The event I describe occurred when my next-door neighbor and I were both teenagers in high school—I am 18, she is 16.
First, the basics. Shelley (her real name) and I live next door to each other. She is a pretty, petite brunette with dark eyes, olive skin and an awesome body. She is smart; she has a great sense of humor; and, she has a coquettish streak in her that confounds me. We’ve known each other for around six years. We’re very good friends, though I have developed a secret crush on her since I was 15. Both our parents are divorced, and we both live with our mothers, both of whom are also good friends. Her mom trusts me implicitly.
Shelley and I talk constantly. She tells me about her friends and shares her stresses and interests with me. We do homework together. She and I date, but we never date each other. We often hang out together and we sometimes pretend to be a couple just to be silly. When Shelley and I are together, one of our moms is almost always in the vicinity. We sense both women watch us–meaning, “me”–carefully, and so I behave myself… always.
My story begins with an invitation to a Halloween party. My girlfriend at the time and I plan to go, and we decide to make our costumes. I opt to be a mummy. I plan to wrap my upper body and head in strips of torn sheet and wear bleached jeans stamped with purple footprints (some idea I got from a music video). Since the jeans require work, I get started making them. My plan was to bleach an old pair, and then have my girlfriend stomp all over them barefoot using purple fabric paint. My girlfriend was excited to help–she had very pretty feet–but she bailed at the last minute. Facing the dilemma of using my own stupid feet, which would defeat the intent of sexy girly feet imprints, I thought to ask Shelley for help.
I was considerate of the fact that her mom might cast a wary eye on my interest in her daughter’s feet, so I first ran my artistic endeavor by her. Mom gave tentative approval; I asked Shelley for her help. To my relief (and latent excitement) she eagerly agreed. The three of us made plans to meet in Shelley’s basement later that evening after homework and dinner were finished.
We met in her basement. Her mom inspected the supplies I brought to do the job and supervised. Shelley dressed like she was going to paint a room: a loose t-shirt, grey sweats, and fuzzy socks. Her mom was dressed better; turns out she had already made plans to go out that evening. She stuck around to watch the process unfold, and offered a couple suggestions. I knelt on the floor and rolled out some paint onto a tray, unfurled a rag, and looked up at Shelley. She coyly peeled off her socks to reveal her cute, perfect little girly feet. I immediately got wood. The three of us evaluated different techniques until we achieved the best desired result.
I was nervous about touching Shelley’s feet, especially with her mom watching. But to get a quality “print” I had to use both my hands to press my body weight down on her instep and each of her toes. I felt a pressure surge through my crotch each time I did this. Eventually her mom decided the activity in her basement was harmless. She told us to clean up after we finished and then left Shelley and me to continue our work.
Shelley and I dutifully and professionally stamped her purple footprints randomly across the jeans. The task was overtly sensual in my mind. But it was also genuinely goofy and fun, and we laughed and kept the playful banter going all the while. Both of us had become completely comfortable with my manipulating her feet. I had a raging erection the entire time, and as a result I stayed on my knees hunched over ostensibly so I could guide her foot to the next spot on the jeans. It was mainly to hide my conspicuous bulge from Shelley.
She coyly suggested making a footprint that entered the fly of the jeans. I agreed (of course) and helped position her purple foot into the exact spot. The deed done, Shelley carefully lifted her foot away and admired the manifestation of her idea. I distinctly recall her say “I bet you wonder what that would feel like.” I also remember that that comment entered my ears and descended my body straight into my balls like an erotic bolt. Utterly distracted with that image, I managed a fuddled laugh… or something. We continued our work on the jeans.
From my kneeling position, my head was never more than six inches from her belly, always close enough to feel her body heat on my face and breathe the subtle scent of her. Anytime I looked up at Shelley I’d deliberately cast a glimpse at her crotch, then look up. In hindsight, Shelley likely noticed my routine, since she was constantly looking down (duh). And I distinctly remember she’d meet my glance with a wry wmile.
And then, in the midst of our work, Shelley farted. Three little pop, pop, and pops. Barely audible. I looked up at her silently with an “are you kidding me?” expression. I smiled and mimed backing slowly away. Shelley blurted, “Oh, stop it!” and playful pulled my head toward her with the unintended result of me face-planting into her crotch.”Smells like grapes!” I joked and we laughed through the awkward moment. Nonetheless, Shelley decided punishment was warranted. She held my head with one hand and as she reached behind herself, tugging at back of her sweats repeatedly to air to allow air to escape. She then pinched the elastic band on the front of her sweats and repeated the tugging motion.
With every brief tug at the waistband, I could see the dark hairline of the top of her mons. I could also see that she was not wearing panties, an observation I unintentionally blurted out with “You’re not wearing underwear?” Her response, a zip-quick downward tug of the front of her sweats in affirmation.
I was speechless. After a moment, she asked “too fast?” with a kittenish mock, and without hesitation pulled the front of her sweats open toward my face. I confirmed Shelley was, in fact, not wearing panties. In the same instant, she snapped the waistband closed with a pop. I caught a waft of her crotch; a wispy mix of soap and the heavy aroma girl privates. The visual and olfactory stimulation conveyed to my pants, and my cock swelled to its full capacity.
The jeans were basically finished at this point. Shelley and I admired them laying on the floor, commenting on our work. She stood, but I remained on my knees painfully aware of my condition. Finally, she suggested I try them on. I agreed and asked that she turn around. She did.
I unzipped my fly of my pants and popped the button. I plopped on my bum, slipped out of my socks to ease the transition between jeans, and then I pulled off my pants. A dark wet circle discolored my underwear and clung tightly against my swollen wet boner. The urge to touch my cock was overpowering. I reached inside my semen sodden underwear, grabbed my meat and squeezed, hard, to achieve a moment of relief and comfort. A clear bead of precum emerged from the slit in my purple cockhead, then quickly ran down and puddled against my finger. The instinct to cum welled within me and the need to stroke was irresistible. Sensing the lingering quiet after I had removed my pants, Shelley coyly asked “ wotcha doin’ back there?”. I quickly pulled on my new jeans, though I inadvertently failed to zip the fly.
At last I told her to turn around. Shelley pivoted and immediately looked pleased with the result of our work. Watching her scrutinize my lower body had the predictable twinging effect at the base of my prick and resulted in the pleasant sensation of mini-releases of more fluid into my underwear.
Shelley and I stood facing each other barefoot. She approached, and reached playfully, carefully toward the fly where she flitted her fingers against the fabric edge, commenting on the result of her suggestion. She discovered the fly open, and tugged at the material. As I looked down at her (Shelley was nearly a foot shorter than me) I remember how fucking beautiful she was, and how badly I wanted at that precise moment to press her body against me.
As she tugged her finger brushed at the firmness beneath the fabric. She patted it this time, and looked up at me with a sly smile but no comment. She rested the palm of her hand fully on my crotch and quietly asked me “is this ok”. I responded with a nod. The complexity of this exact moment is difficult to articulate; it was the ripening of my sexual desire for Shelley, a maturing experience against overwhelming inexperience, and a sense of tremendous affection for another person, unfamiliar to me at the time, and one that I would realize very few times with other women later in life.
Emboldened by fervid need, I moved my hands to her hips and I slowly slipped both beneath her sweats and palmed the firmness of her behind, always sensitive to any sign of offense. With her tacit approval, I slowly worked her sweats downward, which she assisted by rolling her hips. And there, I sort of beheld Shelley, standing silent before me in only her top, naked below; her full black bush shorn to a perfect triangle, and with two purple feet. The juxtaposition was as beautiful as it was ridiculous. This girl, my friend, was a beautiful woman standing naked against me, vulnerable, desirable… and purple. At that moment, we were familiar strangers; like two old friends discovering each other after lost time but in a new place. I felt sincere love for Shelley.
My turn. I popped the snap on my new jeans, and pulled each leg away. And that is when she noticed the dinner-plate sized wet spot on my underwear. Her face twisted in shock and disgust. Her first question: “Did you pee yourself?” I quickly protested, to which she responded “Did you cum?” It became clear that Shelley had absolutely no idea that guys also got “wet”. The discussion that my underwear inspired had the pleasant effect of reducing the sexual tension between us, and in an instant we were comfortable friends rather than inexperienced lovers pensively entering the breach of the unfamiliar. I confessed to being excited ever since she peeled off her fuzzy socks, and explained size of the spot as testament to the duration of my arousal. We laughed and reveled in the awkward absurdness of us: her naked body with purple feet and my wet underpants.
Shelley asked if she could see “it”. I asked her to come closer and invited her to remove my underwear. She stood in front of me, knelt down, and pulled my underpants down past my hips. My cock pointed straight up. The coolness of the air against its crimson skin made it pulse spasmodically. The head was as purple as the soles of her feet. I cleared my throat and I reiterated the “precum explanation” then, purely for the purpose of example, I squeezed my cock to release a small rivulet of clear semen from the head which ran down the back of my hand. I wiped my fingers on my shirttail, and then rubbed the residue into the skin of my cock. I stepped back to let my shorts fall to the floor under their own wet weight.
I returned toward her where she remained kneeling, neither sure what to do next. She asked if she could touch me. I nodded. She playfully poked at my dick a few times, then finally gripped it fully in her soft warm hand. Shelley never shared any salacious details of her dates, but I suspected that mine may not have been the first penis she’d handled. She pumped a few times, varying her technique, and alternated between studying my cock in her hand and smiling up at me. She worked out more precum which further lubed the area, and now we could hear the slippery sounds of her jacking my frothy meat.
When yet another dollup of seminal fluid appeared, Shelley paused and seem to study it. And after a moment, she lapped it away with her tongue. “It’s sweet”, she said, seeming surprised. And then, while looking up at me, she slowly moved the whole of her mouth over my shiny purple head and began sucking my cock in whatever way felt right to her. I remember looking down her back following the line of her spine and absorbing the sight of her perfect heart-shaped ass. Facing up at me were her purple-stained soles of her feet.
I could feel each tingle-release of my precum, which she consumed. And when the tell-tale twinge in the base of my balls became a pressing need, I got her attention. “I really need to cum. Is that ok?” I asked. She withdrew, obviously not interested in my cumming in her mouth. I began to jack-off slowly. She looked at me shyly and asked “Can I?”. I moved my hand away. She took my wet cock into her grip and began pumping my full length, pushing against my balls with her fist on each forward stroke. Shelly asked the usual “is this good” questions (as if…). I requested that she cups my balls with her free hand. She did, and the warmth of her hands on my genitals was too much for me.
With the familiar release in my groin I shot rope after rope after rope after rope on to her shirt and basement floor. I remember she seemed fascinated by my ejaculation. I had to instruct her to keep pumping even after she thought I had finished. Her hands were messy, obviously, and my cum was churned into cream with her continued stroking. When I sensed the feeling of complete satisfaction, I eased away from her and plopped down on the floor to help wipe up my mess. I noticed her pussy as she knelt there and the instinct of irrepressible desire consumed me.
I offered to go down on her. She signaled her acceptance by slipping my jeans beneath her ass and leaning back on her hands. I crawled between her legs and lay on my stomach, then gently pushed my mouth onto her pussy. I inhaled through my nose and mouth, drawing living breath through the swarthy folds of her vulva. I lapped at her labia, slurped each morsel of skin into my mouth, chewed them with my lips, and rolled though them with my tongue, savoring the flavor of her womanhood. I slipped my tongue deep into the pinkness of her vagina and swallowed her thick wetness. Her hips moved beneath the weight my mouth, and i sensed her desire for my tongue on other places. i indulged her through each of her orgasms, until she squeezed her legs together to signal she’d had enough.
We didn’t fuck that night. In fact, that incident would be our only intimate encounter. We never talked about it afterwards. We were never uncomfortable around with each other and remained the same close friends until time and circumstance pulled our lives in different directions.
I’ve replayed in my mind my encounter with Shelley over the years, tweaking it here and there to explore some nuance in fantasy form. But I confess even after all these years I still stifle a sense of guilt and betrayal to her: I was her friend, and in some selfish way let desire breach that boundary. Mostly, though, I betrayed Shelley’s mom, who trusted me so completely.
Of course I’ve lost communication with Shelley. Nonetheless, that experience remains among the most tender sexual exchanges I ever had with a woman, and I will always nurture sincere love in my heart for my then best friend Shelley.
And, Shelley… if through some phenomenal circumstance you happen upon this story and recognize it as ours, please reach out to me. You’ll know how.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/6tfum6/mf_purple_soles