The Factory [Foot Fetish Story]

The sound of the factory was rude. The thud of the machines. Yahaira was in the office, on the second floor. Through the window, one could see the powerful industrial process manufacturing the company's products: pistons, gears, conveyor belts. She had her bare feet propped up on the desk and her eyes closed. She was dressed in black. Her feet were slender, though a bit large for a woman. She liked to imagine that the clatter of the machinery was absorbed, imaginatively, by her feet.

Her eyes were closed, but she wasn't sleeping--she was fantasizing. She had the gift of a vivid imagination. In her mind, she visualized an elegant hall where she danced an ancient waltz with a vampire. The vampire was tall and handsome, in a murderous, confident way. She wore diamonds and a long yellow dress. He was so powerful, so seductive. At any moment, he could bite her, and that thrilled her.

Then, the door opened. The factory owner, her mother, entered. This forced Yahaira to lower her feet, startled. Her mother considered her a slacker who, instead of focusing on the company's tasks, wasted time.

I've told you not to put your feet on the desk! You should be working!

Yahaira said nothing. She only lowered her gaze in submission. Her mother was a woman with a stern face, whose stare felt like a cold dagger. She pulled some files from a drawer and threatened her daughter, saying she expected the accounting to be finished by the afternoon. The mother stormed out, slamming the door. But the accounting had already been completed yesterday. The truth was, Yahaira didn't do much because there was never much to do. Her tasks were easy.

Yahaira stood and looked out the window. The powerful machines. Thump. Thump. Thump. The unstoppable, cold, ruthless force of the machines. They could annihilate anyone. Perfect. Calibrated. Few could appreciate industrial machinery. As a child, she would walk among those machines, thinking they were gods created by men. As a teenager, she dreamed of falling in love with an industrial engineer who built machines like those. And now, in her young adulthood, working at her mother's factory, she still dreamed of those powerful machines.

The floor felt cold under her feet. She had always had hypersensitive feet. Antennas that could sense the energy of things. It was hard to explain. She considered herself an intuitive person, attuned to the hidden forces of the environment. And as she watched the rise and fall of a production machine, a sudden intuition gripped her... soon, a man would appear.

*

The power of imagination amazes me. I close my eyes, and the images come. Then, I find myself with my vampire lover. I feel so much energy in my feet, it's strange. Imagination has no limits. There, I can go to a world where everything satisfies me, where everything is a reflection of me. I feel like a sinner, free of guilt and consequence.

These thoughts drifted through Yahaira's mind all day when she wasn't with her eyes closed, daydreaming about her vampire. She dreamed they went to gala parties, took walks by a lake, and, of course, that she joined him in killing. The vampire sank his fangs into the jugulars of beautiful, elegant women. But never into her; he loved her, he wouldn't harm her. Her beloved, lethal, immortal lover.

The day before, her mother had been especially worried. She paced back and forth in the factory, among the vapors cooling the machines and the oil that kept them running at full power. Soon, the main investor from Europe would arrive to ensure everything was in order. Her mother was far more demanding with all the employees, including Yahaira.

You'd better have all the papers in order!, she shouted out of nowhere.

And all the papers were in order. Everything was going so well that Yahaira was bored in that cell-like office where she spent her days locked away. She wandered from one spot to another in the cold-floored, polished concrete-walled office. She could entertain herself on the laptop, but she didn't like browsing the web. She preferred the books she kept in her drawer and, of course, fantasizing--always fantasizing.

That's how she met her beloved vampire. One day, she closed her eyes to enter that other dreamlike world. Her vampire walked through a garden of roses, wearing a long black cape. He kissed her lips and whispered in her ear that he had finally found the one worthy of his love. Now that she thought about it, it was from that moment she began to feel that strange sensation in her feet.

She longed for a beautiful man to walk through that door, take her feet in his hands, and massage them. A special massage, tender and erotic, something transgressive, to release all that pent-up energy. Even, if he so desired, to suck her toes a little. The mere thought made her feel aroused. She locked the door and closed the curtains. She pulled down her pants. Strong hands running their thumbs over the soles of her feet, right at the center, a bit higher. I rub myself. Fingers along the arch of each foot. Hard. Wetness. Palms gliding over the entire sole. I'm so wet. I rub harder. The heat of a tongue. The tip of my finger on my clitoris. Rapid breathing. Moaning. My feet are touched.

*

The sound of my steps echoes on the polished floors. I am the master. They call me the main investor. That's what they call me in many places. But I am the master. Me, the master. I love being the master. The games of domination and submission in sex. The power of tying and surrendering. They call me by many names. The machines, the machines.

I asked to see the accounting, and that's how I met her. She told me her name is Yahaira. She looked at me with that special, psychotic gaze, a mutual recognition. From the edge of the desk, I noticed she was barefoot. Could it be? Her too? It's so hard to find a woman with the same inclination. At home, I have a collector's book. Photographs. Always photographs of women lifting their legs and showing their feet. Some, if you insist, let you touch them. But a woman with the same calling. They call me the master. But I have such a desire to submit to beautiful feet. Is there anything worse than a devotee without a goddess? I think it's October. I'm always disoriented in time. She tells me the number 66. It seems like a correct figure. I don't even check anymore. Money bores me.

Her mother left us alone. She gave her a look that said, don't make mistakes. Family business. Huge factory. Sneakers, I think. I approach her. The tiger moves slowly, then pounces. I remember the school chapel. There was a plaster Virgin Mary reclining in front of the altar. She was barefoot. She showed the soles of her feet. I would kneel as if to pray and touch her toes. I talk to Yahaira about William Burroughs and H. P. Lovecraft. She knows the latter. It's always him they know. Drugs nearly killed me once. They say Yog-Sothoth appeared in dreams to the New England author. I've never been there. Nor will I. She sits on the edge of the desk. She shows her feet without shame, almost as if expecting them to be objects of seduction. Beautiful, like few others. There are painters who create works of art no one appreciates; it's just a matter of the right collector showing up. At home, I have a piece by Joe Coleman, a genius. A family disfigured by radiation, and at the center of the table, a pig full of worms. Beautiful, like few things. Two days ago, I masturbated looking at photos of Kristen Stewart's feet. Yahaira's are on the same level.

You have beautiful feet.

*

My mother is the happiest. My vampire. I've found him. Almost. He doesn't have fangs or drink blood. But he's so transgressive. He told me I had beautiful feet. Since then, I can't stay away from him. I think he's hypnotized me. My mother couldn't be happier.

His gaze consumes me. It's like an abyss. Tired eyes that have seen so much, and I want to be part of his private world. He was such a gentleman the first time he put my toes between his virile lips. I can still feel the suction. My vampire.

When I go to his luxury apartment in the city center, I like to imagine I'm riding in a carriage to an ancient Gothic castle, where bats fly out under a starry, cursed night with an orange moon. He touches my instep with his strong hands and massages with passion. Thanks to him, I no longer feel like a good girl. I need to be corrupted. I don't spend time in that office anymore.

He places my feet on his face while he penetrates my sex. His phallus is long and thick. He thrusts as if he wants to impale me. He pounds me hard against his wine-colored sheets. I moan. And my moan demands more moans. I'm in ecstasy. I feel special. If they let me, I'd kill a stranger just to keep experiencing new things. Him. A thousand times him. My vampire.

He touches my body like a sculptor feeling the naked woman he chiseled and sanded in marble, searching for imperfections. Your breasts are so lovely, as lovely as your feet, he told me once after slipping his finger into my anus while kissing me with tongue. I hope he does it again.

Sometimes he puts me in a corner and stares at the soles of my feet. I stay still, like an object. That excites me.

*

Yahaira is sitting in the small garden of my apartment. She's wearing my black robe. She's next to the bushes, eyes closed. It's nighttime. Emerson and nature. Walden by Thoreau. The diabolical nature of Blackwood. There's something so macabre about the natural. Nature is so cold and sinister. The Beast in the Cave by Lovecraft. I'd like to go to a cold cave and penetrate the mysteries of the earth. There, I'd find an altar with a chalice where I'd drink the blood of my satanic redeemer. They say the cave is a symbol of the vagina. My penis inside Yahaira's body. Her body is so soft beneath my cloths. A little bird in a cage. Sometimes she trembles during orgasm. You rarely see that. I can smell her hair's perfume when I close my eyes. Jasmine with strawberries. My finger in her anus. Our tongues. She sits on me and starts riding me at the edge of the sofa. In front, there's a mirror where I see her back, her buttocks, and the soles of her feet. Those slender toes. Narrow feet. Arched soles. The oval of her heels. Pale pink. Soles as white as her buttocks. At one point, she whispered in my ear to rape her, and that's when I ejaculated inside her. Good thing she's on the pill.

I've hung a framed poster of Giger's Baphomet in my living room. Biomechanical. Flesh and machinery blessed by occultism. Éliphas Lévi in the world of industry. Aleister Crowley setting up a sneaker factory. The smell of oil and vapors. The unstoppable force of the machines. André Solon says the cyborg will be a reality in 20 years. AI and humans will become one. Yahaira's feet look so good in the mirror while we make love. Her big toe under my tongue. Ragged breathing. She rubs her pussy while I suck her feet. Sometimes she sucks mine after I do hers. But I also suck her pussy. Her delicate, pink little pussy. I run my tongue between the lips. I use two fingers to coax out her shy clitoris, and there I move my tongue, attacking again. The tongue of Alien. The black Alien with a phallic head. My phallus entering Yahaira's body, her wet and tight pussy. We never use condoms. It feels better.

A few minutes ago, I lay down on my Persian carpet floor. She came to me and placed her feet on my face, careful not to step too hard. The Bible says there were giants in the past. Beautiful, aristocratic women two and a half meters tall in the story The Ineffable Power by the pornographic author Salva Dásimo. Those enormous, splendid women tortured us with their beauty. They swayed their hips near us because they knew it made us suffer. The worst part was when the most exquisite of them approached my chair, took off her heel, and placed her large foot on my face. That sparked an unimaginable sexual desire in me, to be crushed by that powerful woman. I've invested more money in the factory; now I'm practically the owner. And I control everything in Yahaira's life.

I am the master.

*

The investor and Yahaira walked naked through the factory. It was three in the morning. He had turned on the machinery himself, but with nothing to produce. Just to feel its power. The man filled the central corridor with Catholic church candles. At the center, a bed with black sheets.

She had told him about the energy she felt in her feet from the machines. And he was so enthralled by the fantasies Yahaira constantly spoke of.

They began to suck each other's feet, feeling the vibration of the machinery in their bodies.

They sucked each other's toes with passion, like a pair of Draculas drinking blood.

The clatter of the gears was like mantras of satanic meditation. The couple felt as if they were in a temple where the human was transcended, allowing the irrepressible and strong to rise. Biomechanical gods. It was as if they were in an apocalypse, and the world was covered in death. A world of chaos where they were the gods, loving each other by sucking each other's feet.