Correpetition

Class ends. Everyone else leaves. He tells me to stay. Says we need extra lessons. The door shuts. Silence. He kneels right there by my desk and takes my foot in his hands, still inside the white knee-high sock. He buries his nose in the cotton, breathes deep, slow, like the scent alone could make him come. His fingers trace every seam, every tight stretch over my ankle. He peels the sock down only an inch, then stops, inhaling again before sliding it back up. My toes flex. He groans. The other foot gets the same treatment, both now resting in his lap while he palms the soft fabric, rubbing the arch, pressing his thumb into the ball of my foot like he’s memorizing every curve. His cock strains hard against his pants, but he doesn’t reach for it yet. He just keeps smelling, kissing the cotton, licking a slow stripe up the sole, tasting the warmth left from the day. I feel his breath through the thin knit, hot and shaky. He keeps my feet together, pressing them around his face, letting them cradle his jaw while he licks between my toes through the fabric. The lesson he promised never comes. Only his mouth, his hands, and the wet sound of him worshipping what he wanted all along.