Dorm rooms, bare feet on cheap carpet, and study sessions that go nowhere near the books. Feet Fetish Films collects 587 campus scenes with sneakers kicked off, socks peeled slowly and roommates discovering a new elective. Higher education, lower camera, mandatory attendance.
Clarke Kent’s pencil taps the desk when his door cracks open. Kimmy Kimm slips inside, tiny skirt, backpack sliding off one shoulder. One bad grade has her on the edge of flunking, so she skips straight past excuses and gets to the point: change it, please. Clarke shakes his head, fingers laced on the blotter. Kimmy bites her lip, then flashes the grin of someone about to push luck off a cliff. “I’m a part-time masseuse. Ever tried a Nuru?” He snorts, but his gaze lingers. She steps closer, explains the slick, body-to-body routine in plain terms that leave zero room for interpretation. When he still hesitates, she leans in, voice low, thumb brushing the knot of his tie. A short breath, then Clarke stands, locks the office door, flicks off the overheads. The blinds stay half-open; nobody passes this corridor after four anyway. Kimmy peels her top away, oil already warm in her palms. She pours it straight onto Clarke’s bare chest once his shirt hits the floor, then climbs onto the desk herself, sliding down until every inch of skin meets skin. She glides, slow and heavy, breasts dragging slick trails that catch the light. His breathing hitches. Her nipples pebble when she rocks forward, and the obvious bulge in his slacks presses hard against her stomach. She glances up, one eyebrow cocked. “Want me to take care of that?” Clarke swallows. His nod’s small, almost shy. Kimmy grins, reaches down, frees him with a flick of cool fingers. Oil-slick, her hand wraps tight, strokes measured, thumb flicking over the head each pass. She keeps the pressure light then firm, mixing it up until his thighs tense under her. A quiet groan slips out of him, hips jerking once before heat spills across her wrist in thick pulses. She milks him through it, still smiling like this extra credit was her idea all along.
Clarke Kent’s pencil taps the desk when his door cracks open. Kimmy Kimm slips inside, tiny skirt, backpack sliding off one shoulder. One bad grade has her on the edge of flunking, so she skips straight past excuses and gets to the point: change it, please. Clarke shakes his head, fingers laced on the blotter. Kimmy bites her lip, then flashes the grin of someone about to push luck off a cliff. “I’m a part-time masseuse. Ever tried a Nuru?” He snorts, but his gaze lingers. She steps closer, explains the slick, body-to-body routine in plain terms that leave zero room for interpretation. When he still hesitates, she leans in, voice low, thumb brushing the knot of his tie. A short breath, then Clarke stands, locks the office door, flicks off the overheads. The blinds stay half-open; nobody passes this corridor after four anyway. Kimmy peels her top away, oil already warm in her palms. She pours it straight onto Clarke’s bare chest once his shirt hits the floor, then climbs onto the desk herself, sliding down until every inch of skin meets skin. She glides, slow and heavy, breasts dragging slick trails that catch the light. His breathing hitches. Her nipples pebble when she rocks forward, and the obvious bulge in his slacks presses hard against her stomach. She glances up, one eyebrow cocked. “Want me to take care of that?” Clarke swallows. His nod’s small, almost shy. Kimmy grins, reaches down, frees him with a flick of cool fingers. Oil-slick, her hand wraps tight, strokes measured, thumb flicking over the head each pass. She keeps the pressure light then firm, mixing it up until his thighs tense under her. A quiet groan slips out of him, hips jerking once before heat spills across her wrist in thick pulses. She milks him through it, still smiling like this extra credit was her idea all along.
