Feet on the pedal

The shop was quiet, just the low hum of a fluorescent light and the scrape of Bill’s boots on the floor. He lay on his back beneath the chassis, flashlight in hand, when something soft and warm pressed against the front of his coveralls. He rolled his head and caught sight of her—blonde hair loose, tits pushing at a tight top, eyes locked on his as her bare foot dragged slow over the hard line of his cock. She gave him a wicked little smile, toes curling against the denim, and Bill felt his breath hitch. He rolled out from under the car, grease on his knuckles, and she didn’t back away. Instead she lifted her foot again, pressing the arch right where he strained, rubbing with lazy circles that made his hips jerk. The smell of her skin mixed with motor oil and warm rubber. Bill caught her ankle, brought her painted toes to his mouth, and she moaned like she’d been waiting all day for exactly that. He dragged his tongue between each toe, then sucked the big one deep, eyes never leaving hers. She reached down, freed his cock, and dropped to her knees on the concrete. Her lips slid over the head in one wet glide, tongue flicking the underside as her hand pumped the shaft. Spit ran down her chin and onto her tits, and she kept her other foot hooked behind his thigh, toes flexing against his skin. When she pulled off, glistening, he guided her onto the hood. She lay back, legs spread, and Bill stepped between them. He pressed his cock to the soft sole of her left foot, then her right, sliding between them while she squeezed and stroked. The friction built fast—skin on skin, the faint tickle of her toes curling over the head on every thrust. He fucked those perfect feet until his balls drew tight and he came in thick ropes across her arches, across her ankles, painting her skin white while she watched with parted lips and bright, hungry eyes.