Red sandals

I laced up my red satin sandals—pure sex on two delicate straps—and yeah, they screamed “trouble.” Ready to find out how much? Knee-high stone spikes jutted out of the circular altar, and they’d been whittled down to wicked, nipple-poking points. I planted one sandaled foot on top, felt the stone gouge into my bare sole, then the other, toes curling around the ridges. Beneath my skirt my thighs gleamed, and my cunt was already wet—slick, glistening, begging. Each shift ground my pussy lips against those cold thorns, smearing juices and dirt across flesh that pulsed with heat. Between my bare breasts the bronze idol winked its gold cock up at me, carved veins, flared head, smooth balls. I grinned, lifted one sandal higher, caught the head of the statue with the toe and nudged it, tilting my hips forward. My labia slid an inch forward, parting around a spike; the sting folded into a sweet throb. Up the channel of my cunt. Down again. Every shy wiggle dragged the inner meat across that devilish point, pushing blood like a tiny heartbeat. My ass bounced, open, cheeks spreading on the air, inviting any watching eye to see the tight little pucker wink and flex in time with my cunt. A spark of wet hit stone—my arousal or sweat, no one’s asking—and the flash traveled right back up my spine, telling me the night was just beginning. I licked my lower lip, nails flicking the straps of my sandals like guitar strings. So who wants to chase me deeper into this gaudy, gorgeous nightmare? Last one to the statue takes a turn licking both.