My foot slave boy

She props herself on the bed, cigarette between her fingers. "I'm gonna use my foot slave boy today," she says, already smiling. He starts with her boots, shiny black pleather that clings tight. One slow tug and they come free, heat and scent rushing out. Then the stockings peel down her legs, whispering against her skin. Bare now, she stretches her feet toward him, toes flexing. He lowers his mouth. She draws on the cigarette, watches the smoke drift, and lets him work—slow licks, soft presses, every inch of her soles claimed while the afternoon slides by.