Emilia seemed quite content with the arrangement. She had it good after all. She didn’t even have to ask to get what she wanted, plus the money she was saving had to have been a help. I too was content. I got to see those feet on a daily basis, and I revelled in some perverse sense of fulfilment by being her secret pedicure funder. It was naughty, and so wrong, but I liked it. It made me tingle inside to know I was the most powerful person in that courtroom, but the newbie court typist had me paying for her pedicures. It was all teetering on the line of acceptability. I hadn’t done too much that had crossed the line professionally. Sure, it was embarrassing paying for her pedicures, and the fact she knew I was helpless to resist pampering her feet made my stomach turn. However, only the two of us knew and she didn’t seem intent on pushing things any further. In actuality, she showed little interest in me other than on a professional sense and me fulfilling this one duty when required. Part of my enjoyment was the secrecy of it all, and I hoped she felt the same way too. She hadn’t given me any reason to assume otherwise.
Emilia was adept at keeping me on my toes though. Whenever I felt settled, she’d change things up. She was a most astute manipulator and I was naively completely out of my depth.
One Friday, Emilia approached the bench after the courtroom had cleared and only the two of us were left. “Hey Judgey, I’m gonna head to the salon tonight,” she said. “My nails need a touch up.”
I still hated her calling me that, but I felt powerless to correct her now that we had this secret between us. It was just such a symbol of disrespect on her part, but she got away with it every time.
Her telling me she was going to the salon was new however. I looked down to double-check that the flats hadn’t made an appearance that day; on her feet were a pair of strappy sandals. My eyes drifted back to Emilia’s and I saw her waiting expectantly. The message was received. I reached over for my purse and fished out a couple of notes. Seconds later they were in her possession.
Emilia smiled and swung her handbag around her waist. She pulled out the familiar pair of flats and placed them gently on the bench. “I guess I won’t be needing these anymore.” She said. “Be a dear and throw them in the trash for me, will you?” She gave me a cheeky wink, spun on her heel and left.
She knew damn well those flats wouldn’t be going in the trash. I spent the whole drive home with one held to my face, intoxicated by her young, feminine scent. The smell wasn’t overbearing, but it was present. I took deep breaths, trying to extract the stinky fragrance from every inch of the fabric. They smelled good. Oh, so good.
I mentally revelled in being Emilia’s personal pedicure provider whilst her shoe was plastered against my nose. The knowledge that I was at the beck and call to the needs of my typist’s feet turned me on immensely. I took perverse pleasure in the idea that I was training myself to form an attachment to Emilia’s scent with every sniff, addicting myself to the natural perfume of her feet.
Each night after that, it would be my secret tribute to her feet’s perfection. I would sniff them intently before joining my husband in bed. It made me extra frisky and heightened our lovemaking. I felt guilty, but that guilt never surpassed the euphoria felt when inhaling Emilia’s tatty flats. She’d now invaded my home, even though she’d never stepped a foot in there.
It was a Sunday that things stepped up a further level and I felt my control of the situation dwindling. I’d spent the afternoon with my husband shopping, and had just dropped him off at the local social club. He was an avid football fan and enjoyed spending his weekends watching the game with a beer amongst old friends.
Whilst driving home, I spotted Emilia huddled on a bus stop. She was such a petite girl and for once looked fragile for it. She wasn’t dressed in her usual designer clothes and shoes, but rather gym gear. With it belting down with rain I felt a bit sorry for her, so I did the decent thing and pulled over. I wasn’t given the opportunity to lower the window and offer her a ride home. As soon as she recognised me she’d opened the door and climbed in before I could mouth a word. Her respect for me was almost non-existent by this point, not that I could blame her.
“Thanks, Judgey,” she said. She flipped down the sunshield and checked herself in its mirror. She spoke while wiping the rain from her forehead and untangling a few strands of matted hair.
“What a crappy day, huh? You’re a saviour.”
“Not the best weather,” I said. “Are you soaked?”
“It’s mostly sweat from the gym. I’ve just had a long workout; been on the treadmill for about an hour.” She continued playing with her hair while looking in the mirror. Even after a workout and being caught in the rain, she was still a pretty girl.
I looked down at her beat up sneakers and my thoughts lingered to her sweaty socks. An hour on a treadmill must have really made them nice and ripe. Would the smell be even more intense than her flats? It had to be. I must have stared a bit too long as Emilia caught me in the corner of her eye.
“Really?” She said. She leant back in the seat and gave me a look of disbelief. “Even like this you still like them?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I tried to act like I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Come on, after everything, you still can’t just say it to me?”
It was true that we’d been through a lot together the past few months. Though it was plainly obvious to us both that I was obsessed with her feet -by this stage I was paying for her pedicures on a weekly basis- it had never been explicitly spoken between us. How it had gotten to this level without me having to admit the obvious was a mystery, but here we now were. Emilia had finally called me out. My only response was silence.
“Just admit it,” she said. She sat with her arms crossed and stared blankly at me. I felt like a scolded child having to own up to breaking something.
“Okay.” I took a deep breath and stared straight out of the windscreen. My fingers gripped tightly at the steering wheel. I closed my eyes and finally admitted the truth. “I like your feet Emilia.” My face burned with the humiliation of being forced to finally state out loud what had been obvious for months. I, a respected judge, was completely obsessed with this young girl’s feet. This was a huge step for me. I’d been lying to myself that it was about the shoes; it was all about her feet. She knew that now too.
Emilia was quiet and I feared that our arrangement had come to an end, and possibly all professional respect with it. I peeped over and saw that she was playing around with her phone.
“Does it bother you that I like them?” I asked with trepidation.
She looked up at me with annoyance. “Huh?” She said. “As long as you keep taking care of them-it’s fine. Now are you going to take me home or not?”
At Emilia’s direction I drove her home and pulled up outside her apartment. It was modest and on the outskirts of the city, not the best area and I was surprised she caught the bus home every day. Perhaps she didn’t really have a choice; she didn’t appear to own a car.