The Italian Footjob

Valentina Nappi slipped you the invite and now you're at her place, trying not to grin like a fool. She already caught the way your eyes dropped to her toes—the fresh red polish glinting like a dare. Red just for you. She stretches her legs out on the couch, the afternoon heat heavy around you both. "Found it yet?" she asks, like she doesn't already know your thing for pretty feet. You're thinking how clever she is, turning a lazy siesta into a staring contest with her arches. She wiggles her toes and the soles flex, soft and warm in the slanted light. Before long she's scooting closer, one foot nudging the bulge straining your shorts. She feels the twitch, smiles the way someone does when they've won an argument without speaking. Pretty red nails on either side of your shaft, she starts slow, sliding, pressing, savoring how stiff she’s making you. Every lazy stroke gives you a front-row seat to her feet working you over: the curve of her instep hugging the ridge, the ball of her foot rubbing back and forth until the slick starts. She leans in, breathing in the scent of skin and sex mixed with faint cherry from the polish. You hold your breath. She doesn’t hurry. Just keeps massaging you with patient, clever feet until the tip is shiny and every nerve’s telling you this ordinary afternoon is about to get filthy. She pauses only long enough to wink. "Still think you’re just here for coffee?"