Party feet

I grab a cold one from the fridge and scroll through party choices in my head. The black heels win out because they’re safe and a little sassy at the same time. I slip the left one on first, feel the toe pinch ever so slightly, so I jam my heel in harder until it pops into place. Something inside me perks up, like those tights and that thin leather shell aren’t meant to stay on much longer. I flex the ankle, let the arch point. My cunt tightens, already hot, so I push two fingers under the waistband, slide straight between slick folds and give myself one slow drag from clit to entrance. The shoe rubs the back of my thigh when I spread a little more. Shoes can wait—I push the sole aside just enough to stretch the thong out of the way and shove two fingers inside, thumb rolling lazy circles over the swollen nub while the other leg stays stuck in the half-on heel, heel lifting like my whole body’s on tiptoe. Pulse pounding, thoughts skipping between the impending doorbell and the slick squelch my pussy is making right now. Yeah, it’s gonna be one of those nights.