Roommate Rules

“You keep looking.”

That’s what she said, flat out, as she caught me staring—for the fifth time that week—at her bare feet on the couch.

I didn’t know what to say. She was right, of course. I had been looking. I always looked.

My roommate, Jenna, had this habit of walking around the apartment barefoot—especially after work. Yoga pants, loose shirt, ponytail. Totally casual. But the second she kicked off her sneakers and put those small, perfect feet on the coffee table, I lost all focus.

It wasn’t just the way her soles were slightly pink after a long day, or how her toes wiggled when she was deep in thought—it was the fact that she didn’t care. She owned the space with her body, even without trying.

And it was driving me insane.

The Confession

One night, we were watching Netflix. She had one foot up in my lap. Totally innocent. Or so I thought.

Until she asked:

“Do you like them?”

I tensed. “Like what?”

She smirked. “Don’t play dumb. My feet.”

Silence.

“I—yeah. I mean… yeah.”

Jenna raised an eyebrow. “You’re into feet?”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

She leaned back, wiggling her toes against me. “Huh. I thought so.”

Then, to my shock, she lifted her other foot and planted it gently on my chest.

“You’ve been acting like you wanted to say something for weeks,” she said. “Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want it to be weird…”

She laughed. “Oh honey—it’s already weird. You’ve been practically drooling every time I walk around barefoot.”

I was mortified.

She pressed down slightly, her sole warm through my shirt. “But here’s the thing,” she added. “I don’t mind. In fact… I kinda like it.”

New Rules

That night, everything changed.

From then on, she started making rules.

“Foot rubs when I get home,” she’d say, throwing her socks in my lap.

“You don’t get to touch unless I let you.”

“You worship, I relax.”

She made me sit at her feet while she scrolled TikTok. Some nights, she’d rest both soles on my face while she painted her nails. Other nights, she’d press her toes into my mouth and smile without even looking at me.

Once, she made me lie on the floor while she watched a whole movie, using my chest as a cushion and my mouth as a foot warmer.

“You’re pretty good at this,” she’d say. “Better than I expected.”

She never made it sexual.

But somehow, that made it worse. Or better. I couldn’t tell.

I was addicted.

Something More

One night, I asked her: “Why are you doing this?”

She shrugged. “Because it’s fun.”

“But… don’t you think it’s kind of… intimate?”

She looked down at me, bare feet in my lap again.

“Of course it is,” she said. “That’s why I only do it with you.”

She let that hang in the air a moment, then added:

“But don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re still my footboy. And tomorrow morning, I expect coffee—and a foot rub.”

“Yes, Jenna.”

She winked. “Good. You’re learning.”