Slide down my pole

She came home still buzzing from class and slid the pole into place in the middle of her living room. The heels stayed on first—tall, shiny red platforms that clicked against the floor every time she spun. Blue Angel kept her leotard on, the thin black fabric clinging to every curve while she wrapped a leg around the cool metal and let herself drop, slow and controlled, hips rolling as she slid. Each turn made the fabric pull tighter between her thighs. She felt the pressure, the heat building. When the ache grew too sharp she kicked the shoes away, one after the other. Bare feet found the pole again. Her toes gripped, flexed, flexed again. She dropped to the floor. One hand slipped under the leotard, fingers parting wet lips, sliding straight inside. The other hand lifted a foot to her mouth. She licked the sole in one long stroke, then sucked her own toes, tongue working between them while her fingers pumped faster. Every little circle of her tongue matched the rhythm inside her cunt. She was getting off on the sight of herself, on the stretch of her own body, on the taste of her skin. She kept licking, kept fingering, until her thighs shook and she came hard around her own hand, breath sharp, mouth still wet from her feet.