Her sentence was shattered by heavy breathing, "If I...would've known...I would've got a pedicure." Pulling her toes from my mouth, I suggest she relax by rubbing her ankles. She doesn't want me to stop, but she's ashamed of the callouses...the chipped paint on her toenails...the toughness of her heels.
Attempting to soothe her, "Shhhh," I take her foot into my mouth, weaving my tongue between each toe. Tightly gripping the arms of my chair, her spine stiffens as she lets out a gasp. She tilts her head back, partly to focus on the pleasure, partly to avoid eye contact.
Slowly running my tongue from her heel, across the sole and back to her toes; I actually like her callouses. I'm learning so much about her, the thick skin on the side of her big toes reveal that she walks pigeon toed. People who walk pigeon toed tend to be bashful. Her roughness on backside of her foot tells me that she spends a lot of time on her feet at work. Sinking my teeth into the ball of her foot, her loud exhale is evidence: she needs this.
Apologizing, she still hasn't fully relaxed, "I'm so sorry...I came over...right after work."
"It's okay...I love the sweat," flashing her a smile, I wonder what it'll take to convince her: she's perfect. It excites me to see her vulnerable in this way. Her body's temperature is rising, her breathing is making her breast dance...she's loosens her hold on the furniture...
He's been fucking me for hours. My knees are glued to my forehead and I'm seeing stars. He's so thick, sex with him is a mixture of lust and adjustment. I want more of him, but not that much. I want him to have his way with me, but run it past me first. I normally consider my moans and whimpers sexy, but today I sound like I'm being stabbed by a butter knife.
Mind of matter, I keep my back arched upwards...meeting his trusts with my hips. He hisses, "This shit is fucking beautiful. I wish you could fuck yourself, so you can see this." I'm was so delirious, I didn't notice the iPhone until I heard the camera soundbite. "That's pretty!"
Withdrawing from me, he lays down next to me to show me the picture. I felt betrayed by what I saw. I looked like I was in labor! I had blemishes where The Sun don't shine! My hair was all over the place! "Please delete this," I asked, too worn out to raise my voice.
"How come? You're beautiful."
"No, I ain't."
"Well, I've been seeing you from this angle for a year and I love it." How do you argue with that? It was jarring for me because I've never seen that side of myself. A realization humbles me instantly. He finds, what I consider, the worst side of me beautiful. He saw my twisted face and contorted body and sincerely called it "pretty".
After asking myself for forgiveness, I request, "Could you e-mail me a copy?"