Footjob Instruction

You know you’re dying for it. I’ve been in these leather boots all night, dancing till they’re sweat-boxes. When I peel them off, my soles will come out flushed pink like a sunburnt sunrise and reeking of that thick, warm, foot-stink you crave. Now get over here and wrestle them off for me. That’s it—take a long, greedy breath. That’s my scent, soaked right into your lungs. Go on, bury your face. Let it settle in. You want my toes pressed against your shaft like they’re homemade cocksleeves, don’t you? Slow your roll. You don’t get a footjob until you earn it. Watch how I work first. I slide my arches around you—one slow pump, base to head, squeezing just enough to make you twitch. Then the soles press flat, moving left and right so every vein kisses my skin. I trap you from behind, heels nudging your balls while the pads of my toes knead your tip like they’re trying to milk it dry. Up, down, side-to-side—my feet flow like they’ve got their own dirty choreography. No pussy ever worked you this well; mine knows every inch and refuses to share the stage. Hold yourself together while I show you, because if you manage not to explode, I might just reward you with the real thing. This is foot-jerk theater at its filthiest, and you’re front-row with a front-row seat. Ready?