Chapter 1 — My Fetish Experience - Part 1 (1)
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.
I kept feeling like someone was following me. One hand held something—I had a hunch it was a digital camera.
How long had I been walking? I was going crazy wondering who that bastard was.
I turned into an alley, rounded the corner, and ducked behind someone's house.
Tap tap tap...
I heard hurried footsteps, and then I saw him—just outside the gate.
He glanced around, then let out a sigh.
I crept up behind him, silent, as he stood there, staring blankly ahead, disappointed.
He turned to leave, having clearly given up.
Our eyes met.
His widened in shock. He looked like a criminal caught in the act—pale, speechless, frozen.
In his hand, just as I'd guessed, was a digital camera.
Seeing him so helpless gave me courage. I stepped closer.
"Hey. What do you think you're doing, taking pictures of me?"
He turned ghostly white, stammering.
"I-I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"You don't know it's illegal to take photos of people without permission?"
"I'm sorry, miss. Please, just this once, forgive me."
"Forgive you? How would you feel if someone did this to you?"
"................"
He was completely broken. And that made me bolder.
"Mister. Are you some kind of pervert?"
"No! No, not at all. You're just so beautiful—I just wanted to keep a photo, that's all."
"How many photos did you take? How many?"
My voice rose, echoing. People passing by glanced over, curious.
With others around, he shrank even smaller.
I pressed harder.
What did he plan to do with those photos? Who else had he taken pictures of?
Then I was stunned.
He said today was the third day in a row he'd been photographing me.
How had I not noticed? I wasn't oblivious.
Anyway, he confessed—he was drawn to my short skirt. That's what started it.
And seeing me in stockings made the urge even stronger.
I was outraged—but also, strangely, flattered. Another wolf had fallen for my beauty.
"Here we go again with that damn princess complex."
I muttered to myself, then said,"Listen. Don't ever do this again. If you do, I'll call the police. And give me your number. Just in case. Don't worry, I won't hurt you."
With trembling hands, he dug into his pocket and handed me a small piece of paper. A business card.
I checked it right there. Dialed the number printed on it.
A ringtone buzzed from his pants.
"Yep. That's you."
I said coldly, then turned and walked away.
I met up with my friends at our usual spot near the station, the three of us grabbing soju and street stall food like we did every Friday after work. Even to me, a woman with her own apartment and a job, it's a mystery how we have so much to say every single day.
I told them what happened. They clapped and laughed.
"Girl, you didn't know that?"
"Know what?"
I leaned in.
"Men. They take pictures of women's legs, go home, and jerk off to them."
"What?"
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"One of my exes was like that. He loved it when I jerked him off with my feet—especially when I was wearing stockings."
I snorted. How could anyone jerk a man off with their feet?
But the more I listened, the more I understood.
They said you slip your foot, still in the silky stocking, into his underwear. Rub the head of his cock with your sole. Men go wild.
They said men get so turned on by the softness of the nylon, the intimacy of the foot, the taboo thrill—that they climax fast.
Some even said those men end up spilling sticky cum all over their soles in seconds.
Hearing that, something stirred deep inside me.
A heat. A pulse between my legs.
I suddenly wanted to try it.
To feel a man's cock between my feet, rubbing it slow, watching him tremble and beg—wouldn't that make me feel powerful?
I wanted to know just how intense a fetish could feel.
I dug through my bag and pulled out the business card I'd gotten that afternoon.
The moment I looked at it, my pussy started to itch.
I picked up my phone and dialed his number.