Asia And Zo

Fred pushes ugly loafers for a living but can’t stop picturing toes. Asia swings by his place, barefoot and smirking, ready to make his worst-kept secret much better. In the shower she soaps him inch by inch, heel to shoulder, warm water and slow strokes. By the time they sink into the Jacuzzi he’s hard enough to cut glass, and her wet feet find him under the bubbles, toes gliding, sliding, curling around him. Water rocks. She grins, “Relax, cutie.” He’s not relaxed at all. Later they hit the air mattress—cheap AC humming, city lights leaking through blinds. She climbs on, drops a breast into his mouth, and gets back to business down south. Both feet stroke now: slick, sliding, switching up pressure. Her arches squeeze, her toes pinch the head every time his hips buck. He lasts maybe sixty seconds, spits hot and sticky across her pretty toes, pooling between them, dripping onto the sheet. She wiggles the mess for both to admire and laughs, light as summer thunder. Fred’s still catching his breath when she taps his cheek with one damp foot. “Shoe guy makes good tip tonight.”