Footsie Office

Sure, Jen. Let's kick back, shoes off, socks already flipped inside out like lazy flags. She's got her long bare feet on the desk, toes curling around a green pen while she drags the cap slowly between the middle ones. You watch the shine on her soles catch the lamp light and wonder why your stomach just dropped. She catches you staring, lifts one foot higher, presses the sole right against your fly, and gives it a lazy little roll like she's testing the tread on a bicycle tire. The other foot sneaks up, big toe poking under your belt like it owns the place. Every wiggle sends a fresh ripple up your spine, until she plants both feet square on you and just holds you there, warm and heavy, the smug smile saying she could bill you for the privilege. Outside the frosted glass door someone laughs. Inside, you're stuck on terms you never read but can’t quit.