True angel

Angel Pink called her boss in for that one talk nobody wants, the kind where spreadsheets and contracts yawn back at you. While she laid it out, the guy zoned out hard, eyes glued to her calves and toes like they just told him tomorrow’s winning lottery numbers. He hadn’t caught a single word, lost in a feet-and-nails fever dream. Business could wait. Angel never ignores a cue that obvious. Ten seconds later she’s on her knees, tugging open his zipper while she slips one bare foot between his legs, sole gliding along the underside of his cock, soft skin pressing him flat. Warm. Smooth. In control. She leans in, lips stretching around his head, tongue flicking slow before her soles start pumping—first lazy drags, then quick pats, slapping lightly, toes curling against the shaft every time she pulls her mouth away for air. Minutes? Hours? Hard to keep track with no calendar in sight. All the papers can sit and gather dust until boss-man’s had his fill of her legs, toes, and whatever else she decides to wrap around him next.