Prologue

You probably think of investment bankers as total conformists. And, mostly, I think they are. But the booms and busts of the 1980s and 1990s, the big money made and lost, brought all kinds of new talent into this Brooks Brothers, tightass world. At my firm, we get very hungry, streetwise kids with MBAs rubbing shoulders with patrician Ivy League types. And, being based in Los Angeles, we get our full share of glamor-hungry California crazies, too. Even though we don't do much movie and entertainment M&A: It's mostly oldline industry, some Silicon Valley implosions, consumer banking and blue collar retail.

The senior partners at the firm -- Lee, Lee, Smith & Feldstein & Co. -- would just as soon turn the clock back. But the 'diversity' idea has caught up with us. There are laws and quotas. To me, it doesn't seem so bad. Talent is talent, whatever the package. We have to try to hire plenty of women and minorities, when we can find ones who qualify. A little craziness is not a barrier to working with us. And that's among the partners and associates. . .At support staff level, we take what we can get, hoping not to get too many whackos. Sound familiar to you?

The more senior you are, the less exposure you get to the wild underside of our company. Unfortunately, at the time I'm speaking of, in mid-1993, I was a relatively junior partner, and so I got to spend several unwilling hours a week on soothing ruffled egos, racial outrage, feminist frenzy, and putting out brush fires in such humdrum departments as word processing, dispatch and billing. Sometimes, I wondered why. . .

Here's what happened, one hot summer day . . . I'd just gotten back from lunch, hoping to get a few things done before the endless cycle of internal meetings and client phone calls chewed up the afternoon. No such luck. In stormed my secretary -- sorry, my PA in her book -- with a new crisis. She's Valerie, but known all across the floor as The Valcano. A Californian blonde in her late 30s, well-off from inheritances and divorcee lootings, and a skilled infighter. New affronts, misuses of the copier key, lost messages, my head was spinning as she listed inter-departmental problems she wanted me to solve with a wave of my hand.

"Val, no time today, okay? Can't it wait . . .? We're due to talk about some of these things that relate to the Mirabile acquisition tomorrow, and if it could hold . . ." Mirabile was an REIT that had tangled with an S&L and spawned a snafu.

"Fuck!" she hissed. "Well, you're the boss, but just don't blame me if . . ." she waved her hand dramatically, conjuring potential disasters in some symbolic logic I couldn't follow. She was madder at me than usual, for some reason. I just caught a hint of what was annoying her: "You spent half the morning doing your e-mail stuff, instead of leaving it to me," she huffed. "And now you're off to another damn meeting . . ."

I shrugged. I'd done my own e-mail, because I liked to. So?

"I don't know why, Bradford," she ranted. "Partners get paid too much to type . . ." I tuned it out. I'd heard it before. Yes, they did, but it was nice to be able to deal with what you could call 'interesting' mail, personal stuff, without interference. In fact, some of mine, recently. . .well, I didn't want anyone seeing.

I shuffled a few papers, and turned to go to the 1:30pm interdepartmental. It was then, I swear, she said it. Quite calmly: "You never wonder what *my* cunt smells like." I looked up in surprise, and she was staring intently, judging my reaction. "Huh!? Val, I . . . Sorry, I must have missed that. What did you say??"

"I said," she repeated, rounding her words: "You never wanted to know what their vacancies sell like." A pause. "Mirabile. The condos they were marketing." Another long pause as I digested this. "Oh, never mind. Go to the meeting. We'll catch up when you get back," she snapped, and left.

Hello, who works for who here? I grabbed a folder or two and left. She was already on the phone at her desk outside, speaking quietly, as I walked away.

* The Perils of E-Mail*

The meeting was a relatively quick one, only two hours. Mostly a plea for partners and others to think of new revenue-enhancing tricks, cost savings, to 'make rain' and to do the impossible with tiny resources. I found myself musing about what I thought I'd heard Val say. Had she really said what I thought? Impossible, I decided. Maybe my mind was wandering because I'd spent too much time recently on the internet. Looking, I'll admit it, for some sexually explicit and interesting personals, or some graphics to download.

With that in mind, I should have paid more attention to what Fiona Rogers was saying. This tanglehaired, hyper, fortyish CPA was head of a taskforce on security and firewalls, and she'd given three or four numbingly detailed presentations in recent weeks. Frankly, I didn't know what she was going on about by now, deep into the mantra of network jargon. And by then, it was already too late to catch up.

". . .So, just look out for those usage and cache reports when they are circulated. We're keeping them restricted, to you and your PAs, and some key analysis staff. We'll soon have the leaks all plugged, and there'll be a further benefit. We'll stop a lot of goofing off and potentially damaging activity by support staff, and others . . ."

Did she look in my direction specifically when she said that about others? No, she was scanning the room and giving everyone the beady-eyed traffic cop routine. I tried not to look any more uncomfortable than the others.

My eyes strayed towards Jennifer Lagrande, one of the newer MBAs, who was in on the meeting for 'mentoring' reasons. And they lit on something I like a lot. Her feet.

It was warm in the conference room, with the projector whirring, and the air conditioning was struggling. Jennifer had taken advantage of a new dressdown rule which allowed women staffers to dispense with stockings in the summer. She wore little black tasseled slip-ons, which were now slipped off. She wriggled her toes in 'this little piggie' fashion, and I felt my cock stiffening.

Feet, I like.

Jennifer had joined in the spring on a fast track program at Lee, Lee, Smith & Feldstein. I don't know why she picked our little investment banking firm: She was headed for the big time, in banking or consulting. About 30, with that scary 'I get what I want' attitude, excellent poise, good presentation skills, a killer report writer. Dressed for success, every day. Not just window-dressing. Smart. And not an ugly duckling either. She was the workout, daily running type. Nicely toned, 5' 2" or less. Her short black 'practical' boyish hair with a shaved neck and floppy forelock was her only esthetic failing in my eyes.

Did she see me looking? I'm not sure. It didn't seem like it.

Oh yummy, those toes.

As the meeting ended, I was waved over by Fiona Rogers. "Check your department's usage report carefully, Brad," she said briskly. "Something funny there." Behind her big horn-rimmed glasses with coke bottle lenses, it was hard to read her meaning. She wasn't quite making eye contact, but there was definitely a little smile as I nodded and left.

Val had the report in question open on her desk when I got back. She looked at me rather strangely, handed it over, then left me to myself. I flicked through the first few pages of filenames, transactions, e-mail times in and out, and shrugged. What the hell was all this? Dozens of pages of tiny print. It can wait until later, I told myself.

Mirabile was still a hot topic, so I took a few calls on it. And simultaneously, dialled into AOL on my laptop, via a spare modem port I have in my office. A while passed. I wrote myself a note or two about . . . Jennifer's feet. And what I'd thought Val had said. I found myself drifting, wondering what either might smell like . . . Jennie's cute feet. Val's undoubtedly well-used, but probably vice-tight cunt. . .

Around 5:30pm, Val stepped in. "I have to go, Brad. Anything I can help you with?" I almost said it. And I had the feeling she almost expected me to say something about that part of her anatomy . . . A lingering stare, a little downward look at my lap. She cocked her head at my dismissive grunt. "Jennifer Lagrande just called. She wants to stop by later to ask you about something. Okay?"

I nodded. It was OK. Even if she would be wearing shoes, no doubt.

A half hour passed.

A knock.

Jennifer stepped in, closed the door behind her. She seemed a little agitated.

I had just closed down my main system, and was saving some files from floppies onto the laptop. She began, in her usual perky fashion.

"Look, I don't want to take too much of your time, but . . . Well, can I say something candid? You were checking out my feet in the meeting today weren't you, Brad?"

I flushed, feeling a sudden panic. Oh, so she had seen!

"Uh, Jennifer, are you feeling alright? Was that something about . . . Your feet? Really! I mean. . .No, I'm sorry, you're quite mistaken, young lady . . ."

"Oh? C'mon Brad, it's too late to pretend. You weren't at all subtle. You were checking out my legs and feet, and I know it . . ."

"Know it?" I spluttered, turning coldly logical in my mind. "Look, just stop before we get into something irregular here . . . Be real. How could you *know* it?" A glare of defiance.

"Oh, I know, for sure." A pause. "The new audit system. Don't you ever listen? Data Processing can spool and read anyone's mail, in, out, however it's sent. And grab stuff from your word processing backup files as they're refreshed through the day. So, I've seen your backup file, Brad, the one of some e-mail filth where you are talking about my damned feet. Now do you understand!" Her voice had grown tense, risen until she was shrieking, almost. She was flushed, a little buggy-eyed.

I must have turned white. Was that what all this 'report' shit was about?

And had Val, Fiona seen some of my mail too? Oh, Christ! Was that why they were behaving so, well, oddly toward me?

I was speechless.

Jennifer leaned over my desk, looked me straight in the eye, and said in a flat, menacing tone, with only a razor-thin smile: "Yes, so I do know. Know for a fact, know in the objective sense of the word. We've caught you red-handed, you evil thing. My feet, huh? You'd like to kiss them would you, Brad?"

My mouth was dry, my blood pressure soaring, and I felt sweat breaking out all over me. And the worse thing was, it was true. Yes, I had written that I wanted to kiss her feet, to suck her toes, to . . . Well, never mind what else for now. Now what? How could I deal with this? I reminded myself that I was a partner, a good corporate type, and at least ten years older than her.

What made me hesitate was that she was doing some 'woman' thing. I couldn't quite tell if she was about to go into some complete fury, start crying, or storm off in a rage to the HR department, the Gestapo, that even partners had to fear. Because I felt, rightly or wrongly, the bitches who ran it would love to eliminate a few old white creeps like me to make more room for their cronies. . .

What was this mocking expression on her face now? It was almost as if she was daring me to say 'yes'. Was this an opportunity or a trap? The latter, surely. It was a classic, the kind of sexual harassment scenario we were warned about all year round. HR training movie stuff. The kind of conversational minefield we tell all the youngsters -- male, females both -- to beware of. How should I answer? What would she do?

She looked at me rather warmly, and said, in a soft voice: "Be honest, Brad. Just be honest."

I hesitated. Dammit, I would say it, I decide impulsively. "Uh, well. . .Ha ha. You know, you do have rather beautiful feet, Jennifer. Uh, I couldn't help but look . . ."

"And?"

"And, uh . . .Well, you know. . .Nothing else. . ."

"Bullshit!" she snapped.

"Well, if you must know. . .Yes, you're right. I'd love to kiss them."

She stood abruptly and I heard her kick her shoes off.

Uh-oh.

The desk was in the way. I wanted to stand, look over, see those tiny toes, her slender ankles. But I stayed put. She stared at me, cool and calculating again.

"You could, you know?" A long pause, with the blood pounding in my ears. "You could. If you wanted to. I'd let you kiss my feet, Brad. I'm serious. No tricks."

She looked at me, sighed. I felt my erection growing. She sat down in my guest chair, to one side of the desk. She crossed her legs, her skirt riding up a little. Her right foot was extended invitingly. It was beautiful. Though she had a dancer's poise, she didn't have the rather grungy feet they get from doing points and all that stuff. These were intensely feminine, cute, childlike feet.

"So. . .? Brad? Are you feeling alright? You look very pale," she asked, solicitously.

"Yes," I croaked. "But, I. . .No, I've got to go. . .excuse me. . ." I mumbled.

"Oh? Important business, Brad? On a Friday?" she chuckled. "An appointment with your hand, maybe? Workout time at the stretch-your-dick gym? Something good on at the local porno theater, maybe?"

"No!" Where did young women learn to speak like this? I was particularly shocked, because she was quite close in her guess. A few hours of solitary sex: that was my big Friday night plan.

And she knew. "Then, do you want to kiss my foot? I haven't got all night, you know. If you do, make up your mind, now. Yes or no, Brad?"

My office door was closed, everyone was gone. Why not? There was no chance of being disturbed. And if she planned to do anything funny, well, it was her word against mine, wasn't it?

"Yes, Jennifer," I sighed.

"Yes, what?"

"I, oh, Jesus . . I do want to. . .kiss them. Your feet," I said, blushing from shame, not anger this time.

I dropped to my knees before her, taking her by surprise, I think.

I bent forward, reaching for her dangling foot.

"Brad!" she said sharply, stopping me right there.

I looked up, trying to remain meek. But I was seething. Shit, it was a trick, dammit.

"Brad, you're rushing me," she purred. "Uh, if you want to worship my feet, I want something from you, first. I want you to show me your cock."

I was speechless, again.

"Your penis. Your willy. Your dick, your johnson," she teased. "I can see it bulging out of your pants, so I know you have one . . ."

"But . . . What if. . .? I mean, what if someone. . .?" I gestured toward the door.

She snorted. "Alright, play it that way. Be a prude."

"I'm not!"

"Oh, yeah? Then how about naked, then."

"Naked?" I squeaked, probably sounding like a complete idiot. I'd been called on my bluff.

"Yes. Naked. I think so. That would be much better for you, Brad. You heard me. Get completely nude. If you want the privilege of kissing my feet, you have to show your sincerity, and some. Stand up, and strip."

She uncrossed her legs, tempting me with a flash of smooth thigh. She stared at my crotch, and pointed at her bare foot.

"Come on. It must be worth it. What am I to you, Brad? An office goddess, right?"

A long, strained silence. Had I called her that? She kept her thin, amused smile. I pulled off my tie. I checked my blinds, down because of the afternoon sun. All secure. She smiled as I slowly unbuttoned my shirt, from the top down. I pulled it free of my pants and slipped it off, leaving myself bare to the waist.

"Stand up," she murmured. "Good. You have the right idea, after all. Move over here so I can see you better, foot slave," she said.

I rose from my knees, and stood an arm's length from her. She looked down. I got the idea. I trampled off my shoes, and quickly slipped off my socks.

A little chuckle. "Not such lovely feet, those. But don't stop now, slave. Come on. . ."

I unbuckled my belt, popped open the waistband button and little metal clasp thing. Then I slid my zipper downward, slowly. It sounded as loud as a motorbike to me.

Jennifer watched calmly, as if this was part of a sales presentation.

My suit pants slipped from my hips, fell past my knees, and pooled around my ankles. I kicked them aside, freeing my feet. Now I was wearing nothing but my briefs. Boxers.

She blinked slowly, twice, her eyes narrowing. Mine fell in shame. "Mmmm," I heard. "Big." I was hard, and my cock had molded the front of the shorts into a big tent.

A pause.

"I can smell it. Very turned on, eh?"

A giggle.

"Now, Bradford. Show me. . . Impress me, shock this blushing modest little girl with your *huge* male thing. . ."

She was none of those things, apart from little. My fingers looped in the elasticated waistband. With a deep breath, I pulled my shorts down, and stepped out of them, leaving me naked. Was I embarrassed? I was purple with shame, dizzy. But I signalled my lust for her with a rigid erection that pointed straight at the ceiling. She gave a long whistle.

"Oooh, yes! Not at all bad. . . nice and fat. Um, big balls, too. Turn sideways. Oh, some profile, huh? Now, turn right around and show me your butt. I want to check you out."

My cock was very stiff. I turned as Jennifer ordered, displaying my backside to her.

"Hmm. Not bad either, really . . . For an office slug. . .Quite nice buns. . .Okay. You pass. So, now, get down on your knees. Show me you know what a foot slave does, hmmm?"

I dropped heavily to my knees before her. She crossed her legs, placing a foot just in front of my face.

"Now, Brad. You can start by kissing my toes."

I placed my lips against the top surface of her toes. She had beautiful feet. I sensed a recent pedicure, with her toenails picked out in a nice bright pink. Her scent was not too funky. But I didn't care, I like the scent of women's feet. With a gasp of joy, I kissed her dozens of times, savoring those lovely feet.

"Now, uh, my ankle."

I moved to her shapely ankle and continued to place countless kisses up and down her soft skin, nuzzling it against my stubbly cheek. She allowed me to enjoy this for a while before her next command: "Alright. Now, let's get to what you were e-mailing your filthy friends about, shall we? Yes. Time to suck my toes, slave. Start with the littlest piggie. Do each one properly. They're kinda sweaty, so be thorough. Take your time. Don't worry, I'm enjoying this."

I took the smallest toe between my lips, caressing it with my tongue, sucking it, licking it. My cock was throbbing as I moved from toe to toe, finally taking her big toe into my lips, suckling it as if it were a nipple.

"Now, lick the bottom of my foot, *pervert*."

I bent in two, twisting my head sideways so I could reach. I diligently applied my tongue to the leathery cracked skin of her sole, licking and kissing the underside of her toes. It wasn't clean. But it wasn't too gritty, because whenever she'd been barefoot it was on our plush office carpets. The phrase 'parmesan rind' springs to mind.

I was so hard, I wanted to come, right there.

I wondered if she'd be offended if I asked. Just asked her if she'd let me jerk off with my free hand, while I kept on licking her. I agonized over it. What should I say? How? Beg? Be seductive? Or, just be blunt and tell her what I needed?

Suddenly her foot was pulled away from me. Seconds later it was touching my aching prick, teasing, taunting. She quickly crossed the other leg and looked down at me sprawled on the floor.

"You're half done, slave. And keep your hands off your prick. . ."

She'd guessed, and vetoed. Her other foot was daintily extended; I reached for her toes. I didn't want to cheat her. I attended very carefully to this ankle, these toes, the gritty sole again. I kept sneaking peeks at her calves, her thighs. I wanted her so badly. I wanted to lick up her legs, keep going up and up and up until I reached something hairy, wet, fragrant, tasty, salty. . .I had to banish that thought, or I'd have just squirted off there and then. She kept fidgeting, repositioning herself in the chair, as though this mouth attention from me was somehow turning her on. No stockings. And I guessed from the looseness of her blouse, no bra. And, was she even wearing panties? I doubted it. So, she was almost naked too.

Oh god.

It would take so little effort for her to share. To let me see them. Her tits, her cunt. How could I ask? I sniffed deeply. Could I smell pussy? I thought so, in fact I was sure.

Then suddenly, it was over.

"Thanks, slave. That was quite thoughtful of you," Jennifer said breezily. "But that's enough for now." She stood, quickly slipped on her shoes.

"Heavens! Is that the time? I have to go. But I might let you do that again some time. Gotta run, really. I have a date."

And she was gone. Leaving me there naked, on my knees, my mouth full of the cheesy taste of her feet. With a boner I could have moved furniture with.