He jolted like an art burglar caught lusting over the Mona Lisa. “Sorry, I’ll go make tea.”
“It’s okay…” She raised her foot, still clad in her stilettos. “Can you…?”
He ran a palm over his mouth. On the one hand, he shouldn’t get closer. On the other hand, she shouldn’t sleep in her shoes. “Just your heels?”
“Yeahhhhhh.”
Exhaling, he moved toward the bed.
Not a big deal. Just be quick.
Cheryl’s heels were tiny in his hands. Like doll shoes. He unbuckled one sparkling strap and pulled it away. Her toenails were painted sparkling pink. He watched them glitter in the fairy lights and wanted to bite them. To run his teeth lightly along her smooth arches. Was this how guys got foot fetishes? Did he have a foot fetish?
“Oh my Godddddd,” Cheryl moaned.
He’d unconsciously slid his thumb into her arch and started massaging. Flushing, he let go. “Sorry.”
“No! Keep goingggg!”
“Behave,” he said, unbuckling the other shoe. It fell away and she winkled her toes at him. “This one too…? Pleaseeeee?”
His pulse spiked as he slowly applied pressure to her foot. This was okay, right? She’d asked him to, and he wasn’t touching her in a sexual way. Unless he did have a foot fetish…
Cheryl arched into her mattress. “That’s sooo nice…”
He stared at her, spread across her bed like a feast. She looked like every public holiday and grand final win the world had to offer. He massaged her for a few more seconds, then gently lowered her foot to the bed. “Sleep time, KitKat.”
“Can you take my dress off?”
“I don’t think I should do that.”
“Please?” She flipped over. “Pretty please?”
Her back was bare to her waist, silk dress tight over the most luscious ass he’d ever seen. He thought of the lavender butt plug, the lace collar, the bottle of lube… and backed away from the bed. “Cheryl, honey, I don’t think…”
His face burned. He’d called her ‘honey’. He’d only ever said that in his fantasies. ‘That’s it, honey, deeper. All the way into your throat. Good girl…’
“S’okay, I can do it, Pat-trick.” She fumbled for her zipper and pulled it. Her back was fully exposed right down to her underwear. It was a g-string, a tiny strip of black silk nothing right above her ass.
“Fuck me…”
Cheryl reached down, pulling her dress over her thighs, and then he was staring at her ass, golden brown and thick enough to drown in. He heard an animal noise and realised it was him. His fists were clenched, sweat prickling across his forehead.
Cheryl glanced back at him like she did in his fantasies, her dark eyes heavy, her hair a glossy waterfall around her shoulders. “Pat-trick?”
“Yeah?”
She raised her hips, showing off her ass, and he saw the outline of the thing he’d pictured so many times he’d almost fractured his mind. The smooth almond petals of her cunt, framed by her thick thighs. He heard himself make a low, strangled moan.
“Do you like it?” Cheryl whispered.
Did he like it? Her smooth little pussy covered in the thinnest black fabric imaginable?
“Yeah,” someone said. “I love it.”
“Good.”
He tried to drag in oxygen, but he couldn’t breathe. Think. Function. Everything was breaking around him. She was wet, he could see it even in the fairy light. The fabric was soaked through, and it was that, more than anything, that brought him closer to the bed. Close enough to touch.
