The kicked off high heels, cast aside by the cute girl.  The awesomely cute little bare feet with pristine red painted toenails.  Sure, this was plenty to get his attention and assure a strong wanking session upon arriving home.  After all, he has a foot fetish, and most would succumb to such treats.  A sinister, consuming, sad obsession that has served to debilitate any prospect of a meaningful relationship with a woman for his entire life. 

This was clearly much more, though.  In a mensroom stall, desperately allowing himself out of the confines of his trousers, pulling instinctively, and with more sound than common sense would dictate.  It had never come to this before.  Even in this age of wearing flip flops to the office and switching back and forth with the sexiest of heels.  He had never been reduced to this.  This was different.  This went to the very core.  To the deepest, darkest recess of his fetish.  A place he knew existed, but covered him in shame and worthlessness; self loathing, even.  At its heart, he knew, it is not merely a foot fetish ... it's an athlete's foot fetish.  Foreign to even the most skilled of therapists, dealing with the most perverted patients known.  His most fucked up fantasy had played out minutes before.  Now he finds himself helpless.  Heart rate of 120.  Blood painfully swelling his scrotum.  Grasping at himself, barely aware of his surroundings ... replaying the scene in his mind and trying to grasp whether it could have possibly been real.