Fetish

He entered the room, bowed box with posh wrapping adorning it behind his back. His eyes lit up at the sight of her, pulse racing. This evening she was seductively draped across the microfibre chesterfield in his favourite sheer black negligee. 

“Well, hello there, Amber.” He met her unwavering gaze, proud he didn’t stutter. 

Women like Amber had always been his type. They always made him nervous with their petit figures, luscious raven locks, and little painted toes. He admitted he had a fetish for dainty pedicured feet. To him, it meant a lady took care of herself down to the smallest details. That, and feet were indescribably sexy. He didn’t know why. But that’s why it was a fetish, he supposed. 

He strolled over, dropping to his knees at her bare feet. “I … have a … treat. But, how about a muh-massage f-first?” 

Tenderly, he traced her calves with his long fingers, finally working his way to her periwinkle toes, frowning at the bruising at the bottom of her soles. It was time. He pulled the top off his present, revealing a dull saw. 

He kissed her ankle and buried the metal into her cold flesh. Soon her left foot joined the others rotting on the mantle. As for the rest of her? The river would do.

Hello everyone!

I wrote this piece for the flashfiction magazine, 200-Word Tuesdays. I selected July’s theme of “Bare Feet.”

I actually had my heart set on another theme (“Trophies”); however, it wasn’t selected as one of the top two choices. Instead, “Bare Feet” and “Aftermath” were. Me, being cheeky and crafty, whipped this up.

 Thanks and take care!

Larysia   

As a side, I have no idea whose feet those belong to. If you want credit for the photo or have concerns, please get in touch and I can correct that. Thanks again!