First-Class Feet

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: What follows is a story of romantic sex, much centered around foot worship, between a woman much older than the young man she seduces. If you do not like stories of older women and younger men, do not read. If you do like them, please enjoy and vote accordingly and comment if you so desire Thank you)

She saw him right away. Being observant was one of her skills. She was keenly aware of her surroundings, always noticing who noticed her.

And the boy had noticed her. She smiled to herself, a little flattered and more than a little aroused. She had a thing for boys his age.

Deidre Mattock was CEO of a very successful security company, providing services around the world, and was on her way to Amsterdam this day to meet a potential client, a nonstop, overnight flight. She'd take first class, of course. The boy, she imagined, would not.

He sat across from her, waiting for the flight to take him to the Netherlands where he'd catch up with college mates for spring break, a gift from his parents. He saw her when he sat down, drawn by the elegant beauty of the silver-haired woman. He imagined her to be his grandmother's age, in her 60s perhaps, but with an air about her his beloved granny never possessed.

She was sleek and lean, poised in her business suit of dark blazer, white blouse beneath, and black slacks. She looked tall and angular, fit and firm. Her feet. Her feet are what drew his furtive gaze when he sat down, beautiful, long, tapered feet in an expensive-looking pair of black leather pumps, a hint of toe cleavage where her presumably equally sexy digits were pointed down into the harsh triangular shoe front.

And Deidre noticed that as well. She sat, newspaper on her slender thighs, leg crossed, bouncing that foot, twisting it side to side. His gaze widened.

'A foot boy', she thought. 'All the better to play with you dear child'.

She slowly, very slowly, let the shoe slip partially off, dangling it playfully. Peripherally, she noticed the boy fidget nervously in his seat as he tried not to watch but couldn't help himself. The lure of that sexy foot was too much, the tease of toes still hidden in the shoe, the long sweep of her instep, the creamy white skin, the exposed wrinkles of the sole.

It drew him in. He ached to kneel and smell and worship those feet.

He'd had his moments before. His first introduction to an elderly woman's feet was his grandmother's, for which he still felt shame and arousal. He and his grandmother used to play wrestle when he was younger, innocent stuff, always. But one day, around his puberty, as he lay on the floor before her couch, she had sat back on it, pinning his face beneath her large, wrinkled, sweaty feet.

She'd done it before and he'd giggle and pull away. But this time, he could not. Would not. He felt her scent and power embrace him and his dick exploded in his pants, moaning as she wiggled her toes, his mouth open, tasting of the sweaty, salty, wrinkled flesh.

She had no idea the effect she'd had on him as flush with embarrassment, he raced off to his room to change his wet underwear. And jerk off, thinking of what happened, the scent of his granny's feet still moist on his face.

Over the years since then, he'd volunteered to massage her feet, and she always accepted, always with grandmotherly innocence. And he was gracious and polite about it, giving nothing away, later stealing to his room to masturbate with one hand to the scent on the other.

He got bolder. He'd duck into her huge closet on visits to her country home, devouring the leathery, sweaty scent of dozens of shoes on the floor, jacking off into them, with them, always careful to remove evidence of his perverse ways.

He'd steal her dirty sweat socks from her gym workouts, or short black trouser socks she'd wear to work, crusty and stale, and have at them, having at himself. He felt filthy and alive, ashamed and energized. It consumed him, this lust for his grandmother's feet and smell.

On trips to her house, when her lady friends were there, his grandmother would innocently boast of his foot massage prowess, and he'd eagerly rub their feet as well, none as sexy as his granny's, but equally as smelly, some more so, the old ladies giggling as he did his work, etching the moments into his brain, the scent into his hands, those hands working himself into a frenzy later, at home or if it was too long to wait, in his granny's bathroom, listening to the laughter of the old ladies just down the hall, blissfully unaware of the effect they'd had on the boy.

But this lady in the airport lounge, this marvelously well-kept older lady now before him, she possessed feet unlike any he'd ever seen. The foot now mostly bared before him, taunting him, was sculpted and smooth, white and creamy, wrinkled on the bottom, delicately fleshed along the instep, the corded Achilles at the heel, a slight thickened vein running from her toe cleavage up under her pant leg to what he imagined to be a perfect shin and muscular calf.

She knew he was consumed by the sight of that foot and mischievously now let the shoe drop, wriggling her red-painted toes, long and slim, and saw him fidget more. She almost felt bad for the boy in a way, knowing he'd have several long hours of imagining that foot as he tried to sleep in coach on the flight.

But maybe he wouldn't, she thought: She noticed his cell phone in his hands, presumably texting, but likely snapping photos of that foot.

'Sly, sly boy', she thought, a slight smile breaking on her slightly wrinkled mouth.

The announcement came shortly thereafter, breaking the boy's reverie. As usual, first-class and business-class customers boarded first. She slipped her shoe back on, leaning forward to do it, letting her blazer open, her blouse with it. She felt her saggy but sexy old tits jiggle into view, thick and fleshy, and lifted her head slightly to let the boy see, feeling naughty in the doing. And he noticed, of course. How could he not.

She stood to board, purposely walking close by the boy, smiling down at him as he looked up.

"Have a nice flight, young man," she said courteously, startling him with the greeting. "I have a grandson about your age, it's good for young people to travel, see the world."

She turned to stand in line, but turned to him with a smile, bending to whisper, "What I like best is putting my feet up to relax for awhile."

She overemphasized feet. And felt her loins tingle as his eyes widened as she did.

She went aboard. The first-class section was comprised of pods, one row of four on either side of the plane, and one row of connected pods in the middle, a one-two-one configuration that was roomy and comfortable. Each pod was a curved half-wall of molded blue and white plastic, each seat with a command that allowed 16 options for reclining, including laying the seat flat into a bed.

Each came with a giant swing out television, and a package with a thick comforter and fluffy pillow and small overnight bag with toiletries, a sleep mask and sleep socks, among other things. She put her bag into the overhead, pulling out a small pair of silky white running shorts and a t-shirt, into which she would later change to sleep the flight away, as she always did.

She sat down, arranged her space and looked around. For some reason, she found herself quite alone in the section, most unusual. The flight attendant, a lovely older woman herself, offered her champagne before the rest of the flight boarded.

"Very sparse crowd today, Rebecca," Deirdre said, eyeing the woman's nametag. "Odd."

"Yes, very, Ms. Mattock," Rebecca said warmly, her job being to know the names of the passengers paying the most for the flight. "It wasn't that crowded to start with, but weather in the Midwest forced many cancellations, and our connecting passengers couldn't make it."

"No upgrades?" Deirdre asked.

"No," Rebecca said, placing the real glass of champagne on her tray table, the bubbles catching the light from the window. "We've got a lot of young people I guess doing spring break in Europe, and they can't afford first class. Well, their parents could probably."

The women laughed. Rebecca went off. Deirdre crossed her legs, kicking off her shoes, picking up a magazine. Moments later, coach passengers streamed by, most wondering what it would cost to fly up front where this apparently rich older woman sat by herself in the last single row to the plane's right.

She looked up from time to time, wondering about the boy. Moments later, he stood right before her seat, waiting for the line to shuffle along. He was short and handsome, with shaggy brown hair, a beat-up jacket on his slender frame, a raggedy backpack slung over his shoulder. She looked up just as he was looking down. Directly at her bare feet.

"Oh, hello again, young man," she said softly. "Do enjoy your flight. And don't forget to put your feet up."

With that, their eyes locked, she extended one long finger to press her red-lighted seat diagram to slowly extend her seat bottom, lifting those bare feet into clearer view, her pant legs riding up ever so slightly to reveal those perfect creamy shins he'd imagined them to be, her long, painted toes wiggling.

"Uh, yes...of course," he stammered, thankful and disappointed as the line slithered along before him, necessitating he move with it, his eyes on those feet all too briefly. "Thank you, ma'am..."

She smiled warmly at him as he walked away, catching one last glimpse of the feet so fascinating him. She laughed to herself and shook her head, returning to her magazine.

"My, my, that boy seemed smitten with you, Mrs. Mattock," Rebecca laughed a few minutes later, bringing Deirdre the chardonnay she'd requested earlier.

"Oh, I don't know, it's flattering, but I don't know," she sighed, sipping the fine wine. "Perhaps I remind him of his grandmother."

"Well only if his grandmother's a silver fox," Rebecca said with a knowing grin. "I hope you don't mind me saying that, Mrs. Mattock."

"Of course not, dearie," Deirdre smiled. "I accept the compliment."

The plane lifted off into the new night it would follow for hours, and after her meal of filet mignon, fresh vegetables, a puff pastry dessert and more wine, she carefully wriggled out of her clothes and slipped on her shorts and t-shirt, as well as the short black socks found in the overnight bag left at her seat.

She padded to the bathroom to brush her teeth, and looked at herself in the mirror.

"Silver fox indeed," she said confidently, looking at her remarkably well-preserved body with the usual wrinkles and sags of a 63-year-old woman, but with flesh supported by muscle beneath, tanned and firm, her breast slightly splayed to the sides and down under her tight t-shirt, but shapely.

She was single, long divorced, dating little, occasionally stepping out with younger men, who found her fascinating, pretty and sexy. She'd take the occasional sexual dalliance with those she found worthy of her attention, but was selective about it.

She'd never carried on with one as young as the boy who seemed to love her feet. She wondered how old he was. College age, to be sure, she reasoned. So young. So accepting. So willing. She smiled at the thoughts racing her tired brain, then retired to her bed.

She slept for how long she wasn't sure, but was roused by Rebecca's gently insistent voice.

"I'm sorry young man, but you can't use the first-class bathroom," she said.

"But the ones back there are full, and I...I gotta go...please?"

Deirdre looked to her left, to the black curtained opening between first class and coach. There stood the young boy, stripped down to tight white t-shirt and gym shorts, his body slim, small, hard.

"Rebecca, it's all right, if you don't mind, I don't mind," she yawned, sitting up to smile at the lad who looked at her in the dark. "No one else is here, really..."

"Well, OK," Rebecca acquiesced with a slight smile at Deirdre. "You're the only one here, Ms. Mattock, so the section is pretty much yours."

"Thank you, darling," Deirdre said as Rebecca ducked back into the dark, going wherever flight attendants go on long overnights.

"Thank you, ma'am, thank you," the boy smiled, walking past.

"My pleasure, young man," she said. "Now be a dear and stop on the way back for a chat. I can't sleep much on these trips."

He gulped, eyes wide in the dark as Deirdre's blanket slipped to the floor, revealing her long, tanned and supple legs, with noticeable sagging flesh on the insides of her beautiful thighs, and those incredible toes down below encased in black socks. Black socks like his granny wore. Black socks he'd cum in and with over the years of his sexual gathering.

"Ooops!" she said, feigning embarrassment and very slowly picking up the blanket to cover those luscious limbs from his obvious stare. "Silly me!"

He shuffled to the bathroom, pulled out his half-hard cock, courtesy of the fleeting glimpse of Deirdre's legs and socks, and pissed. He put his head back, stroking himself fully hard now as he finished his piss, feeling the insistent ache in his bloated balls build. He was nearly there, envisioning his hands and feet on those black-socked feet when there was a knock at the door.

"Don't be greedy!" he heard the woman say. "Some of us have to go, too!"

He stopped mid-stroke, calling out, "OK, almost done!" and stuffing his stiff prick back into his shorts, willing it down. It obeyed, half heartedly, and he cracked the door, looking out into the softly wrinkled blue eyes of the silver-haired woman in black socks, standing in those socks and t-shirt and shorts. His cock swelled anew.

"There's two bathrooms up here, but the pilot's using one," she whispered, pointing to the barred gate that was put into place separating that lavatory from the cabin when pilots were using it. "Sorry, son."

"No, no, that's fine, fine," he said, bending slightly as he exited the bathroom, turning to watch her scoot inside, their bodies agonizingly close in the passing, smelling the scent of her perfume, sniffing the air for a foot smell and finding none.

She turned before closing the door as he averted his gaze from the slightly sagging backs of her amazingly sexy thighs and calves knotted above her socks.

"Hey, feel free to lay down in my bed, check it out," she said with a glimmer of mischief in her blue eyes. "You've never traveled up front have you? Go on, I don't mind, and the flight attendant doesn't either. Be my guest, relax, put your feet up..."

Again, his cock throbbed as she said 'feet' and he smiled weakly at her, walking the aisle to her seat, the blanket folded to the side. He shrugged and slipped into the seat, flat and comfortable, the cushion still warm from her body. He settled in, reveling in the residual heat, and softness of the cushion. And noticed her black shoes down below.

He darted his head out of the pod to the empty still dark, the hum of the engines far behind him. He leaned forward, picked up the shoes and lifted them to his face. All at once it hit him, the urge to cum, as he had under his granny's feet years ago, the leathery, funky sweaty smell devouring his being. He inhaled deeply, ravenously, nose tight to the inside, his tongue darting out, licking, tasting, imagining. He wanted to badly to put his cock in one of her shoes and lick the other, cumming harder than he'd ever cum in his life, but knew she'd be back soon.

He put them back. And then noticed neatly folded to his right on the shelf there, her black slacks. He looked out into the dark again. He picked up the slacks, found the crotch, burying his face in it, inhaling her musky pussy scent, perfumed and clean yet with a hint of sweat and urine. He thought he'd burst in his pants, so he refolded hers carefully and returned them to their perch.

And just in time. Suddenly, she was there, standing above him, smiling, her silver hair glistening in the dark, her white teeth beaming. He looked up, those majestic tits pressed against her t-shirt, free of bra, nipples hard and visible. Her thighs were at eye level, fleshy and tanned, slightly saggy but alluring, shins hard and shiny and wonderfully freckled above those sexy socks.

"All the comforts of home, right?" she laughed quietly with a spread of hands, her upper arm flesh jiggling, the sight of that soft warm flesh exciting him.

"Yeah, it's pretty chill," he said nervously, looking around, anywhere but at her.

She looked over at her pants. They'd been moved. By him, she assumed. It made her pussy tingle in her silky running shorts knowing he'd likely had them to his face. She saw her shoes down below, also not exactly as before. The thought made her smile.

"Well now," she said softly, barely above the engine hum, sitting on the arm of the middle row of pods, arms crossed, one leg over the other, the muscle of that calf spreading in a meaty, sexy flare around her shinbone, her black sock low on her slender ankle. "Tell me about yourself. Your name, what's your name?"

And thus began a long, uncomfortable conversation, at least for the boy, his dick hard in his shorts as she tortured him with that crossed leg and black sock, occasionally crossing the other leg, torturing him anew.

They filled each other in, he awkward and uncertain, she poised and calm, knowing full well the effect her bare legs and socked feet were having on him. His name was Bryan Allen, he was 19, a college freshman. She told him of her work, how she traveled a lot, that she was single. A fairly nondescript conversation opening windows into two disparate lives now coming together in the dark of the first-class cabin.

"You remind me of my grandchildren," Deidre said, suddenly stretching, her breasts scraping the t-shirt, nipples moving up and then down, taking Bryan's gaze with them.

"Oh, you're too young to have grandchildren, Mrs. Mattock," he said convincingly.

"You sweet boy!" she laughed. "Darling, I'm 62, more than old enough to have grandchildren. Great-grandchildren in fact! I married at 20, had my first child, who gave me a grandson when I was 40. And two years ago, he had a child, also when he was 20, so that makes me a great-grandmother."

"Amazing," Bryan said, jaw dropping. "I just cannot believe that."

"You're so cute, you really are," she smiled. "Now tell me, is there anyone special in your life."

He blushed. There were only a few dates here and there, and nothing of a sexual nature. Ever. He was loathe to admit that to anyone, much less this vision of elderly beauty before him.

"Uh...no, not really...I haven't found...I mean I haven't done...I mean...." He stammered.

She leaned over to him, her astonished face inches from him, her breath sweet from the mouthwash she'd just used in the lav.

"You mean....you don't mean...," she said wide eyed. "You're a...."

"No, no, no I'm not," he said a trifle too vehemently, blushing, giving himself away.

"No, no, that's laudable, my boy, quite laudable, you're holding out, that is so wonderfully old fashioned!" she laughed. "Now had I held out, I wouldn't be a great granny now!"

They chatted a few moments longer. Then as she sat on the armrest across the aisle, she suddenly, on impulse, put her feet up on the armrest of her seat, where the boy sat. Staring down at the wiggly toes encased in those black socks that were driving him mad.

"Mmmmm, I need a good stretch, I cramp up on these long flights," she sighed, leaning forward to hug those tanned thighs, her pretty face on her knees as she hugged them, stretching her back. "That feels so good...oh, I'm sorry, my dirty feet are right in your face!"

She started to retract them and he barked out, "No, Mrs. Mattock, that's fine, you leave them right where they are!"

He realized the intensity with which he spoke those words and looked frightened up into her gently wrinkled eyes. She smiled.