The Games We Play

They wander back from the meadow, sunburns glowing, and suddenly the real fun starts. Alya drops her skirt first while Charlie kicks off his boots with an eager grunt. She toes a sock across his lap, but he catches it and pulls it clean off—fingers tight around her ankle. Alya laughs, feet flexing, toes brushing the front of his jeans until he’s rock-hard. He licks a stripe up her arch; she yanks his zipper down with both hands. Her heels settle on his shoulders when she slides onto the grass and spreads for him. Charlie tongues the fold between big toe and second toe, tastes salt, then groans as she wraps her soles around his dick and strokes like she’s milking the afternoon out of him. Their shorts hang off a single ankle apiece, underwear forgotten in the dirt. Every time her heels squeeze his tip Alya swears the sky above her rolls like thunder. Charlie bites the pad of her foot, huffs a laugh into her skin, and finally shoves inside her. She keeps one foot hooked behind his neck, another shoved between them, working her toes against their mess while they grind deeper. A shiver runs through him every time she flexes. They both climax quick, loud, Alya’s foot pinned to his mouth so she can feel each grunt against the arch. After, she drags her damp soles along his thigh like after-play, grinning as he jumps at every little brush. Even the clouds overhead look embarrassed.