Backstage with Jane F.

She lets the robe slip. Blonde hair over one shoulder, long legs bare. Jane F. steps closer, the only movement a slow flex of her toes against the carpet. The redhead kneels, face already tipped back, lips parted. No introductions. She takes a heel into each palm and draws Jane’s foot higher, kissing the sole first, then the arch, then the ball. Her tongue traces each ridge, wet and unhurried. Jane watches without blinking, the smallest smile at the corner of her mouth. When the redhead opens wider and sucks two painted toes at once, Jane’s breath catches—just once—before she leans in, fingers sliding through the kneeling girl’s hair to hold her there. The room is quiet except for the soft, wet sounds of worship.