Of boots and marscapone | 3

It's true, when it's love, you want to put her in your mouth.

Wheels on gravel, you're here. Looking out the window I see only your feet, red nails and flip flops making me giggle with myself. I can't tell if my fondness for your instep is an idiotic foolishness or the most sublime expression of love that I possess. Who gives a fuck anyway? You won't mind at all, not when you're riding me to orgasm with your toes in my mouth, pulling it out of shape as you scream obscenities at me. You'd make even a pair of Birkenstocks look sexy.

Such a lazy sexy suckable instep you have, standing in front of the window as you flex your slut-red toes for me. I'd say you were teasing if I didn't know you were rousing me to service you the way you deserve. Our private plot against the rest of the world, it wouldn't be half as rewarding if anyone else actually Understood What We're Up To.

Longing for you to draw out of myself and pull me to pieces in front of you; you're the only one who can solve the puzzle of me. Close my eyes and I'm already kneading your calves as I slaver over your instep, mouthing you softly then biting you then licking you then, then... Your instep, again, for heaven's sake. It's not enough just to desire you, I want to take your feet and place them my heart and worship them every day for the rest of my life.

I'm so indisciplined, losing focus again as I muse on my mouth running wild over you. No doubt you'll know how to correct that, won't you?

Climbing the stairs to let you in, I have to shield my eyes against the light, seeing you only in outline, holding out my hand, hungry to start touching you once again. It's time to take refuge from the light and hide ourselves in each other in the cool loving darkness of the cellar.