As fetishes go no doubt there could be worse.
A fascination, obsession, attraction that cannot
be denied, for feet. Ah, correction that should be
singular, only one foot, my right. And he is
adamant in his amour over it, licking it at every
opportunity, his tiny tongue -- for he is very small --
probing and reaching into each interstice between
each toe, lavishing licks on heels and ankles
as though each molecular cell that gives any
substance to the presence of that foot satisfies
some strange lust. Can I deny him his pleasure?
Is my surrender to his ministrations warped? Do
I encourage his bizarre fascination with my foot?
And nor does it end there for he retrieves the socks
I wear and set aside in the laundry room, hauling
them away to his bed in the family room. For this
is one very preoccupied little puppy, his passion
carrying him away on the wings of fanciful delight.
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