She turned away to think about what he said, and the book slid off her lap in a flurry of pages to the ground. He bent down to retrieve it and noticed her feet. He had never really looked at them before, not like this, but they were magnificent. He wasn’t sure what fetishes were, clinically at least, but he was well aware of an obsession he had had since childhood that took the form of an overpowering attraction to feet. Not all feet, mind you, just certain ones. Unlike other parts of the body, where imperfections and abnormalities might be arousing, the feet were entirely different, since they were the ugliest part of the body and had to be kept out of sight at all times.
Mia’s feet, though, were not like that. They were in perfect harmony with her calf and the rest of her leg. Neither was there a hair on them; they were as smooth as her cheeks and of the same Arabica color. The toes were not too long, not too short, unexpectedly graceful, and fitted one against another like measuring spoons. Her arches were just right, not precipitous like the arches of high-strung, cold, or domineering women, but not too low, either, which would have made her phlegmatic. And, while she may have been many things, Mia was not phlegmatic. The inner curve of her sole, where the flesh on most people was wrinkled and pale, had neither a crease nor an unsightly blue vein. It was as smooth as sanded mahogany and perfect for nestling his lips and rubbing the tip of his nose, which he imagined doing as he waited for her answer to a question that he could not even remember.
But the most wonderful thing of all and the flowering of all his fetishing were her toenails, which were polished glossy pink and contrasted the brown leather cord of her sandals that ran up from the river delta of her toes to the mound of her instep before veering off on either side of her arch. He followed the cord up and down, back and forth, in and out, until nothing remained for him but her feet: their smell, their touch, their taste. They were, in a word, exquisite.”
Excerpt from The Gringo. Get it and the second book of The Mercury Trilogy (Laura Fedora) here while there’s still time to get to the beach.
Wow! Talking about the artistry of feet and the artistry of the one who describes them! I read both Laura Fedora and The Gringo some time ago. I had forgotten the incredible, intricate descriptions throughout both books.