The Perfect Pedicure

Karissa just blew a week’s allowance on the salon, wiggled home, and stuck her brand-new candy-apple toes right in Clover’s face like a trophy. Story lands; Clover isn’t listening. One look at those silky soles and his brain rolls over, belly up. His zipper strains. A moment later she’s up against the headboard, ankles in the air, watching his thick cock stroke slow and sticky between her arches. Every lazy pass smears a warm, glossy streak across the fresh polish. She gives a soft squeeze, heels rolling together, and grins when he shudders like somebody yanked his power cord. She could narrate color names, brand names, the whole catalog, but all he feels is heat, pressure, and the brain-melting fact that her feet just hijacked the next fifteen minutes.