Flamenco Feet

Ariana Marie spins onto the stage, that tight little flamenco number barely covering the goods. Kris watches from the front row and feels his cock twitch every time her heel strikes the floor. Those legs seem to go on forever. When she lifts one foot, flexes it, Kris almost moans out loud. He lasts three songs before he’s on his feet, dragging her behind a curtain. He shoves his tongue down her throat while he yanks the dress up to her waist, then drops to his knees so he can lick the sweat from those dancer’s soles. Ariana laughs, hooks a slender ankle over his shoulder, and guides his throbbing dick straight into her soaked pussy. She locks her legs around him, feet crossed at the small of his back, toes curling every time he thrusts deeper. The slap of skin, the creak of the old floorboards, her filthy little gasps—he can’t get enough of any of it. When he finally pulls out and paints the arches of her perfect feet white, Ariana just grins and drags a cum-covered toe across his lips. Bon appétit.