Finally!

About damn time. Jane F. finally decided she wasn't just gonna talk about foot boys—she's gonna be one for a change. Cameras rolling, she sits down, kicks off the act: no polite intro, just toes flexing, a slick smile, and the lucky guy already nose-deep between her soles. She wiggles, laughs, makes him count every little ridge and crease while she strokes his hard-on with nothing but lazy arch rolls and toe squeezes. He kisses, licks, gets smothered; she narrates like it's trivia night, asking the crew if they see how his tongue disappears under her toes. Fifteen minutes later she's calling the shots: hold still, breathe in, one more deep kiss right there. Cut to black before the pop-shot, but that smirk stays on her face like she always knew how good it’d look on camera.