keywords: Fdom,feet THE MAKEUP LADY alien_ov@yahoo.com When my previous roommate decided to move in with his girlfriend, I decided I was tired of living in the tiny, expensive downtown condo we had been renting and look for someplace else to live. After a few unpromising leads, I found a listing online from a woman who wanted to rent out the spare bedroom in her townhouse, which was located in a pleasant neighborhood right where the city meets the suburbs. Her name was Linda; she was a woman somewhat older than myself, I'd estimate in her late 40s or early 50s. Her skin had just a hint of olive-tan coloration, and her facial features made me suspect there might be at least a trace of Italian or Latina heritage. It was obvious that Linda paid great attentions to her appearance; she immediately struck me as elegant and fashionable in a somewhat bold but tasteful way. Her moderately short spiky blond-streaked hair looked flattering, she applied her lip gloss and eyeliner with subtle artistry, and wore clothes that were stylish and eye-catching without ever being garish. Although she was practically old enough to be my mother, and had maybe picked up a few extra pounds over the years (I'll be blunt; she had sort of a big ass, but not in a bad way), there was definitely something eye-catching about her -- it occurred to me right off that this was a woman who could easily have serious "cougar" appeal if it ever struck her fancy to send out signals in that direction. I met Linda for coffee, and at first she was pretty dubious about the idea of having a 30 year old guy as a housemate. It was just that she liked the peaceful atmosphere of her home and shuddered at the thought of all the loud music and beer-drinking sports fans which she assumed were part and parcel of my demographic. I assured her that all that wasn't my scene, that I was a pretty quiet and introverted guy whose idea of a great Saturday night was sipping a couple of gin & tonics and watching some DVDs. I explained that I worked as a freelance technical writer and editor, and that while I worked from home most of the time, I usually happily kept to myself. Linda told me a bit about herself, how she had worked in real estate for the past 15 years and made a pretty comfortable living from it, and that while she still dabbled in real estate a bit, she also kept herself busy with other projects. Most recently she had starting selling cosmetics and beauty products for a new company which advertised all-natural eco-friendly products, and was built on a direct-sales model where sales representatives would sell to their friends and colleagues in their spare time. From there, our conversation drifted to local area small talk, current events, and even a little political gossip. It was clear that we were two different people in many ways, but our chat seemed pleasant and relaxed enough, and so I was only a little surprised when Linda called me the next morning to offer me the room. I settled into the townhouse quickly enough. I enjoyed having Linda as a housemate/landlady. At times she could be a little finnicky about having things around the house just so, and while some of her whimsies might have come across as bossy or bitchy from somebody else, Linda had an easygoing charisma that make it so I never seemed to mind going along with her rules, even when they didn't seem particularly reasonable. We didn't always see a lot of one another, but it was pretty common for us to spend an hour a day or so chatting in the kitchen or living room, either in the mornings or evenings. After a couple of months living there, one evening I was complaining about one of my regular editing clients who had been recently jerking me around a bit, not sending as much work my way as they'd promised. I reassured Linda that there wasn't any question about being able to pay the rent on time, just that I was annoyed at the prospect of not having as much spending money as I'd been counting on for the next couple of months. "You can come help me sell beauty products," she said offhandedly, fiddling with something work-related on her laptop at the time. "Nah, it sounds cushy enough, but I don't think I'm cut out for that line of work." "Well I'm serious about the offer," she said. "You have a flexible schedule, and I'm not going to send you out out into the field solo to sell anything. You could help me with some heavy lifting, keep paperwork in order, that sort of thing." I told her I'd think about, and although I wasn't seriously considering at the time, a few weeks later I found myself still a bit light on work and agreed to give it a try. Linda was pleased with my decision, and the next day she said she wanted to take me out on a sales call with her, to visit her friend Ann. I made sure I had some nice clothes ready to wear, and spent half an hour browsing through the product catalog but didn't really have any idea what to expect. Ann invited Linda and I into her house, and the two women immediately began making gossipy small talk. Ann was a thin middle-aged redhead who looked to be in her late 40s, who was moderately pretty except she wore a bit too much makeup to be flattering, and her hair looked a bit too obviously dyed. She wore a gypsy-type blouse, faded jeans, and orange open-heeled foam slippers on her bare feet. As she spoke she took occasional drags from the Virginia Slims cigarette she held between her ringed, manicured fingers. As the two women animatedly chatted, Ann drifted into her kitchen a poured a glass of white wine for Linda and herself, without offering me one. I silently shifted from foot to foot, a bit uncomfortably, until the women settled into the living room couch, and Ann indicated with a polite gesture that I should take a seat in one of the comfortable chairs across the room. "I think I'm okay on perfume and makeup," Ann decided after flipping idly through the catalog for a couple of minutes. "But I see you have a bunch of new foot care stuff in here. Is it pretty good?" "Well I'm glad you asked," Linda smiled, digging around in her sample case for a moment and producing a small tube of lotion. "This foot cream is very soothing and invigorating, it's all natural, and it has a nice mild peach scent. She passed the tube to Ann, who dabbed a bit of the lotion on the back of her hand. "It does smell nice," she agreed, "and my feet could definitely use some lotioning." "Honey, why don't you help her out with that?" It took me a moment to realize that Linda was speaking to me, and I wasn't sure what she meant. "Go on," she explained, "help her with the lotion. You're going to need to get to know the products and she said her feet could use some lotioning. Why don't you go ahead and rub her feet?" "Oh that's okay," Ann laughed. "Besides I haven't had a shower today and I'm sure my feet stink in these slippers." "Don't be silly," Linda reassured, "we're all friends here, and you know my attitude; whether you buy something today or not, I still want you to feel pampered and relaxed. I sell this stuff because I like the products and I want you to enjoy them too." "Well okay, I'm not one to turn down a foot massage." Although I'm sure I must have been blushing with embarrassment and couldn't bring myself to meet the women's eyes, I followed Linda's prompting and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Ann's slippered feet. Ann handed me the tube of lotion and slipped her feet out of the well-worn foam slippers and rested them in my lap. Her feet were narrow, long-toed and bony; her toenails had been painted the same deep red as her fingernails although the paint on her toes was chipped and in need of a touch-up. I could also see that the insoles of her slippers were dirty and worn, and that some of the dirt and grime had stuck to the sides of her feet and in between her toes. Ann hadn't been kidding about stinky feet either; once her feet were bare for a few seconds I couldn't help but notice their pungent sweaty smell. Her feet smelled really gross. I squirted some of the cool milky lotion onto my fingers, swallowed my pride, and began to rub one of Ann's bare feet. Her toes were warm from being nestled in her slippers all day, and the bottoms of her feet were damp with pungent sweat. I also noticed that her heels and the balls of her feet were somewhat rough and callused, and so made an effort to massage some of the lotion into these areas. The foot lotion did have a nice scent, but it was completely overpowered by the sour musky stench of Ann's foot odor. It was all I could do not to wrinkle my nose in disgust, but I managed to persevere and stay focused on massaging Ann's slender middle-aged feet for some time. The women hardly paid attention to me; they chatted and relaxed for over an hour, sipping another glass of wine. Finally, Linda said she needed to get going, apologizing that she had some other things that needed looking after. Ann pulled her feet from my lap (now well lotioned and massaged but still very stinky) and slipped them back in her dirty house slippers. "You know I do like that lotion," she told Linda. "Go ahead and order a couple of those for me if you would. And thanks for the sample." And with that, I meekly followed Linda out the door as the women said their goodbyes. Not a word had been said about me or the foot massage beyond that initial command from Linda. We got in Linda's car and drove for a couple of miles in silence. "Well that wasn't quite what I expected," I finally said, trying to make a joke of it but still feeling a little uncomfortable. "You did fine," Linda answered casually and matter-of-factly. "You did as you were told." I waited for some further comment or explanation but she didn't seem to feel any was necessary. When we arrived back at the townhouse, I helped her carry the sample cases inside and started to head upstairs to my room to relax. "Do me a favor," Linda said before I disappeared. "Run down the street and pick up some carryout from the Thai restaurant for me. Yellow curry with shrimp." "Okay," I answered automatically, taken a little off-guard by the directness of the command but wanting to make a good impression, and a bit dazzled by her easy confidence. When I returned from the restaurant, Linda was relaxing in the living room watching a movie on TV. "Get me a plate and silverware and come in here." Her tone was soft and casual, but her words had clearly been an order, not a request or an invitation. But yet I did as she said and brought her her meal. "After having you rub Ann's feet this afternoon I decided I'm about due for some of the same". She flexed and pointed her feet, still in their smart black pumps and nylons, and by now I knew what was expected of me. I took a seat on the floor, helped her off with her size 9 dress shoes, and began tentatively massaging her somewhat wide, fleshy feet through her tan reinforced-toe nylons. Her feet were pretty and feminine and her toenails were carefully groomed and pedicured, but like Ann's feet there were some rough callused spots around the heels and the sides of the big toes. Linda's feet were also extremely sweaty and stinky from being trapped in leather pumps and nylons all day; within a few moments, from where I sat, the delicious smell of the curry she was eating was overpowered by the dank musk of her foot odor. I dutifully massaged as best as I was able, and while part of me found the task to be distasteful and uncomfortable, there was another part that found it strangely exciting -- I had to admit I was a little turned on by the unexpected intimacy of the act, and the way Linda easily ordered me around. Even if I wasn't thrilled with the damp, sour stench of her feet, which she absent-mindedly flexed and wriggled just inches from my nose. I kneaded and massaged Linda's sweaty nylonned feet for over half an hour as she nibbled at her dinner and watched a talk show on one of the cable networks. She didn't speak a word to me the whole time. Finally, she pulled her feet away, took her empty plate into the kitchen and walked upstairs. When she returned a minute later, I saw she had taken off her nylons, and now wore a pair of casual flip-flops over her bare feet, and carried a pink vinyl cosmetic case. She took a set once again, unzipped the case, and handed me a bottle of foot lotion (a different kind than before) and a flat pink plastic wand that was covered with a rough texture like an emory board. "First, you rub my feet with lotion. Then, you file the calluses on my feet." Her voice was pleasant and matter-of-fact, and for just a moment I swallowed nervously as I thought about how readily I followed her orders, how natural and logical she made the whole thing feel. She was a busy woman and surely deserved some pampering and relaxation. And if I was going to be working with her, I should make a good impression, and I should become familiar with the beauty products I would help her sell. She interrupted my lotion massage just long enough to prop her heels up on a low footstool with a folded towel on it, so that now the wrinkled soles of her feet were barely inches from my face. Her fleshy feet filled my vision and I studied them carefully as I kneaded and caressed her arches, insteps, and massaged each of her pedicured toes with great attention. I could still definitely smell her foot odor -- it seemed to be strongest and most pungent in between her toes -- but soon enough I started thinking of the scent as just part of the duty I had been assigned. And, I decided, it was part of HER scent. After thoroughly massaging each foot with lotion until my hands began to cramp up, I finished the procedure by using the plastic foot file to gently slough some of the thick, dry skin from Linda's heels, the balls of her feet, and the outside of each big toe. "That's fine," she said at last, casually brushing the sole of her left foot against my face before slipping her feet back into her flip-flops and standing. "Do be sure to wash the dishes and clean up the kitchen." Without another word, she walked upstairs and retired to her bedroom and office for the evening. These foot massages soon became an almost daily ritual. Most evenings I would wander downstairs to get a snack from the kitchen, and more often than not Linda would request I come into the living room. "Do be a dear and rub my feet," she would say, with only a brief absent-minded glance down at her toes, before returning her full attention to her laptop or the book or TV program she was focused on. Sometimes I would massage her feet through her sweat-dampened nylons or thin black dress socks (these socks get REALLY stinky by the end of the day); on other occasions her feet would be bare, and I would be expected to perform the more extensive lotioning and callus-filing procedure. One evening she mentioned offhandedly that "one of these days I think I'll have you start polishing my toenails, but I should probably send you to a class for that first." I couldn't tell if she was kidding, and the comment caught me enough off-guard that I just sort of smiled and shrugged and kept kneading her instep. About a week after that comment, I was sitting in my bedroom one Saturday morning, having coffee and playing around on the internet, when Linda knocked on my doorframe and leaned her head into my room. "If you're not doing anything important, I have something for you to do. If you're going to help me with my business, I need to make sure I look my best when I go out on calls. Your job for today is to organize my shoe closet; there are many pairs which need cleaning and polishing." I was a little taken aback that she would tell me to do something so trivial and menial (and her tone of voice was definitely that she was telling, not asking), but still I wanted to make sure she was happy -- I didn't mind giving her the foot massages, and overall I liked where I was living. She led me down the hall to her bedroom -- the first time I'd been inside it -- and gestured to the smaller of two closets on one wall. Inside, the closet was lined ceiling to floor with shelves full of shoes -- dress shoes, loafers, sandals, boots, sneakers, and more. I'd no idea she had such a shoe collection, there were hundreds of pairs. On the floor was a lidded plastic tub full of different colors of shoe polish, rags, and round brushes for scrubbing and buffing. "As you can see, I kind of have an organizational system, with the heels up top, flats and sandals in the middle, and sneakers and older shoes near the bottom. You can make sure everything is where it should be, and then you can go from top to bottom, shining and polishing all of the leather shoes and cleaning everything as best as possible. That means clean up any scuffs and make sure there's no dirt caked on the bottom of any of the shoes." Before I had a chance to respond, she had already glided out of the room and left me to my work. I was stunned, but hadn't I already as much as consented to the task? It would be awkward if I followed Linda to question her or complain. It would be rude. Besides, I WAS definitely a bit attracted to Linda, and there was something strangely hot about spending a couple of hours in her bedroom, a hint of her perfume lingering in the air, taking care of the shoes which made her feel confident and look attractive. I tried to shrug off my uncertainty and set to work on her shoe collection. It ended up taking almost five hours to work my way through the entire shoe rack -- there were lots of boots and expensive-looking leather heels which needed polishing, and I made sure to do a thorough job scrubbing off any dried mud on Linda's sneakers and rubber-soled shoes. When I finished, I headed downstairs, a little nervously, to inform Linda that I'd finished the task. "I'll check your work when I'm done watching my movie," she replied, dismissing me with a smile. I headed back up to my room and relaxed with a book until Linda stopped in about an hour later, announcing her presence by clopping one of her sneakers against the doorframe. "It looks much better in there," she explained patiently, "but maybe next time you should use a toothbrush to really get in those treads and scrub the dirt out." She stared at me pointedly for a long moment, turned on her heel and left. From then on, tending to Linda's shoe closet became a regular weekend chore. It went much more quickly of course, but Linda seemed displeased if I didn't spend at least an hour or two taking care of her shoe collection, and was quick to gently but firmly chastise me if her shoes weren't lined up, or if they were dusty. One night I was giving Linda her nightly foot massage, and as was common practice, I had first massaged her stocking-covered feet, then she had slipped off her thigh-high nylons and had me work on her bare feet for a while. It was getting late and she was getting ready to go upstairs to bed. "I'd like you to take these stockings upstairs and hand wash them in the sink. You can just hang them over the shower curtain rod to dry and I'll get them in the morning." I did as she asked, and this too quickly became a regular service I provided for Linda. Whenever she had any stockings which needed washing, she would deposit them in a wicker basket next to the bathroom sink, and I was to see they were hand-washed and air dried for her use the next morning. I was really the only one who used the upstairs bathroom (Linda had a private bath connected to her bedroom), and now I had a nearly-constant visual reminder that not only was I massaging and caring for the tired, sweaty feet of my landlady and part-time boss, not only was I taking care of her shoe collection on a regular basis, but now I was hand-laundering her dirty hosiery every night before I went to bed. Linda still had me going out on sales calls with her two or three times a week, and often these outings just seemed like an excuse for Linda to order me to give a lengthy foot massage to one of her friends or customers. Mostly her customers were well-dressed middle aged women, although there were a smattering of pretty young women, college-aged or in their twenties, and there were a few older, frumpy housewives (including a couple of large grey-haired ladies whose feet were NOT attractive). Whether I provided foot massages or not, one thing was a constant: I was never introduced by name, I was never expected to speak, I was never addressed at all unless Linda wanted me to get something from the car or refill the women's drinks. This all went on for about two months, and providing these services for Linda started to take up more and more of my time each week. And mostly, I somehow craved it; at least I craved the attention from and closeness to Linda. But I also couldn't help but wonder if I was somehow getting in over my head. One evening, there was a concert in town I wanted to see, as much as anything because I hadn't had a night out by myself in a couple of weeks. When I heard Linda come home that afternoon, I went downstairs to talk to her while she was relaxing with a cup of tea. I asked if she'd mind if I went out for the evening. "Don't be ridiculous," she smiled. "I've had a long day on my feet today, I'm full of stress, and I expect to spend the evening unwinding with a very thorough foot massage. Here, help me with my shoes in fact." I sighed with exasperation as I found myself doing exactly as she ordered, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor and helping slip her stockinged feet out of her expensive navy heels. "I don't want to disappoint you," I tried to explain, sounding a bit more vulnerable and pleading than I realized, "but sometimes it feels a little overwhelming, all the things you have me do all the time." "You are my foot boy and my servant," Linda said, smiling good-naturedly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I have taught you to obey women, that women are your superiors. I know you are grateful for these lessons, but you must show your gratitude by always doing as I say. Surely you realize that serving me should be your priority, just as I'm sure you realize that when a woman gives you an instruction, you are to obey her. It's really that simple." Linda smiled down at me with a gaze that was gentle and reassuring yet completely dominant. "Yes Linda," I answered, lowering my eyes, my head swimming with a mixture of emotions I couldn't begin to sort out. "That's MS. Linda from now on," she corrected. "And unless you're told otherwise, you address all women as 'Ma'am', always. Do you understand? And as far as my friends and I are concerned, from now on your name is foot slave. Kiss my foot to show you understand." And I did; I bent my head down and pressed my lips to the pedicured foot which had become the center of my world over the past weeks. "That's it. That's how things should be right there, that's how things will be from now on. You kiss my foot because I am superior to you and deep down you understand that. I am smarter than you, more successful, more attractive, more socially able and better educated. And I am a Woman, and that alone makes me better than you. And you, little foot slave, you should consider yourself more or less the luckiest man alive, because you KNOW your place, you KNOW that women are your superiors, and from now on I'm going to make sure you spend your every waking moment learning to understand that basic little fact in ways you can't yet begin to imagine. "That's right, KISS MY FOOT to show you understand." And I did. Although what she said was scary and humiliating, it was also wildly intoxicating, and I knew that the thing I wanted most in all of the world was to kiss and worship that lovely feminine foot, to pour out all of the love and devotion in my heart to this strict and mysterious Goddess who had seduced me into a state of obedient humiliation. The pattern of foot massage rituals every evening stayed mostly the same, only now there were a few differences. Ms. Linda told me to strip naked whenever I was sitting at her feet, and first thing whenever she took her shoes off, I had to lick the bottoms of her feet to show respect (no matter how dirty and sweaty her feet might be). Sometimes, after the usual extended massage, she would have me suck her toes while she relaxed. While I still frequently rubbed her smelly feet with lotion, now instead of filing her calluses with a pedicure tool, she would have me lie on the floor and suck her heels and balls of feet and gently scrape away the rough, thick skin with my teeth. Ms. Linda also quickly became much more explicit and humiliating in her orders to me, clearly taking great satisfaction in verbally teasing and degrading me. "I know my feet get stinky and sweaty," she would reflect as I licked at them. "They smell so bad that most women with foot odor like mine would be afraid to take off their shoes with people around. But you're a foot slave now, that's what you do; you take off my shoes for me and lie on the ground and let me wipe those disgusting-smelling feet on your face, and I just say the word and you open your mouth and stick out your tongue so I can use that tongue as a wash rag for my foot sweat. Right?" Of course she didn't expect an answer, not with all five toes of her wide foot pressing and twisting ever-deeper into my throat. "You serve women's feet," she explained. "That's your purpose now. And not just by giving foot massages and shining shoes, no, that's the kind of thing an actual person might do. You're beneath that. You crawl around naked on the floor and you lick my smelly feet and eat my toe jam and suck my sock lint. From now on you do that for all women, that's the highest privilege you can hope for, to let some woman -- ANY woman -- use you as her foot rest and foot licker and foot wipe. "And yet," she mused at times, narrowing her eyes as she looked down at me with a mixture of amusement and disgust, wiping the toes of one smelly foot all over my face as she jammed her wide, callused heel into my mouth, "you have so MUCH to learn".