It had started innocently enough. The client had a foot fetish, all I had to do was wiggle my toes, and wave my feet around. For the first ten minutes, he blissfully followed my feet with his eyes, turning his head every so often to track their movement. I was bored, so the devil in me asked, "Why not?" I always had trouble resisting that voice.
And so I complied. I placed my bare feet on his bald head and moved them slowly down his face, kneading his cheeks in the process. The client went from blissful straight to foot fetish heaven, on a trail of drool. I moved my feet back to his bald pate, well away from the drool. Not long after, an angry voice hissed in my ear, "Get up. Now." It was my supervisor, the Devil herself.
She marches me back to the change room. She yells and waves her arms around. I tune out for most of it.
"...you do not touch the clients. They are not to touch you and you definitely do not touch them. He has a foot fetish, so rubbing your feet on his face is the same as you rubbing your v -"
I interupt her with the only thing I could think of to stop her tirade, "Um, you need to stop yelling at me. I think you're starting to turn me on."
She huffs in reply, before saying, "One of these days, your smart mouth is going to get you in a lot of trouble."
It already has. Many times.