Foot cream

Oh, those buttery-soft soles Serilla struts around on? That’s no random hand cream. Every other night she lays back, has Olver straddle her calves, and works him over until he shoots heavy ropes right across her high arches. One burst lands thick across the balls of her feet, another dribbles between the toes. She scoops it up with her fingertips, stretches the warm mess the way you’d test taffy, then rubs every sticky bead deep into the skin. Between the oily slick and the heat from her hands, the stuff soaks in like it’s meant to. Ten minutes later the white glaze is gone, the skin gleams soft, pale, and still slightly warm from the fresh coat. She finishes by giving each toe a lazy little rub, pleased that both her pretty feet and her overworked lover are nicely spent.