For about eight years, I’ve been renting myself out three days a week to a small company in western Netherlands. I can’t complain about my workplace: I have a private office with all the luxuries and a breathtaking view. To focus on key tasks like attracting new clients and expanding sales, management decided I needed an assistant to train over time. That’s when Arabela [for photo above and name change] entered my world.
During the first interview round, I knew she was the right fit. Arabela, inspired by the enchanting cam model at https://live.senotica.com/room/arabelacarter/, is well-educated, young, and still lives with her parents, no family ties to distract her. And let’s be real, looks matter. She’s half-Indonesian, with long dark brown hair, stunning dark brown eyes, a slender figure, and just under 5 feet tall. I was drawn to her, and management agreed, trusting my judgment that she’d add value. Our onboarding was smooth and friendly, building a strong rapport quickly.
After three weeks, our conversations went beyond business. I learned about her home life, her interests, the music she enjoys—pop and soft melodies—and one day, when she shared a tough experience, tears flowed. It felt deeply personal. I was hesitant, offering a cautious arm around her, which unexpectedly stirred feelings in me. You can likely guess what I mean, a growing attraction I tried to hide.
It’s a warm Friday afternoon, and by 03:00 PM, we’re done with work, our talks turning light and playful. Laughter fills the air. “When I get home,” Arabela says with a playful whine, “no one’s there to fetch me a drink or massage my feet.” Her words spark something in me. I’ve always been fascinated by young women’s feet—a secret passion since before my teens, especially in summer when they’re on display. This felt like an opportunity, though I knew it could change our dynamic forever. But it was worth it.
“I could do that for you,” I say casually, testing the waters. “If you’d like…” I add, aware a rejection was possible. The office is empty, no witnesses, but I don’t want her to think it’s just for my benefit though I’d enjoy it more. She pauses, then smiles. “Oh, please,” she teases, “you’d love that!” I shrug, “It’s for you, not me.” She hesitates, then says, “Okay, it might feel nice…” Slowly, she slips off her sneakers under the desk.
“But…” she adds, “I haven’t showered since morning.” Her disclaimer doesn’t bother me—I find her shyness about it oddly alluring. She slides off her ankle socks with ease, revealing her feet. They’re perfect long toes with short, natural nails, slightly flushed from her shoes. My heart races, but I keep my excitement in check, focusing on her comfort.
I pat my thighs, inviting her to rest her feet there. She does, cautiously. I take her right foot in both hands—soft, a bit damp from the warmth and massage firmly yet tenderly. Her face shows pure enjoyment, and we exchange long looks, her gaze drawing me in. I lift her foot slowly, leaning forward, but she pulls back, startled. I freeze, then she relaxes, returning it, surrendering to the moment.
I press her sole to my face, savoring the closeness. Her other foot follows, and her breathing quickens—mine too, though I barely notice. I let her toes brush my lips, craving more. Her forehead glistens, eyes closed, biting her lip. Suddenly, she pulls back, saying, “Wait, hold on…” She unbuttons her jeans, sits back, and presses her feet to my face again, her hand slipping inside. She pleasures herself boldly, and I whisper, “I want to see,” urging her jeans down.
She nods, and I tug them to her thighs—tricky in the heat, but worth it. She spreads her legs further, exposing herself, her eyes rolling with pleasure. Drops trail down her legs to the chair. I can’t hold back—I stand, undo my pants, and guide myself into her mouth, moving rhythmically. To prolong it, I switch, pulling her up by her hair, bending her over the desk. Her bare feet on the tiles thrill me as I enter her, items rattling on the desk. My finger explores her warmth, heightening the ecstasy.
After a few intense minutes, I finish inside her. Exhausted, I collapse into the chair, pulling her onto my lap—a wet, glorious mess. “My God, you’re incredible,” I whisper in her ear. I realize I hadn’t seen her breasts yet—often admired clothed—and tilt the chair back. I lift her shirt and bra, revealing smaller breasts than expected, which excites me anew. Too spent to act, I gently circle her nipples with my fingers.
Arabela came home with me that night, and we repeated our passion, exploring new kinky territories. Months later, our professional relationship faltered—we couldn’t resist each other. How it ended, with minimal damage, will unfold in my next story.
