaking wet all day. It's why I keep these paper towels on my desk, alongside the tissue."

I love this job.

"Okay, I didn't realize my words were being taken that way," I managed. There was so much blood in my dick imagining Karen's soles all lubed up with foot sweat it was hard to form a sentence.

"Intent doesn't matter when it comes to harassment," was her boilerplate response. "Here, I brought these to work today to give you a visual example of what I'm talking about."

She opened up a drawer in her desk and pulled out a ziplock bag containing a pair of brown leather Tieks. The sort of folding ballet flats that a woman keeps in her purse to switch out when her heels became too painful. She handed the bag over to me and thankfully I didn't have to stand up because I would have had a tent in my trousers.

"Open the bag, George."

The moment I broke the seal, the overwhelming aroma of feet filled the room. It was like an aphrodisiac for me. Without being asked, I took one of the shoes out and gasped at how badly worn it was. There was the clear outline of where Karen's feet graced these flats that was practically black compared to the rest of the brown insoles. A patina of foot-sweat, mashed into the leather by her formidable body over the course of years.

"Do you understand how your words might have caused harm?" Karen asked me.

"Y-yes," I replied, cursing the tremors in my hand that came from my extreme arousal.

"Good! So here's our plan, going forward: I'm going to need you to spend some of your day familiarizing yourself with women's feet. We'll put eye-tracking software on your computer and you'll spend a few hours browsing through curated photos and videos. Sometimes, I or Clarissa will be there to supervise. If you don't show improvement, we will have to switch to more thorough methods."

"Is this a demotion?"

"Heavens no!" Karen answered. "We are hiring a couple of new girls who can take over your former responsibilities. It's only a couple of hours, anyway. You should be able to manage your tasks under these new circumstances. Now, if you fail, then we will be talking about a demotion. Ever since Risa left, we've needed a new office assistant. But I think we can avoid that, if you follow my program."

I gulped. Risa left because 'office assistant' really meant 'office bitch.' The ladies treated her horribly: her 'duties' were just refilling coffees, fetching dry-cleaning, and mind-numbing typing and note-taking that could probably be outsourced to an AI.

"I understand, Karen. I'll follow your program. Thank you for the opportunity."

"That's what I like to hear. Go ahead and take those shoes with you. You will keep them at your desk, outside the bag. It will help cultivate a foot-positive space for you to thrive in. And George?"

"Yes, Karen?"

"I have shoes that are considerably more used than that pair. Ones that I wouldn't even bring to the office, for how beat-up they are. If you don't take to this treatment, it might be necessary for me to give you one of those pairs to take home. I'd prefer to avoid that, so why don't you be a good boy for me, okay?"

My mind short-circuited when she called me a 'good boy.' I couldn't tell up from down. I left her office in such a state that I could hardly do any work for the rest of the day. Her smelly flats dominated my desk and my thoughts. I wanted to put my face into the insoles and sniff them while jerking off while she supervised me down to the smallest stroke.

My job transformed from that day. From about ten to noon, I would sit at my cubicle with my hands on the armrest of my chair. A webcam was pointed at me, and my Internet browser would work of its own accord. It drew videos and images from all over the Internet: pretty girls doing tik tok dances, lounging around in bikinis, then close-ups of female soles. It'd show thirty minute videos of a posh lady getting a pedicure from a submissive nail lady. Then cut to videos where I was a tiny bug and a giantess lowered her soles onto my face and if I looked away or didn't focus on the feet, it would count against me. All the while, Karen's battered ballet flats flooded the zone with her foot funk creating an inseparable link between the smell of her feet and my arousal.

As much as I enjoyed it, there were downsides. The first was that I had excruciating blue balls from spending two hours looking at porn every day. The worst (and best) days were when Karen was sitting behind me with her hands on my shoulders so I would associate pleasant touch with feet. She was vocal, too. She'd make comments like "Oh, she has wonderful feet, doesn't she?" Or she'd tousle my hair and say, "Good boy! Look at the screen. Adore her feet. You're doing such a good job for me."

The next downside was that my office reputation was in tatters. Everyone knew that I was on probation. The women would frequently walk past my cubicle during my sessions and laugh at the absurdity of it all. They'd take their coffee breaks there, sitting and watching the 'foot perv' do his sensitivity training.

"Hey, do you need another pair of shoes?" The tattooed woman Emily called out one time, "I've got a pair of heels I used to wear when I was stripping. They'd look great on your desk!"

"This is giving me some ideas I can try with my boyfriend!" Said Jaquelyn, the blonde who started all of this with her dating drama.

But despite everything that was going well, I was becoming increasingly distant from Clarissa. She'd switched her lunch breaks so we didn't see each other anymore, and slowly rotated me off the projects we had done together. She was still wearing flip-flops, but I barely saw it because she was avoiding me. It was intolerable, so I sought her out and confronted her.

"Hey, Clarissa, do you have a sec?" I asked as we were passing in the hall.

"What, George?" Was her terse response.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry for the comment I made about your feet. I didn't realize I had offended you."

"You're damn right you offended me!" She said, so loud that a couple of ladies who were working nearby took notice and looked towards us. "I went home and cried that night. It was a total backslide."

She was scowling as she said this to me, and I saw how much pain I had caused her. We were always teasing each other – I didn't realize that I took it too far.

"I'm sorry," I repeated.

"Okay. No big deal," she said. "I guess Karen told you that you have to like my feet, even though they disgust you."

With nothing to say in my defense, I just stepped towards her and pulled her into a hug. She froze at first, but then wrapped her arms around me tightly. I loved the feeling of her body against mine. Pushing the envelope even further, I reached behind her back and moved her hair behind her ear and said once again, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." After a few seconds, we broke off the hug and she was like a new person. Like the old Clarissa – she smiled at me a little bashfully. "So can we be friends again?" I asked. "Can we do lunch together tomorrow? Or do you still hate me?"

"Yes to all three questions. But I reserve the right to stab you in the face if you say something dumb. And I'll have a metal fork this time."

"You've got yourself a deal!"

She laughed, and the sound was like music to me. As she walked away, I looked down at her feet and enjoyed her milky-white soles and the sound of them getting spanked by her leather footwear (Karen encouraged me to admire womens' feet at work, so this was acceptable now.)

The next day, the videos which had always escalating in intensity were dialed up to 11. It would show attractive lesbians making out then worshiping each others' feet. A few times, there was even a flash of nudity. Emily made good on her offer and brought in her glittery four inch heels that were absolutely coated in her foot sweat, and a couple of times I even recognized very similar ones in the videos of a woman doing a pole dance. My desk was becoming a freaking donation box for shoes that had outlived their purpose; or had found a new one.

I arrived to lunch on time with a stabbing pain in my loins. Clarissa was there already, eating her usual salad with the metal fork she had threatened me with. She looked ravishing and had clearly spent a long time doing her hair and makeup as if this was a date. When she smiled at me, the whole world felt right and I took a seat to enjoy my sandwich with her feet propped up on the table.

"Oh, hey you two!" Karen announced. "Sorry, I know you'd like to be alone but for legal reasons I have to supervise this contact. I'm a licensed intimacy coordinator, so you can trust me."

We both agreed, and she pulled up a chair nearby. Her heavy body caused the slightest bit of strain on the legs of the plastic furniture.

"Clarissa, I think it's great that you are comfortable showing your feet now. Don't you think that's great, George?"

"Yes, Karen. I love it," I replied, hoping to walk the line between sarcasm and sincerity. Clarissa rolled her eyes at this, but otherwise seemed relaxed and even happy.

"But I think we can take it one step further, if you'll excuse the pun," Karen added. "Clarissa, having George look at your feet is good. But I think we're ready to move on to touch."

"I've never allowed a guy to touch my feet," was Clarissa's flat reply.

"I know. And that's why this is so important," said the blonde HR manager. "It's to desensitize the both of you in a safe space. You don't have to say yes, but I see this as a critical part of rebuilding your relationship. So with that in mind: Clarissa, would you be comfortable placing your bare feet on George's lap? It'd be so much more comfortable than the hard table. And George, would you be alright resting your hands on her ankles?"

My erection came roaring back, and that's really saying something after two hours of watching fantastic porn. This was a dream come true – if a twisted, perverted one.

"I mean, I'd be okay with it," Clarissa said bashfully, "Would you?"

"Anything for you, Clarissa," I said with my most winning smile.

Time moved slower as I scooched my chair away from the table a little bit, and closer to this aristocratic woman. Then with ladylike grace, she lifted her feet from the lunch table and rested them on my lap, just above the knee.

"Now George, ask Clarissa's permission to touch her feet. Then, if she says yes, you may rest your hands on her ankles. Do not touch her soles – they are too sensitive."

"Clarissa, may I touch your feet?"

"Yes, George. I'd love nothing more than for you to touch my Frankenstein feet."

There's absolutely no way she didn't notice the shaking in my hands to be touching something I adored so much. As I said, I've been with a lot of women but this felt more intimate than anything I had done before. Even having sex didn't provoke these sorts of feelings within me. I don't know why.

Her ankles were surprisingly cold to the touch, and they warmed quickly beneath my hands which thankfully weren't sweating.

"That feels nice," Clarissa said.

"It does," I replied. "Thank you for letting me do this."

"Anytime," was her flirty reply.

A charged moment passed between us. It was like I was looking at her for the first time. I gazed into her emerald eyes and she lowered her head a little bit, looking up at me. A blush appeared on her cheeks. The metal fork lay forgotten in her box of chop salad.

"You're both doing so well. George, you're being such a good boy," said Karen. It sent even more electricity into my nerves. "I think it would be appropriate for you to find something nice to say about Clarissa's feet."

I barely had to think – not that I could, with how hard I was.

"Clarissa, I'm happy that you trust me enough to do this. Your feet are spectacular, and that's coming from someone who looks at women's feet for two hours a day."

Clarissa raised her hand to her mouth and laughed so hard she snorted. Then she put both of her hands over her mouth and gave me a wide-eyed expression of pure embarrassment that just made me adore her.

"What the hell?" Came a familiar voice. It was the blonde influencer Jaquelyn, who had arrived into the break room unnoticed by any of us. "I want a guy to say something like that about my feet!"

"You'll get your turn," was Karen's reply. "Now it's about the two of them. Please don't interrupt."

Jaquelyn fell silent, but she took out her phone and pointed it at us. She was always taking photos and documenting her life; I was terrified that she would post this on her social media page but the thought filled me with as much excitement as dread. Meanwhile, Karen reached into her big leather purse and pulled out a rectangular box filled with chocolates.

"We just need to do one more little thing," she explained, fishing out a dome-shaped candy. "People usually enjoy chocolate, and this is some of the best there is. I want each of you to eat one of these while in this position. It will create a strong, positive association to lock in what we've done so far. George, would you like a chocolate?"

"Yes please, Karen."

"Good boy. No, no! Leave your hands where they are," she told me when I (reluctantly) took my hands from Clarissa's ankle to receive the gift. "I'll go ahead and pop it in your mouth. It's important we do it this way. Now say 'ah'!"

I could be in heaven having a domineering HR Karen instruct me to adore a woman's feet and feeding me chocolate while a pretty influencer watched. Her plump hand with its red-polished nails placed the confection into my mouth and I enjoyed it deep within my soul. She wasn't kidding: this was the good stuff. Clarissa looked on with an indulgent smile; she was loving every minute of this.

"Now Clarissa, would you like a chocolate?"

"Yes please."

But this created a hitch in the whole plan. Because Clarissa had no sooner taken it in her mouth and chewed it up a little bit before a grimace appeared on her pretty face. It was like she had food that was too spicy; she reached for the plastic lid of her chop salad and spit the thing out in a rather unladylike fashion. Trails of her saliva reached from the candy to her lips, and she frantically wiped her tongue with a napkin.

"Sorry!" Clarissa explained, "That one had marzipan in it. I hate marzipan."

"They must have screwed up the order," Karen apologized. "Here, take this one instead. It's scotchmallow."

"Thank you."

Clarissa accepted the next piece of candy into her pretty mouth, and it was so good that she actually moaned.

"Now George, you're doing very well. I'm proud at how far you've come... But the company spent a lot of money on these treats and I hate to see them go to waste. Would you be alright finishing the one Clarissa couldn't?"

I looked down at the half-chewed piece of candy that raven-haired Clarissa had just spat out. It still had most of its shape, but it was totally misshapen and coated in her saliva. She seemed as surprised as I was at this suggestion, and balked.

"No, he doesn't have to..."

"Of course not," Karen replied, taking control of the situation with a sharp tone of voice. "But if he wants to, it will look very good on my report."

All three sets of eyes were on me. The chocolate was glistening with the saliva of the woman I adore. It wasn't even a question.

"Yes, I'd like that."

"Aaaah!" Jaquelyn cried out. "I'm sorry, this is too cute!"

Karen took the plastic lid from the table and picked up the chocolate. Clarissa's drool mixed with the marzipan and strands of it actually stuck to the plate as the HR lady picked it up and popped it in my mouth. Clarissa was blushing furiously – she actually covered her face with her hand and her body was wracked with giggles. I had never even kissed Clarissa, and now my mouth was full of her saliva. It was even better than the last sugary treat, and I don't really like marzipan either.

"I'm sorry, this is too much," Clarissa said all of a sudden. She took her feet off my lap and put back on her flip-flops before storming out of the room.

I was on my feet in a moment, hurrying to catch her before she got too far.

"Clarissa! Wait!"

She turned on her heel and looked me with an inscrutable expression.

"George, I have a boyfriend."

"So?"

"So he'd be pretty pissed to see me swapping spit with a guy I worked with!"

That hurt. So I'm just a guy she worked with? Who gives a shit about her boyfriend? He could get his ass back on Tinder and stay away from my woman.

"It's a request from HR," I said pathetically. This just got her angrier. She narrowed her eyes at me like that was the stupidest thing I could have said.

"That's all it was to you?!" She hissed at me. "A request from HR?! You're an idiot."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Just go back to your desk. I need some space."

And with that, she left and I was too stunned to even look down at the feet of the woman I adored so much.

"Her response was perfectly normal," Karen explained to me later during our one-on-one in her office. "You shouldn't take it personally. Besides, we have more important things to talk about."

I couldn't imagine something more important than my relationship with Clarissa, but Karen wasn't the sort of woman you contradicted.

"Okay," I relented. "What did you want to discuss?"

"First, I want to say that I'm amazed with your progress. You've been a rockstar. So... Thank you for being so flexible."

"You're welcome."

"The thing is," Karen began, "Some of the other women in the office feel like Clarissa has been singled out for special treatment. Obviously, we can't allow this. So I wanted to talk to you to see if you'd be open to a change in your responsibilities."

Alarm bells were ringing in my mind. I'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and here it was: she wanted to demote me to office bitch. But I kept my cool and just nodded my head even though it was filled with the idea of being Clarissa's footstool for the rest of my days.

"Honestly, George, we feel that your skills aren't being properly utilized by this company... Everyone likes you, so it seems like a waste for you to be worrying about budgets and spreadsheets when there are so many better things you could be doing."

"Such as?"

"I'm glad you asked. See, our air conditioning unit is going to be serviced for the upcoming week so it's going to be hot in here. And, as I told you earlier: my feet get really sweaty. I need someone to be in charge of keeping them cool and dry. That's where you come in. You'll be reassigned to fanning my feet and wiping them with a towel whenever they get too sweaty."

I looked at her. She was being completely serious.

"Yeah, I'd be open to that."

"Great!" Karen cheered, "You have no idea how much I like to hear that. Most people would consider this menial, but it's extremely important to my well being. And that would be just one part of your new job. Because we're totally failing to find an office assistant and the ladies are starting to complain. So I'd need you to be flexible to fill that role as well."

"Am I going to get a cut in pay?"

"Heavens no! In fact, this position comes with a raise! We can offer you $5k more a year for being such a superstar. I know that seems generous, but we believe that you need to make a lot of money to be more attractive to potential partners. Don't you want to have a nice, big paycheck so you can find a woman and build a life together?"

I relaxed and nodded my head. Even though I felt like this was her swiping my man-card, it was realistically my best option to earn more. In this economy, men weren't doing so hot. I was lucky to have this job even if it meant being a servant for women. And when Karen talked about earning lots of money for my future wife, I naturally pictured Clarissa even though we hadn't really spoken since the chocolate incident.

Although I kept my cubicle, I spent very little time there for the next week. Karen had me transport the shoes (Jaquelyn and the new intern Sarah had donated some of theirs at that point) to my new office which was just the space beneath her desk. The HR manager put a little cushion for me to sit on and gave me a tablet to do what little office work I still had to: mainly responding to group emails and spellchecking stuff.

The bulk of my responsibility was this: that Karen would rest her bare feet on an ottoman and I would sit (or kneel) nearby and continually move air over her soles with a little paper fan. Nearby, we kept a bucket of ice water so I could dip my hands in there and splash it on her soles intermittently to enhance the cooling effect of the wind. Her desk didn't have a modesty board, so there was plenty of room for us to set this up. She allowed me to put in wireless earbuds that would play music of her choosing. It was not the sort of stuff I'd listen to; sometimes it was the sort of 'xanax whale orchestra' music you'd hear in a sauna, sometimes it was spacey pop with a female vocalist.

She would have me do this, even as she took meetings with other women in the office. By sitting in on these meetings, I learned that Karen was very much the Queen Bee of this office. Women would also use her as a psychologist, venting their interpersonal drama to her and seeking her advice. Sometimes they'd rest their feet on the same stool and I'd have four pairs to admire as I worked. Jaquelyn's feet were surprisingly large for her height – maybe a size 11 and the first three toes were the same length but the pinkie and fourth toe were a bit shorter. Emily was a size 5 and she always wore black polish on her nails. I very much enjoyed the contrast between her little princess feet and Karen's formidable HR boss lady peds. I became intimately familiar with practically everyone's feet who worked there.

That is, everyone except Clarissa's.

She stopped playing along with all these foot games and found any excuse in the book to go away when I got close to her. And I didn't spend 100% of my time fanning feet. The earbuds I mentioned wearing would also broadcast requests. "Lea wants a refill on her coffee," it would say in a female announcer's voice that I think they took right off of tik tok. Or, "Jess needs you to pick up her dry cleaning. I've marked the location on your phone."

Although I was making more money than before, my social status in the office was lower than it had ever been. The women weren't mean about it per se but when they spoke to me they often used that imperious tone of voice like a princess would use talking to her stable boy. I have a hard time describing the exact style. They'd put emphasis on their commands like it was the tenth time they had to give me instructions, even when it was the first. Or they might drop their voice an octave at the end of a sentence rather than the girlish upspeak they'd use with one another. It felt like they had collectively decided that I wasn't their equal anymore; I was just the help. A big part of this was that, at Karen's suggestion, I no longer wore my usual black slacks and dress shirt. She suggested I wear cotton dance pants and a tight black V-neck shirt as my uniform. My body had always been in fantastic shape from going to the gym, but there was something weird about being objectified for it.

When the air conditioner had been repaired, I would have liked to return to my old position but by then it was too late. The interns Karen had hired were now full-time employees and had essentially taken my job. And naturally, I waited on them hand and foot as I did anyone else in the office. It would have upset me more if I weren't making such good money. But there was still a certain humiliation when they'd giggle and order me, a man 6 years their senior, to make them a caramel machiatto.

I moved all the shoes back to my old cubicle on Monday of the next week. My desk was almost totally covered in footwear at that point. Adrianna, one of the former interns, brought a pair of backless loafers that had worn all throughout college. They were so worn-down that there was little material left on the bottoms. My new position as the office bitch was so demanding that I no longer had time to do the two-hour sessions of watching videos that Karen had assigned. Her solution was that I would stay two hours after the office closed to complete my work. Since I was alone, the videos could get spicier: they now mixed in those ones where women tried on see-through tops and pretended like they were modeling them.

Clarissa was still avoiding me. She wouldn't even let me empty the trash bin in her cubicle or wash her coffee mug. When I would sweep and mop the floors, she would politely tell me she didn't need hers done without even looking in my direction. The only indication I got that she still cared about me was that once, she walked into the break room while Jaquelyn was resting her feet in my lap, enjoying her lunch. The blonde influencer, as soon as she noticed Clarissa, said, "Oh, George! I think you should say something nice about my feet."

I knew it was a trap. I've been around women long enough to know when they're just stirring the pot and trying to make one another jealous. That, and the tone she used was just dripping with irony. But what could I do? If she reported me to Karen, that would be a write-up, absolutely.

I looked down at Jaquelyn's feet, the color rising in my face.

"They're awesome," I said truthfully. "Great arches, slender, ten out of ten."

She giggled and Clarissa just shook her head. But the bratty influencer wasn't done twisting the knife just yet.

"Really?" She announced sarcastically. "I haven't had a pedicure done in ages! You must not have seen the callus on my big toes. Here, look closer." Jaquelyn gracefully lifted her foot up so that it was inches away from my face. Then she rotated it a little back and forth so that her toe brushed against my forehead. "Oops!"

Clarissa let out a sigh and left the break room. And Jaquelyn, the rascal, removed her feet from my lap and placed them back in her heels. Why are people like that? I didn't dare report this incident to Karen. First of all, I have a longstanding policy not to step into it when women are having their squabbles. And second of all, how would I even word the complaint? 'I think Jaquelyn is teasing Clarissa with her feet?'

This was when things took a darker turn. The break room incident got reported to Karen and soon, the three of us were in her office to help clear the air.

"So I'm sorry to say this, George, but we've gotten a complaint about you," the HR lady said. "It seems that someone – I'm not naming names – has become uncomfortable with your attitude towards certain women in the office."

I set my jaw and swallowed the instinct to defend myself. They were seriously going to pin this all on me?! "Okay," I said.

"But you're not entirely the one to blame here. Clarissa, I'd like this conversation to be more focused on you. It hasn't escaped my notice that of all the women in the office, you've been the most distant from George. Is there something I should know about your relationship?"

"I just don't want to engage with him with all this foot stuff. It's uncomfortable," Clarissa said. She had her arms crossed in front of her and was wearing a simple blue dress that, while modest, showed how slender and petite her body was.

"I think this stems from your foot phobia," Karen argued. "You were making incredible strides towards overcoming it, and George was helping you. But honestly, I'm starting to think that you are turning into a footphobe. And we can't tolerate that in our office. This is a safe space!"

Clarissa's body language deflated. She lowered her shoulders and tried to make herself as small as possible. I felt terrible, especially because Jaquelyn had an obnoxious smirk on her face I wanted to slap off of her.

"If Clarissa needs time off, I can totally handle her clients," the influencer said. What a shark! But this only drew a harsh look from Karen, and she immediately backed off.

"No. I have a different solution. I've learned of a weekend course that teaches amateurs the art of the foot massage. And I think it goes without saying that all the ladies in the office would love having a talented masseur to soothe their feet, especially with all the high heels. So I want George to attend this class, and Clarissa: you will be his practice model. I would like the two of you to do a half-hour session, every day, and when you feel he's ready you can notify me and we can add that to his offerings for the rest of us."

"That is such a good idea!" Jaquelyn announced. "But, why her? I could be his model – I freaking love a good foot rub! This will save me so much money!"

"Please stay out of this," Karen rebuked her. "Clarissa, how does this sound to you?"

It was written on her face how it sounded: she had the resigned frown that I've only ever seen on people being sentenced to prison.

"And what if I say 'no'?" The aristocratic woman said. My heart dropped because she was rejecting me. And because I was about to have my affections forced on her by an overbearing HR lady instead of winning them honestly.

"Then it would go in your file," was Karen's menacing reply. "And when we apply for our next round of funding, we would have to note it to the board. That could be... troublesome."

Clarissa looked down at the floor. "Okay, I'll do it."

"Thank you for being a team player. I know that, at this moment, you might not like this idea. But I wouldn't be suggesting it if I didn't see it as the best way forward. Did you bring the shoes I asked for?"

"Yes."

"Great. Please give them to George."

Clarissa reached into her leather purse and pulled out the kimchi cross-strap flats that she had favored before switching to footwear that showed off her feet. Then this woman, whom I had so much affection for, handed them to me with a disappointed frown on her face. I can't tell you how many times I had wished that she would let me have these things that had encased her beautiful peds for so long – but not like this.

"I'd like to go home for the rest of the day," Clarissa said. "I don't feel well."

"Of course. We have unlimited time off. Take Friday off as well. Please give this a try before you do anything rash... Talk it over with your therapist."

Without a word more, Clarissa left Karen's office with her head low.

"Can I be one of his models, too?" Jaquelyn asked, totally unphased by what just happened.

"How about I'll tell you when he's ready? How about that?" Karen snapped at her. "George, please excuse us. I think we need to have a one-on-one."

I felt completely hollow as I marched out of the office and back to my cubicle. I put Clarissa's worn shoes on my desk but felt too guilty to even look at them. This should have been a dream come true: I was about to become a foot masseur for an entire workplace full of attractive women. But the only one of them I truly cared about hated my guts.

And now I wouldn't even have weekends to myself!

"Hey, quick update," Karen popped by my cubicle to announce on her way out for the day. "When you watch your videos this time, I'll need you to hold one of the shoes up to your face and breathe in through your nose. Go ahead and alternate between pairs. I'll check on the camera to make sure you're in compliance, so be a good boy. Let me know how the classes go next week!"

The massage lessons took place at a recreation center in a nice part of town. The instructor was a hippie dippie woman in her 50's and the students were of varying ages. We spent several hours learning anatomy and about pressure points, then paired up to practice. Afraid that I might get paired with one of the guys in the class, I immediately sought out a Korean woman in her 40's. As much as I enjoyed working on her soft feet, it was mindblowing how good she was at massage. I considered myself gifted – but she had a sixth sense on where to put pressure. I'd given plenty of girlfriends foot massages in the past, but I learned some new tricks from Suzan.

I could barely sleep Sunday night because I was so nervous of what would happen the next day. I wasn't even sure if Clarissa would show up to work! And even if she did, would she seek me out? Or was it on me to go to her cubicle? The answer came after lunch through the earbuds that were now an official part of my work uniform. A pleasant melody chimed and the tik tok announcer said, "Clarissa is ready for her foot massage!" The words filled me with joy and trepidation. I took the container of coconut lotion and made my way over to her desk.

My nerves were set at ease when she smiled at me.

"Look what the cat dragged in," she teased.

"Look what the cat spat back up!" I replied, and we both had a little laugh. I took a seat in the same plastic chair I always used to when I'd find an excuse to stop by and talk with her.

"Do you like the new footstool I bought? I found it in a little antique store. I thought it would go good with your black outfit," she said, pointing out the new furniture in her office. It was a four-legged ottoman upholstered with white linen. I was touched at the idea of her thinking about me outside of work.

"It looks great. Worthy of your feet."

She laughed out loud.

"You're full of it! My feet are pale. They'd look better against a darker fabric."

I took this opportunity to look at them and my heart skipped a beat because for the first time ever, Clarissa had a pedicure! She had gone with a deep burgundy polish on her nails that beautifully highlighted her well-formed nail beds.

"So does this mean you're alright with me giving you a foot massage?" I asked.

"Yes, George. Please, take a seat."

Now my heart was jackhammering in my chest. I loved the fact that the footstool was so low that I'd be looking up at her. Time slowed down as she gracefully extended her right foot into my lap, leaving the left one on the ground. I scooped out some of the coconut cream, warmed it up between my hands and rested it on the top of her foot so as not to startle her by immediately touching the bottoms. With slow, rhythmic motions I coated her foot in glistening white oil. Then I started applying pressure against her sole, kneading it with my thumbs.

"That's actually... not bad," she admitted. I swelled with pride.

"So can I ask what caused the change of heart?"

"Sure," she replied, resting the side of her head against her hand as she looked down at me. "So I wasn't positive that I should do this at first. But I scheduled a call with my therapist and she agreed with what Karen said: that this sort of exposure therapy would be good for me. But I still wasn't completely sold so I talked it over with my boyfriend."

I hoped that she didn't notice the way I flinched at the mention of her boyfriend.

"What did he say?"

"He was actually willing to help with it, too! So I did some research and met up with him last night and we worked my feet into our whole routine."

"Good for you," I said, doing my best to hold a poker face. It felt like she was studying my expression to see how I'd react. Now I was kneading the balls of her foot in measured strokes, but any pleasure I felt was overshadowed by the fact that her boyfriend had been there first.

"Yeah. It was a little strange having a guy suck on my toes, but it wasn't wholly unpleasant. And we tried having him run his tongue up and down my soles – I was surprised by how good it felt... You can use more pressure, by the way."

I must have turned green at the thought. Some guy had run his tongue over this very foot that I was currently lavishing attention on! Forget the fact that this was inappropriate work conversation – we had passed that point a long time ago. It robbed this moment of so much intimacy. I looked down at her foot. It was still the perfectly-average type that I could love for the rest of my life. It still belonged to a woman I genuinely got along with. But hearing her talk like this made it all feel cheap. Like she thought of me as the office bitch who would listen to her about her boy drama.

"Right," I said, applying more pressure to her soles. "Well I'm glad you've overcome your phobia of having your feet touched."

"It's more of a work in progress," she admitted. "I'm having him come over tonight so we can practice foot jobs. Have you ever heard of that?"

"That's... not appropriate," I muttered.

"Oh?" Clarissa said dramatically. "Does it bother you thinking of me using my feet on my boyfriend? Why would you care? Pretty soon you'll be giving Jaquelyn and Emily and Karen foot rubs... Why should it matter what I do in the privacy of my own home with the man I love?"

"You love him?" I asked, heartbroken. I stopped rubbing her foot and looked up at her. She cracked a smile and started laughing so hard her entire body shook. I finally managed to say, "Are you just messing with me?"

She lifted up her left foot – the one I wasn't massaging – and placed it on the top of my head. Then she put some downward pressure on it and said, "Eyes where they belong. On my feet. Good boy. And keep rubbing! Remember, I'm the one who writes your reports."

I was a nervous wreck. What in the world was she playing at? Was she teasing me by pointing out the stuff I did for other women made her jealous? To my shock, she picked up her smartphone and said "Smile!" Then I heard the shutter sound of a photo being taken.

"Now we have a photo of the first time you gave me a foot massage," she announced. "The first time any guy has given me a foot massage, really... You look good in this one; it's very natural having you at my feet." Damn that got me hard. And if this was her first foot massage from a guy, then she must have been teasing me about her boyfriend. Right? "George, I just don't know about my future at this company. And it's not because of you. But my friends all switch companies every two years and they're earning a lot more than me. I've been here six years. I feel like I've gone as high as I can go here."

"I'd miss you if you left," I said, putting pressure on a specific point along her insteps that we were taught relieves stress. She smiled at me.

"Yeah, then you'd only have eighteen pairs of feet to enjoy instead of twenty," was her cross reply.

"These are worth more than all the other ones put together."

"Laaame!" She cried out, but she said it with a giggle. "Booo! Get some better material!"

"Let's try this one, then," I said. Then I placed my thumb firmly on the soft area just beneath her ankle, above her insteps on the inner portion of her foot. And I held it there for a couple seconds. Then relented the pressure just a little bit to sort of walk my thumb further up to another spot where I put pressure again.

"Oh my gosh!" She called out, looking at me with a with wide eyes. "I felt that all throughout my body! My brain is tingling! Is this what I've been missing out on all these years?"

"Yes, Clarissa. This is exactly what you've been missing out on."

She shook her head and dropped it back in her chair so she was looking up at the ceiling. Then she shut her eyes.

"You're making this too distracting. I can't talk right now. Just keep doing your magic. I'm going to relax."

'The magic is that I love you,' I thought to myself. But I couldn't say it. So I just enjoyed the warm feeling and used it to motivate my hands to give her the perfect foot massage.

Clarissa and I started dating not long after that. Her boyfriend wasn't playing for keeps. I was. What was the thing that kicked it all off? It was when I went into Karen's office and told her thank you for the offer, but I didn't want to be the office foot masseur. That I'd rather just focus on Clarissa and I hoped that would be alright.

"So it seems like my plan was a success then, wasn't it?" She replied. "That's completely fine. No more feet for you, except hers. And I suppose you shouldn't be watching those videos anymore, either... But you're not completely off the hook. I expect you to still work as the office assistant – I'll tell the ladies that the footphobia has been completely trampled out."

"Does it come with a raise?" I ventured.

"Yes, George. And it has a very attractive honeymoon and paternity leave package, too. Just something to think about."

I know what you're probably thinking. That this story should have ended with me having a harem of young women presenting their feet for me to worship and adore. But I'm not crazy. I found one good woman to love, so why keep fooling around past that point? Years later when she walked down the aisle to join me in front of all our friends and family to get married, I knew I made the right decision. Her nails were the same burgundy red color that she had on the day of that first foot massage – she couldn't believe I'd remember a detail that minor. As if I'd ever forget!

Afterward:

Hope you enjoy this story! I wanted to write a cute little comedy where things work out and people feel good. Thanks for your continued support!