Kitchen Romance

We woke up and got stupid right away, no plan, just the fun of it. The morning light spilled in and our hands went where they wanted. Usually mornings have a hurry in them but this one didn’t. She lay back, knees bent, and stuck those bare feet straight in my lap, soles up like a dare. I took them—warm, pink from the sheets—and rubbed slow circles over the balls, pressing just hard enough for her toes to twitch. Every lazy stroke up the arch earned me a giggle that turned into a sigh when I dragged my thumb along the underside. Then came the real game. I licked from heel to ball, tasting salt and lotion, and she shivered so hard the bed creaked. Not wanting the other foot to feel left out, I gave it the same treatment, tongue tracing little patterns along the arch until the sole flexed under my mouth. Both feet now glossy with spit, I lined them side by side, stuck my cock between the arches, and pushed. Smooth skin squeezed around me, toes curling over the head on every stroke. Faster, harder; her ankles locked and the squeeze grew tight, and she watched with sleepy eyes and a wicked little grin, clearly pleased with herself for turning foot-play into the whole show.