Like In France

Lola's on the phone with Jade when her roommate Marcus drops to his knees by the couch and grabs her left foot. She shoots him a death glare, mouths "what the hell," but keeps yapping about her terrible blind date. Marcus doesn't stop. He presses his thumbs right under her arch and rubs slow circles. Lola feels the annoyance flicker into something hotter. She starts narrating every move into Jade's ear. "Dude's literally sniffing my toes like they're fresh coffee," she laughs, half-whispering. Marcus drags his tongue between each toe, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt. Her breathing changes. She slides her free foot to his crotch, finds the hard line, presses down. Marcus grunts but keeps working, licking the ball of her foot, sucking her big toe like it's candy. Lola's thighs tense. "He's got his mouth full of all five now," she tells Jade, voice getting husky. Marcus switches feet, bites the heel gently, then runs his tongue up the whole sole. Her panties cling. She can't focus on the call anymore. Lola yanks her pajama shorts aside with two fingers, legs falling open. "Marcus," she pants into the phone. Jade asks what's going on. Lola ignores her, locks eyes with him, and rasps "put it in my ass" like it's the most obvious next step in the world.