Congratulations Podiatrist!

It'll be Saturday, but Peggy is a special client.  When she comes into your office you'll direct her to sit in the comfy chair, the one you keep in your "quiet room" in back, the one that patients almost never get to see.  She'll smile as she sits down and sigh.

"Thanks for seeing me on the weekend," she'll moan as she squirms into the stuff of the chair.  "It's been a tough week at work."

You'll lick your lips with your back turned to her as you mull over whether or not you should say the joke you thought of earlier.  After a few seconds, the pressure will simply be too great and you'll burst out, saying, "Spending a lot of time on your feet?" in an overly controlled tone of voice that will, to you, feel like a scream.

Peggy's laugh will come out, tinny, natural, unalloyed.

"Guess so," she'll say, smiling at you as you shuffle towards her, wondering if she's noticed your arousal, wondering if she can sense the nervousness you're so desperately working to conceal.  When you reach her you'll pull up a stool and sit down, looking up at Peggy briefly before taking her foot in your hand.  She'll nod her assent at you and you'll begin, sliding the shoe down and off one foot, then the other.  After that the socks will come, first one, then the other, until her feet, bare, are in your hands.

You'll be confident that Peggy won't be able to see your erection, but you'll be almost certain that she's looking at the top of your head, at the sweat matting down your hair.  As you run your hands over her feet you'll murmur your diagnosis, as much to her as to yourself.  You'll want her to feel, on some level, how good a foot doctor you are.

"Looks like slight callusing on both exterior digits and light lateral deviation on your right interior digit."

"What does that mean?" she'll ask.

"It means you might be developing a bunyon," you'll exhale, eased somewhat by the normalcy of her tone.

"Oh my!" she'll gasp.  You'll look up briefly and catch sight of her biting her lip in worry.  "What should I do?"

You'll narrowly avoid stuttering before you kick into your speech about comfortable shoes and workplace pressure.  As you get past the part where you recommend sneakers you'll suddenly go off script, explaining that "social pressure might encourage you to wear dressy or attention-grabbing footwear that could cause potential discomfort.  I'd recommend wearing something simple and easy, something like a Turkish flat would look quite enticing on a foot like..."

You'll look up and see her looking at you, smiling.  She'll look like a hunting creature approaching cornered prey, a fox that just uncovered a mouse in a burrow.  You'll stop speaking, stop breathing, until she speaks, clear and easy.

"Continue," she'll say with an air of authority that makes it impossible to follow her command.  After a moment's pause she'll adjust her approach.  "Finish," she'll command instead.

"A foot like yours."

The words will fall out of you and you'll be left with the buzzing, vibrating fluorescent silence of the interior of your office.  Your eyes, by this time, will have returned to the floor, where only the edge of her feet, her so nearly perfect feet, will be visible.  The room will be still, painfully still, for a unit of time, wherein a unit is a thing akin to but distinct from an eternity, until her feet lunge from their position at the edge of your vision to its center, gently settling on the floor.  You'll feel her hand move through your hair, tangling the moist strands, as her voice drips into your ears.

"Well..."

Congratulations Podiatrist!