Rock and Footjob

AJ has spent years painting faces for stage lights and camera flashes, but one man always drew her glance: Bill, the lean, leather-clad rock singer who moved like every riff he played. Tonight the last guest leaves, and she stays behind, kneeling at his feet on the hotel rug. She slides off his boots, presses her warm soles to the hard length already straining his jeans. Slow, deliberate strokes follow—her arches gripping, heels rubbing, toes curling over the swollen head until Bill’s breath grows ragged and low. She works him with lazy precision, soles slick now, ankles flexing, the faint scent of her lotion mixing with his sweat. When she tightens her grip and quickens the pace, his hips jerk, and the sudden rush splashes hot across her painted toes, dripping between them in thick white ribbons. Bill watches through half-lidded eyes, a lazy grin on his lips, while AJ leans in and tastes the salt from her own skin.