Leg affair

Sometimes the simple touch of skin on skin turns into something urgent. Your hand drifts down my calf, slow and deliberate, fingers kneading the muscle. Mine finds the arch of your foot and presses. Tension melts. Heat builds between us with every stroke. Soon the polite little rubs give way to something greedy; palms slide higher, thumbs trace inner thighs, and the room fills with the small wet sounds of parted lips and quickened breath. Your heel hooks behind my knee, pulling me closer. Mine slides along the slick inside of your leg until it finds the tender join of thigh and sex. The pressure there is exquisite. Fingers slip lower, find heat and wetness, stroke in languid circles. You answer with a twist of your hips, a low moan against my neck. The foot massage has become pure sex now—legs tangled, skin glistening, every deliberate touch designed to push us both over the edge.