Footsie Reunion

Bill and Karla cross paths in the park like it's scripted. Old classmates, years apart, suddenly grinning at each other like idiots. Karla nods toward her place. “Come up for a drink.” Sure. One drink turns into her bare foot sliding up his thigh on the couch, toes curling over the front of his jeans. Bill’s not built to resist that kind of hello. She tugs him free, wraps both soles around him, and starts working him slow—heels, arches, a lazy twist that has him breathing through his teeth. When she leans in and takes him in her mouth, the rhythm gets messy. Her tongue, the soft grip of her feet, the occasional giggle when he twitches too hard. He doesn’t last. Karla barely gets a warning before he goes off, hips jerking, painting her tits and chin and the tops of her feet in thick, hot streaks. She looks down at the mess, amused, and drags a toe through it just to watch him wince.