"Mmmm..." I purred with pleasure, like a sleek black panther drowsing in the sunset. "Just think Rodney, after were married we'll get to do this all the time."
"Yeah, Kylie ... Fuck yeah..." His rich voice was soft and I smiled at the sound of it.
"Shhh ... Don't talk, Rodney ... Keep licking..." I nodded happily as my big black stud went back to his happy task.
Big black stud, yeah right.
I had to stifle a giggle as I mentally corrected myself. Rodney had seemed imposing at first, when my father had introduced us and especially a few weeks later, when the man had asked me out on our first date. Rodney was tall, over six feet and solid, if not exactly muscular. He was trim and well proportioned, enough so that all of my female friends took quick notice and expressed their envy. His face was handsome enough, black with dark brown eyes and thick, soft lips. He had a nose that was neither too broad, nor too flat, thank goodness. I don't know why, but I have a thing for noses and most black people have ugly noses, I think.
Yes, Rodney did give the appearance of a big black stud, and he had something of a reputation. The word does get around and my best friend, Janisha, is a bit of a Nancy Drew when it comes to checking out boyfriends, hers, mine, anyone's really. She likes that sort of thing, and so I'd gotten the full report. How Rodney had some eight or nine different girlfriends in college, all of them pretty, all of them black, but they just hadn't worked out for some reason. Of course Janisha, being Janisha, wasn't go to stop without a reason but try as she might, all she could get out of Rodney's old flames was that the man was sweet, gentle, and passionate.
That wasn't much of a reason and Janisha had been decidedly unhappy.
It didn't matter though, I knew the reason now. I'd learned it on our third date, which is the one where most men, even the sweet ones, try to get a little more than a kiss goodnight. I was a virgin, but I wasn't entirely innocent and I'd been prepared to make out a little, to let Rodney have a little skin, albeit briefly and only after we were parked in front of my parents' house. I'd let him touch my breasts if he really pushed for it, but Rodney had been much more interested in touching me someplace else.
I'd dressed nice, being the 19 year old college coed I was, and some people would call me a Black American Princess probably, but I didn't care for that stereotype a whole lot. I came from middle class suburbia and I think my attitude and morals reflected that. I'm pretty, even beautiful now as a young woman finally, with my long black hair straitened so that all the tight curly kinks are at the ends. I like it that way and it suits my high cheeks and upturned nose. I have a heart shaped face and lips which are full and sensual, rather than just thick. My pout is only slightly ruined by the smile that plays perpetually at the corners of my mouth, and mirrors the playful humor of my bright brown eyes.
I wore an angora sweater for my date, soft and blonde; it hugged my body nicely, showing off my 34C breasts and the narrow 22 inch waist beneath them. A modest skirt, black and hemmed two inches above my knees, was fitted around my 32 inch hips. It was just tight enough to prove to the world that all black girls don't have huge booty. My ass is tight and round and nicely firm and I can do magic tricks with it, like making men walk into parked cars at the mall as I saunter past. The skirt showed off plenty of leg too, because I have some long ones, smooth and brown like the rest of me. They're the secret of my five foot nine inch height and I do like the view from there.
So, I have a nice body and I'm proud of it and I was offering it to Rodney as we sat parked in his car after a pleasant evening out, or at least some of my body. I'd already made it clear that I was a virgin and determined to stay that way until I was married. It was an idea planted by my parents at a young age, nurtured carefully and soon to be harvested, I knew. I was nineteen and with my looks and personality I wouldn't remain single for long and that was fine with me and my parents. Our difference of opinion was something else, something as plain and obvious as the difference between black and white.
But that's getting ahead of myself.
"Goddamn, you're fine as hell, girl..." Rodney breathed, stroking my bare thigh with one hand while he cradled me with the other.
"Don't swear." I chided him with a giggle. "It isn't nice."
"Sorry baby." Rodney leaned his mouth close to mine for another kiss and I closed my eyes, accepting his thick wet tongue into my mouth and teasing it with my own.
His hand moved a little higher and I murmured my muffled protests, putting my hand on his and moving it back to my knee where it belonged. He wasn't going to force me, I knew that. Rodney was a good boy, but like all boys he wanted to get his fingers into the cookie jar. I could control him though, which had surprised me a little. The few black guys I'd dated previously had been a little too aggressive, a little too eager, and when I'd shut them down it had made them unhappy. I hadn't gone on a lot of second or third dates with those guys.
Rodney was different, he would test the waters and when I told him no, he'd just smile and nod and go back to wherever we'd been before. Either he really did respect me, or he just didn't have the courage to assert himself, and I wasn't exactly sure which. Obviously I was rooting for respect because as much as I'd gotten annoyed with those other guys, I did like a man who knew what he wanted and was willing to push the envelope to get it. That didn't stop me from dropping them like rocks though and I suddenly wondered if maybe Rodney hadn't checked me out too. That was a little scary, but men aren't that devious and I put it out of my head.
We kissed a little more and it was getting warm inside that car, the windows were fogging up and I could feel my body responding. It was nice and I was waiting for Rodney to make a move for my tits when I felt his hand moving on my leg again, but not up, not towards my skirt and the forbidden treasure beneath; Rodney was moving down, massaging my calf and lower, twisting his body and breaking our kiss as I looked at him in the dim light.
"What are you doing?" I smiled and Rodney had found my left foot and he was slipping off my shoe slowly.
"I just want to touch your feet." He said softly. "Okay?"
He sounded as though I might actually say no, which made him seem guilty somehow. I've been accused at times of reading too much into a person's tone of voice, or choice of words, but believe me when I say I'm very good at deciphering such signals. It's where my woman's intuition lives and my closest friends know it. Some of them refuse to even speak with me on the phone if they're trying to keep a secret from me, like a surprise party or whatever. Rodney was hiding something and there was a tremor in his fingers to match the flutter in his voice.
"You want to give me a foot massage?" I asked, thinking it was a little odd perhaps, but there were certainly worse ways to end a date.
"Oh, God yes." Rodney licked his lips and I giggled, turning and moving away so I could lean against the car door and present the man with both of my feet in his lap.
"Okay, sure. I'd love a good massage." I grinned and watched the man remove my other shoe, inspecting it for a second, even lifting it to his nose and inhaling deeply before setting it carefully aside.
"No tickling." I warned him.
"What?" Rodney grinned and I realized he wasn't teasing me.
This, I quickly discovered, was a man who loved feet. As pretty as my face was, as perfect as my body seemed to most people, Rodney's infatuation lay squarely across his thighs. My size six feet, all brown on top, pinkish between the toes, and rather light along the soles. He massaged them one at a time, using both hands to knead and squeeze my foot, not tickling me at all, but making it feel delightfully wicked. This was a sexual thing, there was no mistaking it, and I could feel the bulge of Rodney's straining cock trapped in his trousers. He was getting off on it and I was growing moist and my nipples burned just watching him.
"Is that what you like best, Rodney?" I asked him, coaxing the man gently to tell me the truth. "Do you love my feet?"
"I ... I don't know why." He looked at me and I had a sense that this was probably about the place so many of his previous relationships had abruptly ended.
"Use your mouth." I suggested after a wonderful five minutes of foreplay, because that's how it seemed.
"You mean it?" Rodney swallowed thickly and he smiled at me with such gratitude that I felt like I was ten feet tall suddenly.
It was the look in his eyes that affected me most. The sheer adulation I witnessed there was unmistakable. I probably could have suggested nearly anything and Rodney would have done it. He wanted to please me and for whatever reason worshipping my feet was the key, the ritual the man needed to perform in order to gain satisfaction sexually. I didn't pretend to understand it and I could see how a girl might be a little freaked out by it. It's one thing to have a man's respect and admiration, but to have him literally groveling at your feet? It's unexpected and not always what we're looking for.
"Tell me what you want." I told him, wondering how he'd respond. "Tell me your fantasy, Rodney."
"My fantasy?" He looked at me, clearing his throat and Rodney seemed so much smaller just then. "I just ... I want to..."
"You can tell me, I don't mind." I promised him. "I want to understand, okay?"
.... There is more of this story ...