Being the only female judge in my city carries weight. It had been a long road of ambition, education and professionalism to reach the height that I had. I'd barged my way through sexism and misogyny to sit comfortably in one of the most respected positions in the community. When I sat on that bench overseeing a hearing, it said 'Judge Sanders' on the nameplate and everyone knew it. I was in charge.

Being a moderately attractive woman with that level of power also drew its fair share of admiration and respect. I was a popular body around the courthouse and most considered me a delight to work with. I also had the reputation of being professional and fair in my verdicts. I was a force to be reckoned with, and I thought nothing would get in the way of my ascent.

Things changed when the court hired a new stenographer. Previously, recruitment had favoured ladies of an older variety, glasses and greying hair being the staple look. However, this time the newest member of the courthouse was a young, petite Latina by the name of Emilia. She couldn't be any older than her mid-twenties and a lot of the male employees were quickly smitten with this fresh face around the building. She'd yet to sit in on one of my hearings, though I'd noticed her around. What stood out was that her dress attire wasn't at all suitable for the formal environment. Whereas every other employee wore smart suits or modest, formal dresses, Emilia would turn up in a knee-length, bright summer dress, even in the cold weather.

At first glance, I was a bit annoyed by Emilia. She drew a lot of attention away from me, attention I'd worked very hard to obtain. After all, it was difficult for a woman to achieve what I had at this age and any attention and respect that was geared in my direction was most deserved. This girl was stealing it away by simply being exotic and pretty, not an ounce of hard work involved at all. I disapproved of her recruitment on all counts.

Words of disapproval quickly spread. A few of the older judges in particular took a dim view of the new employee, as they felt her attire was disrespectful to the traditions of law. Some did comment in a lecherous way regarding her above-average appearance, but the general consensus was that a quiet word with her was needed. I readily agreed. That was until spring came around and she wore a pair of designer heels to work one day. My opinion of her flipped in an instant.

I kept my sudden change of heart to myself, fearing that my peers would consider me soft or a hypocrite if I suddenly championed her corner. I couldn't tell them why I had taken such a liking to this girl out of nowhere.

You see, even though I'm a married woman in my forties, I'd always had a thing about fashionable shoes. Emilia's summer dresses usually led down to a pair of high heels, wedges or sandals, and after noticing them for the first time, I couldn't stop myself from looking down whenever I passed her in the hallway. What didn't help was that her feet were very pretty, and always perfectly pedicured. On a few occasions, I'd noticed the glimmer of jewellery too, whether it be a toe ring or an anklet. Frankly, I had no longer had any problem with the way the girl dressed; if anything, I liked it.

I wouldn't consider myself a lesbian, but there was just something about her choice of footwear that grabbed my attention. Perhaps there was a little envy in it as I'd never been comfortable wearing such shoes. I didn't think they looked particularly good on my chunky ankles and my feet were far from what would be considered pretty. Emilia would wear them with such confidence and strut around the building with an elegance that I silently admired. It was as if my love of fashionable shoes could be lived vicariously through this sassy, young Latina. I had wanted to start a conversation with her where I could drop a compliment in, but lacked the courage. Despite being in the enamoured position of being the first and youngest female judge in the courthouse, there was something about Emilia that drained my authority. I felt exposed and vulnerable whenever I saw her in her strappy wedges. She was on the very bottom of the ladder in terms of career progress within the courthouse, yet, I was intimidated and infatuated by her.

Emilia knew she was a knockout too. I'd seen her countless times taking photos of herself in the restroom mirror, whilst flicking her hair and pouting her lips. Even when disturbed by another occupant such as myself, a judge, she wouldn't betray a single air of self-consciousness. If we accidentally made eye contact, I'd sheepishly look away. If anything, I felt like I was the one being inappropriate by disturbing her mini photoshoot. This girl had a natural presence, one that surpassed my own that I had worked so hard for.

So, it brought a tremor to my limbs when I first saw Emilia's name listed as the stenographer to sit in one of my hearings. The whole morning, I daydreamed of ogling her dangling heels as she typed away. I was even worried that it may distract me from my performance as a judge. I took my job seriously and prided myself on being fair. But there was something about this girl, something that I couldn't resist. I actually felt guilty for being so against her at first.

I was left disappointed, however, as Emilia turned up to the court in a smart dress suit and closed pumps. I reasoned that maybe it was because I was a female judge, and she didn't feel the need to dress in a revealing way to court my favour. Whatever the reason, I was underwhelmed by our first day of work together. It was not the hours of dangling and dipping I'd envisioned.

The hearing was fairly straightforward, and with the way Emilia was dressed, there was nothing to distract me from overseeing it in a professional and efficient way. She typed away without a problem throughout; clearly, she was good at her job and had gained it on merit. That I had to hand to her.

When the day was over I packed up my things, ready to leave, but noted that Emilia was still at her seat. She was bent over and rubbing the heel of one foot, her face noticeably showing some distress. I saw an opportunity to finally break the ice with her.

“Good job today,” I said. I peered down at her shoes as she lightly massaged her heel. “Are you okay?”

Emilia looked up, her brown eyes somewhat hidden amongst the parting of her darker hair. I'd heard that her family had emigrated from Venezuela, and it was clear to see in her dark features and tanned skin. “These shoes have been pinching me all day,” she said. “My feet are so sore.”

“Are they new?”

“Kind of. They're not the sort of thing I'd usually wear. I guess my feet just aren't used to being stuffed up in shoes like this.”

“Why are you wearing them then?” I asked. I tried to mask my intrigue with a little chuckle.

“I was told by HR that I had to dress more appropriately, whatever that means.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

I averted her gaze at that revelation. I was probably one of the people responsible for that, but I had changed my opinion, I really had. I tried to reassure her. “Yes, I had noticed. You usually dress so nicely and I've noticed you always wear such fashionable shoes.” I stopped myself before going any further, but felt my face reddening from my frankness.

Emilia tilted her head slightly and offered me a curious look. The rubbing of her foot ceased. “I've never had a case with you before, right?”

“We haven't, no,” I said.

“Oh, well, yes, I love my shoes. It's a bit of a bummer that I can't wear them anymore. I like my toes being free.”

Being a judge, I usually command a level of respect from the other court employees, but Emilia seemed to speak to me with comfort and relaxation, as if we'd known each other a long time and there was no need for formalities. From somewhere, deep within me, I felt the urge to give in to her. I wanted to give her the opportunity to get her way and see if she would take it. I can't explain where it came from, but the thought of her freely strutting around my courtroom in her heels gave me an idea.

“Tell you what,” I said. “You can wear whatever you like when you're working with me.” I tried to sound like I was doing her a favour, when really the offer was fuelled entirely by my own desires. I was also somehow apprehensive of her response, fearing she'd call me out at any moment. Even though my words were largely harmless, I was nervous that she'd see right through me. My back felt wet with sweat.

“Really?” She said, again with that obvious curiosity in her eyes. She looked me over intently, as if sizing me up and pondering my intentions. “Well, if you don't mind - I'd really like that.”

And with that, it was settled.

~~~

Emilia's attire would vary each day depending on whether it was one of my hearings that she sat in. If she was typing up for a different judge, she'd wear formal, smart clothes with closed pumps. But if she was working with me, those dresses and revealing shoes would come out again, and I'd spend most of the day ogling her perfect feet.

We grew somewhat closer over the next few weeks, only in a friendly capacity. It was all polite, but mundane talk. She'd tell me how her weekend went or what she had planned for the evening, all while dangling and twisting her heels. As discreet as I tried to be, my glances downwards were noted and I'd catch the tiniest of smirks from her every time she caught me. And she really took advantage of my relaxed rules. She'd spend her breaks playing around on her phone, taking photos of herself and sometimes of whatever pair of shoes she was wearing that day, most likely just to show her friends. What I'd have given to get my hands on those. Sometimes I'd catch her browsing through designer shoe web pages, no doubt searching for her next pair. She was a fashionista at heart, and I provided her with the platform to flaunt it all day long without repercussion.

Her behaviour around me didn't go unnoticed and some of the other judges voiced their disapproval at me letting her wear whatever she liked. They claimed I was making a mockery of the court. I'd had some grief in the past with me being the only female judge, but through my judgements and professionalism, I'd won the senior judges over and gained their respect. My behaviour with Emilia was putting that at risk. It didn't help that I was in agreement with them only weeks before. They seemed at a loss regarding my sudden turnaround.

I played my relaxed approach to her appearance as a female-empowerment thing, whereby as long as she did her job well and was professional in that capacity, she was free to wear what she liked. It was a load of rubbish, but an inspired reasoning. I was almost proud. Most backed off after that explanation I'd plucked from the air, not wanting to be accused of sexism. If only they knew my true motives.

~~~

As the weeks passed by, I complimented Emilia often on her choice of shoes. Gradually, she became a lot more forward in showing off her footwear to me. She'd turn her seat in such a way that I'd have a full view of her legs and shoes during court. If she was in a pair of sandals, she'd slip them off and arch and flex her feet, often with a sideways glance to see if I'd noticed. And I did. I noticed everything - for instance, that her toenail polish changed colour on a weekly basis. Her teasing had become ruthless. And the shoes, every day they'd alternate. If she wore a pair I'd never seen before, she'd ask me whether I liked them.

“Do you like my new heels, Judge Sanders?” She'd asked one morning, before court had commenced.

I tried to appear nonchalant, but I suspected my enthusiasm crept through. “Very nice, Emilia, and your pink polish is very pretty.”

“Thanks, Judge,” she grinned. “I'm glad you approve.”

~~~

On many occasions during a hearing, I'd stare a bit too long and she'd turn and catch me. My embarrassment was always heightened by an amused shake of her head or roll of her eyes. It was never explicitly voiced between us, but I was increasingly paranoid that Emilia was fully aware of my weakness when it came to her shoes. It embarrassed and ashamed me. Perhaps she just thought I was a sad old lesbian with a crush. I'd been starting to wonder if that was far from the truth, such was the level of my infatuation.

I'd sometimes feel immense regret when I returned home after a long day to my husband. It just wasn't right that I should be this infatuated with my female stenographer's feet and the footwear she chose to adorn them with. If anyone knew, especially my husband, I would be absolutely mortified. The age difference just made it all the worse. I tried to shake it off; however, I simply couldn't resist looking whenever an opportunity presented itself. The next day in work, there I'd be, gazing at Emilia's swinging feet. The exchanges between us were always civil and harmless, so I felt safe in my secret admiration and enabling of her flaunting. But still, that paranoia brewed at the back of my mind.

~~~

Things continued in the same way until one day Emilia came to work in a pair of enclosed ballet flats. My face must have visibly sagged as she immediately picked up on my disappointment.

“What's up, Judge? Something wrong?” She asked with a smirk, as if baiting me to voice my disappointment and cross a line. By this point, her tone with me was absolutely informal. I'd had many opportunities to put her straight on that, but a quick glance down at her feet and I couldn't find the words. She even popped her heel out of one flat and twisted her foot on the ball, baiting me even further.

“Umm.” I struggled between shying away and asking her why her feet were covered up.

“You okay?” Emilia continued. We had sort of an unspoken understanding regarding my admiration of her footwear. She tolerated it if it meant she got to wear whatever she liked. But there was a twinkle in Emilia's eye, as if she was urging me to voice the obvious and confirm what we both already knew: I liked Emilia's feet, not just her shoes.

“I'm just a little tired,” I said, completely chickening out.

“Don't work so hard then,” she replied with a wink. Moments later, she was in her seat ready to type, and not a glimpse of her feet was given for the rest of the day.

Emilia wore the same flats again the day after, and by the third day of those flats completely denying my ogling of her feet, I couldn't take it anymore. I needed to know why she wasn't letting me look at those feet; how could she be so cruel? She got to wear her fashionable shoes to work, and I would get to admire how they looked on her. That was the unspoken agreement, right? I had to know why she wasn't playing ball anymore. It was a concern I may have crossed the line and creeped her out. Either way, I had to know; it was too frustrating seeing those pretty feet hidden away all day.

Once court was over and everyone else had left, I ambled over to Emilia as she packed away her things. “So, won't we all be seeing your excellent taste in shoes anymore, Emilia?” I tried to voice it like everyone in court had noticed, rather than it being my sole observation. I also said it in a friendly manner, hoping she wouldn't pounce and out me for what I was.

Emilia spun in her chair and offered me the biggest smile I'd ever seen on her pretty face. “Missing them, are you?” She teased.

I shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot before Emilia's intense stare, thinking of something witty to retort, but nothing came to mind. I wasn't expecting her to be so forthright.

She seemed to enjoy my squirming before putting me out of my misery. “Things have been a bit tight, actually,” she sighed. “I haven't been able to afford my regular pedicure this week. It blows.”

“Aren't you able to paint them yourself?”

“Oh, no way,” she said with mild shock. “I never paint them myself. My toes deserve the very best, don't you think?”

“Yes, Emilia. They do.” The words had left my mouth before I'd really given them any thought.

There was a moment of silence between us, as if she was genuinely bemused that I would outright admit such a thing; her mouth hung agape. Meanwhile, my lips were sealed in embarrassment between two reddening cheeks. Emilia cocked her head slightly, as if weighing me up, then that knowing smile returned.

“So what are we going to do about that, Judge?” She finally asked, seemingly sensing her chance had been laid before her. I could see the amusement strewn all over her face. She was teasing me and enjoying every second of it. But there was something more than that too; she was testing me. Further prodding followed. “Don't you like seeing my feet all nice and pretty in my shoes?”

“I suppose I could pay for your pedicure, if that would help?” I immediately looked at the floor after the words had left my mouth. I was so ashamed, a woman in my respected position offering such a thing to this young court typist. First, I let her strut her beauty around my courtroom, and now I was going to contribute to it.

“Really?” Emilia replied, in genuine surprise. She slipped her feet from her flats and stretched them out along the floor. Her toes were indeed unpolished, though still very beautiful; at least in that regard, she was being honest. “You really want to do that for me?”

I looked down at her pretty feet. Was getting to see them a reward for offering to pay for her pedicure? If so, it did the trick. “Yes, Emilia,” I said sheepishly. My eyes lingered from the floor to those nude toes.

“Better get your purse then,” she teased.

I didn't hesitate and Emilia left the office that evening with my money firmly in her grasp. It wasn't a lot in terms of my salary, but there was a deeper meaning to it. It was symbolic. We both knew what it meant, and things would never be the same after that day.

~~~

The next morning Emilia rolled in sporting a pristine French pedicure, a ring on the second toe of each foot and a gold anklet. The wedges of choice were her sexiest yet, and they really showed off the muscular tone of her calves. She was a vision from head to toe. I knew straight away it was money well spent.

I couldn't take my eyes off her shoes as she took her seat, and I even caught one of the lawyers checking her out below the ankles. She often got looks, but usually they were focused on her pretty face and svelte figure. I felt a sense of pride that it was my money that had made those feet look so perfect.

Throughout the day she teased me relentlessly, turning in her seat frequently and crossing her legs, kicking her foot up and down. I knew I was being rewarded for pleasing her.

Once the day was over, Emilia approached me at the bench and asked if I liked her pedicure. I almost salivated over myself as I took a closer look and nodded intensely. Again, I felt that sense of pride, though blushed at Emilia's familiar knowing smirk.

Every day that we worked together for the next fortnight, Emilia wore a different pair of shoes to show off that French pedicure. Not much else was said between us regarding her footwear, and it was never mentioned that I had been the one to pay for her pedicure. It felt a bit naughty that it was a secret between us, that no one else in the courthouse knew of. If she mentioned it to anyone, I'd be unbearably humiliated and unable to offer any explanation for my behaviour. Thankfully, not a word was said by her to a single soul though the possibility of her spilling the beans was always hanging over me. I just let it flow and hoped things would pan out, putting any doubts to the back of my mind. Emilia would show off her feet every day, and I would get to look at them once again. That was the unspoken agreement between us, and I relished every moment.

~~~

I was enjoying work more than ever until the end of that fortnight when Emilia turned up to the court in those ballet flats again. Not a word was said, but the message was clear. All day I tried to be strong and resist giving in to her, but as she packed up her gear at the day's close, I walked up to her, money in hand.

“Thanks, Judgey,” she said whilst snatching the notes from my grasp. Her smile gleamed at the unspoken submission I had just offered up to her. I cringed at being called that name but couldn't find the right words to stand up for myself, with having just handed her money for her pedicure a second time.

It was now official; I had become Emilia's pedicure provider, and from that point forth she'd expect me to fulfil my responsibility whenever she required it. If I didn't, I wouldn't be seeing those feet.

~~~

The next few months saw that trend continue. I got to see Emilia's feet in her sexy shoes every time we worked together, and when the flats made an appearance I knew it was time to fulfil my duty. I didn't let her down once. She even let me pick the colour of her pedicure on one occasion.

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 in 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.