Foot fetishists' night

Anna slumped at her usual corner table, steaming cup in hand, while the boyfriend-shaped hole next to her cooled faster than the latte. His loss. He’d never discover how she’d whimper when warm lips sealed over her big toe and dragged it slowly into a tight, wet mouth. Enter Darren: tight jeans, tighter smile, and a pulse that skipped every time ankles were near. He slid into the opposite chair, voice low. “Looks like you could use cheering up,” he murmured. Her flip-flop hit the floor. One creamy arch rested on his denim thigh. His thumb pressed in, working little circles around each elegant toe, stretching, curling, worshipping the polished pink nails. Anna’s breath snagged. Two seconds later his tongue replaced the thumb, licking a slick stripe from heel to ball, sucking the slender middle toes in a rolling motion that made her clench around nothing. She let the moan slip free, soft and throaty, while lukewarm coffee sat forgotten on the table and the shop lights buzzed overhead. His teeth grazed her smallest toe, tugged just enough, and Anna’s thighs pressed together hard beneath the tiny round table.