Platform heels

My platform heels barely let his toes touch the floor when he drops to worship my legs. He sniffs the black vinyl, drags his tongue up the sweaty arch I’ve kept trapped all day. Sweat pools inside the footbed. He licks it out like a stray. I laugh and press the blunt toe harder against his mouth. His tongue keeps working, lapping the faint vinegar tang of skin and leather. My legs stretch longer than his reach, calves flexing with each swipe of his tongue. He inhales the musk that clung to every pore since dawn, sighs every time a drop slides down, catches it on the tip. I rock the heel just a little, let the sharp edge threaten without cutting. The tang climbs another notch, sharper, saltier. He moans into the curve of my calf and keeps going like the good boy he swore he’d be until the ache in his jaw matches the throb in my boots.