Control Tower

Sometimes I Hate To Be Right

by Mistress Matisse

Most of my professional time as “Mistress Matisse” is spent seeing clients on a one-on-one basis, and I generally prefer that. But occasionally, I do make professional appearances in different settings. So when a man named Ben approached me last year about making an appearance at a foot-worship party in a city not far from Seattle, I was willing to hear what he had to say.

Foot-worship, for those of you unfamiliar with the term, means kissing and caressing someone’s feet, and it’s one of my favorite activities. Ben told me he would arrange for a suitable location, interview and approve a handful of other foot-models, publicize the event to foot-fetishists, host the party, and see to it that things went according to plan. My part in this was to show up, look pretty, be charming, and allow the guests to kiss and caress and worship my feet. I would, of course, be paid for my time.

This sounds almost too good to be true, I thought. “This is just foot worship, right? No sex, no nudity?” Ben looked horrii?N?E^?ed and hastened to reassure me. No nudity, and no sex whatsoever, he said.

Ben seemed sincere and my impression of him was that he was trustworthy. Still, I had an uneasy feeling that something about this party was going to go wrong, and I haven’t gotten this far in the sex industry without paying attention to my hunches. So I thought about it, considering possible problems ranging from simply not getting paid all the way up to Ben’s possible involvement with white slavery. But in the end, I decided that the latter was unlikely, and that I could deal appropriately with any attempted i?N?E^?nancial chicanery.

Thus, on the night of the party, I arrived at the upscale hotel where Ben had booked adjoining suites. Ben greeted me warmly, introduced me to the other foot models, and then took me discreetly aside to give me the agreed-upon fee.

That’s a nice way to begin a professional appearance, and I was feeling more sanguine as I changed into my sexy fetish outi?N?E^?t and joined the party in the living room of the main suite. The bedrooms, Ben explained, were for “foot sessions.” The idea was to simply chat and socialize until one of the male guests asked for a foot-session. Then you and your worshipper would adjourn to one of the bedrooms, where he would kiss and stroke your feet for a short time.

Ben made a point of telling me that the bedroom doors would remain open at all times. “I don’t want you ladies to have to cope with any… inappropriate behavior.” Some of my doubts returned: This meant there would be no privacy for these foot-kissing interludes. The sheer number of people versus the number of bedrooms meant that the chances of any two people even being alone in a room were nonexistent. It didn’t bother me, but I wondered if the guests would be disgruntled.

However, the boys seemed perfectly content with the arrangement, and thus I soon found myself sitting on a hotel bed with three other women, all of us fully dressed—from the knees up, at least—with three men on the i?N?E^?oor on different sides of the bed, kissing our feet. Well, I said to myself, this is exactly what Ben said it would be, and it all seems to be going just like it should. I guess my intuition was wrong this time.

I spoke too soon. The party had been in full swing for about an hour when, as I was sitting in a chair with my foot in someone’s mouth, I saw movement outside the not-quite-drawn bedroom curtains. Staring at the slit in the fabric, I caught a i?N?E^?ash of blue and heard the static and squawk of a radio.

Shit, I thought. It’s the cops.

I pulled my toes out of my companion’s mouth and said, “I think we have a problem.”

I padded barefoot into the living room to i?N?E^?nd Ben in anxious conversation with two uniformed police ofi?N?E^?cers while two more stood by, looking on. The guests were milling around, looking confused or alarmed, and most of the models had retreated to the bedroom where we’d all stored our stuff. I joined them, got my bag out of the closet and began quickly pulling my street clothes on over my fetish costume.

“What are doing?” asked one of the other girls, a tall brunette.

“What does it look like? The party’s over, baby.”

She glared in the direction of the police. “We’re not doing anything illegal! They can’t make us stop.”

I laughed shortly as I buttoned my blue jeans. “Okay, counselor—you stay here and argue the i?N?E^?ner points of whatever law those cops say we’re breaking. I myself am not interested in being a test case, so I’m gone.”

I saw some of the other girls exchange glances and reach for their belongings. At that moment, Ben came into the room.

“Ladies, I’m so sorry. Apparently the hotel is unhappy that we’re having a party here. The police don’t want to arrest anyone, they just want us to leave.” He caught my eye. “Matisse, I really do apologize.”

I shrugged. “Shit happens, Ben. Let me know if you want to try it again somewhere else.” I grabbed my bag and left, sidling quickly past the two cops still standing in the living room. As soon as I stepped into the hotel hallway, though, I almost ran into the other two police officers—one male, one female—who were standing outside the door.

“…So these women are getting paid to let the guys kiss their feet,” the man was saying to his female partner.

“Dang,” she replied, “I think I’m in the wrong profession.”

And then they both turned around and looked at me, which, under the circumstances, wasn’t a situation I really wanted to linger on and enjoy. But I couldn’t help it. I paused and glanced down at her feet, encased in sensible black shoes with heavy soles, and then I grinned at her. Yeah, maybe you are.

But aloud I simply said, “Good night, ofi?N?E^?cers,” as I walked off down the hall.