The Elysian School of Recreational Podiatry
#1 of The Elysian School of Recreational Podiatry
I had to give them credit for working fast. My fingertips were still tingling from the test massage, remembering the way the pandawoman's stockings slid across her sore feet, when they sent me in for my first shift. The Elysian School of Recreational Podiatry was a new development on the block, new enough that I could smell fresh paint coming in from the side rooms.
One of the things that drew me to the place was, I'll be honest, I didn't want to work too hard. I spent two years becoming a certified masseuse and having to be all clinical about it was just too taxing a concept. For one, I didn't want to wear a formal outfit or have to spend my career there in- ugh- business casual. And another, well, I just couldn't be sterile. I enjoy my work. A little too much.
You see, I like the kind of massage I majored in. It started way back when I was in middle school. Everyone was in the gym to get weighed and measured, and the few girls who wore footwear had to strip it off. Seeing them all lined up like that, the differences in anatomy of each species, made me feel a little funny. I'd always looked at the bottoms of girls' feet when they weren't looking, or watched their toes idly wriggle or clench around a nail brush, but that was- to be blunt- back when I couldn't get hot to trot over it. I was hooked.
So I went on to massage school, like an idiot who goes to med school so he can see lots of naked women. I was barely a week out of the final exams. Still, what luck for me that I could find a place with a T-shirt-and-shorts dress code and where I was encouraged to talk to the clients, make them comfortable and feel at home.
I got comfy in room 3A and had a look around before my trial day began. There were a few beanbags out the door for waiting clients, and inside, a few more overstuffed plush cushions in case groups wanted to come in and share the treatment. I was expected to sit on the floor to be suitably unobtrusive. There was a small fingerbowl for me to rinse my hands between clients, a few tubes of lotion and conditioner, and a whole little toolkit of scissors, files, emery boards, brushes, and everything else designed to keep paws happy.
I was ready. I just hoped I didn't get anyone ugly. Nothing to do but rest on the thick, luxurious red carpet and wait for the first client to come in that door.
She was a bunny, lucky me. My qualifying examinee was lapine. Pretty cute, if I may say so- a little taller than I was, gorgeously padded under her white pelt, wearing a snug sweats-and-tee outfit that was just ratty enough to look cozy. Well, except for the belly bulge. She was a month from due, easy, and walked like it. Waddled, even. Something about her build and mid-thirties kind of look made me think it wasn't the first kid either.
"Morning," I offered, gesturing for her to settle into the chair. She did so with a sigh that told volumes about just how eager she was to get off her feet. They nudged out of her sandals and rested on their heels, tilted to show me the bottoms. Creamy white fur, padless and looking soft as down, four huge, plush toes splaying out.
"Don't give me any small talk, dear," she cooed. Gently impatient. "Just get to work, mm?"
Well who was I to argue with a pregnant lady? I got to it. I cradled her big, soft feet in my hands and massaged, rubbing my thumbs deep into the ball of each enormous foot in turn. She seemed to like it, judging from the long squeaks she gave and how she arched, pressing into my hands.
I took a dainty little comb and ran it through the soft fur of her feet, combing it all into array and lightly stimulating the delicate skin underneath. It would help get the blood flowing, warming her feet and easing any soreness or swelling from pregnancy. When it came to her wide circular toes, I used the smooth back of the tool and stroked it between the digits, the fuzz between each toe ticklish enough that she wriggled in her seat and squeezed her toes against my hand. I had to swallow hard and remind myself that she was probably taken, judging from the belly.
I kept massaging as she relaxed, varying techniques, going from hunting out fascia to finding the woman's trigger points and skirting carefully around them. Some of the techniques were specifically designed for rabbits, and made her teeth grind against each other in silent vibrating purrs.
By the time my hands finally cramped up and I had to take a break, soaking them in the warm fingerbowl, she rested a paw on my head, trimmed claws gently prickling my scalp. I looked up curiously and quickly found myself with an eyeful of belly. She tugged my head atop her belly and let it rest there while I recovered. She didn't need to say a word; if she offered any other kind of tip, I would've refused it. A woman with a kid on the way is not for gouging money from.
Minutes passed as the ache in my hands faded and she kept her sensitive, freshly groomed feet out of contact with the ticklish carpet. Her fingers lightly brushed the back of my head every so often, while all I had to do was listen in silence to her belly. A bit of thrumming, faint digestion, all the sounds of a body busy at work for two. The spell only broke when I felt a sudden bump and wriggle as something poked into the side of my face. I drew away with a flinch; the bunny woman smiled tiredly at me, and slid her soft-furred foot across my chest before reluctantly standing with my hurriedly offered help. "Be good," was all she whispered in my ear before slipping away.
I spent the next few minutes in mild wonder, sipping hot cocoa from my thermos and remembering how it felt to cradle her enormous feet in my hands. They had the same faint scent as the rest of her fur: clean, flowery, and maternal. I envied the kids.
The door creaked open and another customer came in. My luck held. Another woman, a red panda who looked an awful lot like one of my classmates, her fur sleek and shining with good grooming. Black jeans, white tanktop, black cargo vest- she had about the same fashion sense as I did with a touch more practicality. Just as I noticed the odd white floof on her tail, she hopped into the beanbags and stuck her legs out before I had a chance to introduce myself. I managed 'Hey!' before she had her feet in my face.
I leaned away on instinct before peering closer again, ignoring her chortling laughter. Clean again, thank the heavens, but a little more animalistic than I was used to. Her four toes apiece spread out across my field of view, showing dull black fur between dark brown pads. "Like what you see?" she asked, chittering as she curled her toes. They pressed heavy digging claws across my forehead, and I inhaled sharply- clean, but a little dusty-smelling. She obviously did a lot of barepawed walking.
"Not as much as I could," I told her flat-out, gently taking each paw in a hand to fend off any offended kicks. "See?" I let one rest in my lap, tilting the other so she could see. A quick glance at her vest showed 'Raiza' on one of the tags, and since that was a weird name for a designer, I took that as her name. It had a ring to it.
"You do plenty of walking, so you keep your footpads nice and thick. See?" I nudged into one, feeling it give. It felt like a pencil eraser. "But you don't care for them, so instead of getting worn smooth, they stay heavy and rough. If you aren't careful they'll crack."
She stayed quiet, studying the bottom of her foot. She had the smallest feet I'd dealt with yet. While she mulled over that I gently uncapped a bottle of lotion. It spread cool and slimy across my hands, gently scented with orange-peel fragrance. I reached up and massaged it into her pads, slowly, smiling as the girl stretched her leg out into it. I had her heel on my mouth, but I grinned and bore it, rubbing the cream into her footpads. "Oooh. That tingles," she murmured.
My fingers roamed up to dab the bottoms of her toes, wetting her dark pads. They were already softening. She chirred, and rubbed gently over my stomach with the other foot, pads scratching and rasping at my shirt. I wanted to kiss them. Really, could any fetishist blame me? These needed some TLC, and I was eager to provide.
I kept rubbing, kneading her tense foot. Her fur really was pretty. I'd never seen a red panda's foot so close, but if she kept in shape she could easily model. What she'd model, I don't know- socks and sandals, probably. I only stopped to finish rubbing a last coating of healing wax across her paw, then nudged it down, taking the other up.
"Are they done yet?" she whispered. I saw her eyes were closed now, the wah melted by the constant attention to her feet. Seemed they were sensitive under the pads. I smiled to myself, nuzzling at the softened pads and giving one a gentle kiss before she could notice. Her toes wriggled against my face, no longer scratchy and rough, but soft. I could imagine them wiggling other places.
"They'll do." I gently took a cotton swab and dipped it in lotion, tracing it across the curves of her instep. With her eyes closed she must've thought I had one in the other hand. I sure as hell wasn't going to tell a client I was licking her feet, my tongue helping to polish her pads to a sexy, spit-shined (ha ha) healthy glow.
When the wah finally opened her eyes again, looking drained and smelling more than a little excited, I gently guided her feet to the carpet where they'd been resting on my face. Her toes gripped at the carpet, tugging at its weave. "I guess I owe you a tip," she murmured. "Nobody ever handled my feet like that before... they feel like they've never been walked on!"
I hastened to assure her, "All in a day's work, Raiza. Just be sure to remember the place fondly and come back whenever you feel the need for a little personal attention. You could do worse."
She smiled down at me, and stroked the top of my head with her beautiful arch. I shuddered involuntarily. Then she was out of the room, opening the door to show two rather embarrassed-looking ratgirls in sorority wear curled up on the beanbags, feet pressed against each others', long pink toes interlocked and squeezing each other even while they stared in blank shock at me.
I sighed and looked to see how my lotion was holding out. Nobody told me about Bokononists.