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John smelled my feet. Like, really inhaled, the way I would breathe in night jasmine on a summer evening. He took his time with each size-10 pedal extremity. I didn't know what to say or if I should say anything. Basically, I sat there and watched him as he buried his face in my feet. I felt relieved that they were freshly pedicured -- hey, if they can't smell nice, at least they can look nice.

Ten minutes were up. John seemed to know this before I told him. He then sprayed my feet with an antibacterial cleanser and dried them with a paper towel. It was my only session of the evening; the rest of my time at the party I spent catching up with friends and swapping session stories with Stephanie -- she got to stand on someone's chest (called "trampling" by those in the know).

The girls who attend Footnight find it fun, exciting, and rewarding to raise a toe to sexual repression. Me, I was curious to experience a rarely visited corner of the fetish world while hanging out with friends, meeting new people, and offering Stephanie another adventure for her memoirs.

I got home and shared my thoughts with David, a man so secure in himself and our relationship that he would never feel threatened by the strange men I might have allowed to have their way with my feet. Looking my love in the eye, I said, "I'll give you ten minutes to worship and adore everything except my feet." He laughed, and then, realizing I was serious, he made every minute count.

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