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zanoah
19-10-2011, 06:15 AM
Another old one:

Never Knew You

Two minutes had passed since Gary flopped to the bar floor gripping his left arm with his right hand and grimacing and growling. He had been drinking all night at Roger's Pub, downing shots of whiskey and tequila and whatever else he could get his hands on or his mouth around. Hardly anyone paid attention to him anymore, not with his bad temper and even worse breath. A lifetime of drinking hadn't been very kind to him, costing him his wife and kids and ending his promising career as a heart surgeon. Long nights at the bar made for grogy mornings at home and sloppy work on the operating table. His beautiful, slim, French wife left him for a swarthy mechanic at a Chevron station where she often went to have her fluids changed, and he adopted the four children and their dog, Spot. They lived happily-ever-after, while Gary remained glued to his barstool—a glass of beer always in his hand and a pack of cigarettes always in his pocket. And that was his life, and his life was about to end with an excruciating pain in his left arm, moving up to his shoulder, and then to his chest. It was a heart attack.

A white and orange ambulence pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the bar and the two paramedics jumped out, a man and a woman both dressed in dark blue shirts tucked into black pants. The man walked around to the back of the ambulence and grabbed the gourney, wheeling it into the bar as the woman checked for Gary's vital signs. "Looks like cardiac arrest, with a low pulse and shallow breathing," she documented coldly to her partner, who then helped her heave his heavy carcass up onto the gourney and wheeled him out to the ambulence. She got up in the back with him while the other medic shut the doors and hopped back into the driver's seat. A very bleak case on an otherwise quiet night. Gary was always going against the grain, it seemed.

The woman checked his pulse again and started CPR, pressing the recommended number of times on chest and then blowing air into his mouth. The second time around he coffed and convulsed a little, prompting the female paramedic by his side to strap an oxygen mask on him. His eyes cracked open and stared uip at her glowing face, searching her brown eyes for a sign of hope or comfort. She kindly smiled back at him, taking hold of his hand and gently squeezing it. The loose and flowing fibers of her dark brown hair blazed under the overhead lights of the ambulence, making the appearance of an angel or fairy or some other benign, magical being. She was very pretty, and strong, although one would not think it to look at her. "You're goiing to be OK," she said, still smiling and squeezing the dying man's hand. She could feel his body growing colder as the monitor showed his heartrate getting slower and slower. He hadn't much time left, and he knew it. He motioned for her to remove the oxygen mask from his face, which she hesitantly did. Gary licked his lips and tried to speak, desperately hissing in a feeble attempt to form words. "No, no," she pleaded, trying to put the mask back on his face. "You shouldn't try to talk. You need your oxygen."

Gary just laid there and looked up at her, letting his vision blur into the wonder of her fine face. He flashed back to his childhood, to the house where he grew up. He was walking to his bedroom after school when he gazed into his older sister's room at the end of the hall through her wide-open door. She was sitting at the foot of the bed and talking on the phone, untying her black and white sneakers. She kicked off the right shoe, then the left, and started poking and pulling at her sweaty white bobby socks stuck to her sweaty feet. Gary slowed his pace down to a still stance, his jaw dropping at the awesome sight of his hot sister and her hot feet. He was so engrossed in the scene that his books slipped out from under his arm and dropped onto the hallway floor. His sister perked up from her fatigued socks and peered angrily at his peeping face. Before he could utter a word of explanation or worship, she lept off the bed and slammed the door shut, railing to her friend on the phone that her perverted brother was staring at her feet again. The two of them laughed as Gary was left standing all alone in the hallway, his books scattered on the floor and his cock hard in his pants. He wanted so badly to rush into his sister's room and grab her socked feet up to his mouth and suck on them, and smell them, and eat them. He wanted to wrap his fingers around her fine arches and run her toes across his tongue, letting their salty, sweaty goodness run down his parched throat and nourish his foot-loving soul. But he coudln't, and he didn't, and he wouldn't ever. For the rest of his life he was too afraid to bring up to any of the women he dated, even his wife, that he liked feet, that he loved feet. And he had come to regret it.

Gary reached up to his face and slowly pulled the oxygen mask off, gathering up enough strength to speak his piece to the very lovely woman taking care of him. "Please," he whispered, his voice horse and hushed. "Please...help...me."

"Of course I'll help you," the paramedic answered immediately, trying to put the mask back over his mouth and nose. "But you'll need this mask on if you want to live."

"No," Gary replied, pushing her hand with the mask away from his face and squeezing the other hand that was already squeezing his. "I...need...you...to—" He paused to take a breath. "To...do...some...thing...for...me."

"What?" the paramedic asked, concerned and intrigued.

"Take...offf...your...shoes," Gary whispered.

"Take off my shoes?" she repeated, puzzled. "Why?"

"Please," Gary pleaded. "I...don't...have...much...time. I...want...to...smell...your...feet...before...I.. .die."

"What are you talking about?" the woman quizzed, hesitating to to fulfill his rather odd request. "What do you want to smell my feet for?"

"Please, I...don't...have...much...time," Gary said again, squeezing her hand even harder than before. "Please."

The paramedic gazed deeply into his eyes, trying to understand his madness, but finally gave in and untied her boots. They only came up a little ways past her ankles, the standard footwear for paramedics. She did the right boot first, undoing the leather laces and pulling out a sweat-soaked, black crew sock. The thin material had perfectly molded to her warm foot, leaving no slack or slouch. It was stretched so nicely that her toes were visible in the bottom and her round heels were seen very clearly and easily. Gary could smell the socks as soon as she pulled the first foot from her boot, and his mouth began to water. The paramedic undid the second boot same as the first and pulled out a second sock, just as sweaty and stinky and shapely as the first. The set her boots to the side and planted both feet flat on the floor of the ambuence, looking Gary straight in the eye in disbelief. In her six years as a paramedic, and her twenty-six years as a person, never before had anyone ever asked to smell her feet. And a dying man on his way to the hospital, who turned down fresh oxygen for the stentch of her weary feet, was certainly not on her list of suspects for people who might want to smell her feet.

"You sure you want to smell my feet?" the paramedic asked, wanting to make absolutely certain that he was happy with his choice.

"Yes," Gary said, licking his lips with delight. "Just...put...your...foot...on...my...face."

The paramedic shrugged her shoulders and lifted her left foot up onto the gourney, placing it beside his head for leverage, and then pulled the other foot up alongside it, hesitating before actually plopping it down on her patient's face. She giggled at the thought of it, then slowly moved her sole over his cheek and onto his face, resting it carefully on the tip of his nose. Her moist heel graced hips and chin, and her sweaty toes danced upon his forehead. Gary took a deep breath and breathed in all the sweaty sockness his throbbing chest could handle. He tasted the warm cotton mixed with sweat on his lips and tongue, gliding down his throat like raindrops on a windshield. The wetness of her sole tickled the tip of his nose, almost making him laugh, as the steamy, sweaty scent of her foot drifted into the caverns of his nostrils and stormed his brain. He started to shiver and shake at the rush of her foot atop his face, a pleasure greater than any he had ever known in his fifty miserable years on earth. Somehow the lint and perspiration from her feet enlivened him, enboldened him. He stuck out his tongue and took a big lick of her socked sole, swallowing every piece of loose fiber and every bead of sweat that he swept up in the process. He began to kiss her feet, pressing his lips against the burning hot fabric. Sensing the affection, the paramedic giggled and began massaging his forehead with her sweaty, shape-setting toes, pounding her essence into his skin. She started to grind her heel against his lips and chin, as well as her sole against the tip of his nose.

"This is what you wanted?" she snickered, running the other foot along his ear and sideburns.

Gary just shivered and shuttered and moaned and groaned, too consumed with her comely feet to make any intelligble sounds. Never before had he made contact with the female foot, so he was making restitution for a lifetime of deprevation. He grinded his face back into her foot to match her current motions, licking and sniffing and drinking her foot as he did. Suddenly, he felt his heart explode with beating, and then stop. He didn't move.

The paramedic lifted her foot from his face and checked his pulse. Nothing. He had passed away while under the fine foot of a fine woman. He was pronounced dead at the hospital a short time later, much to the relief of his ex-wife and his four, unforgiving children.

Only the female paramedic attended his funeral, which was held on a rainy afternoon in the loneliest part of the cemetery. At his grave she left a pair of black socks, unwashed from their encounter in the ambulence, and small, heart-shaped locket with her picture in it next to his. She was his older sister's daughter, whom he had never met because of his abandoment to alcoholism. His work as a surgeon inspired her to become a paramedic, and her feet were his reward.

The boots she was wearing that day in the ambulence disappeared, and were never found.

matatron
20-10-2011, 06:32 AM
I know this is a foot fetish sight ut that story was really sad. And ill admit it nearly made me cry :(

zanoah
25-10-2011, 07:19 AM
Sorry, I didn't intend that.

wsnbb
26-10-2011, 08:59 AM
Wow. I've never read a FF tale quite as touching as that. :(