Yellow Toes, Big Trouble

Lara works retail, comes home every night with a war story about some woman who screamed at her over a coupon, and tonight is no different. You hear her come in around nine, hear the dramatic groan from the couch, and when you wander into the living room she's already got her feet up on the coffee table, working lavender lotion into her arches with both thumbs. You stop. Just for a second. Just a beat too long. She sees it. Of course she sees it. Lara misses nothing. "Well, well." She lifts one foot, wiggling her toes at you. Sunshine yellow polish. She wiggles them like she's waving. "You've been staring at my feet for like four months, and I finally caught you doing it in real time. Want to confess, or should I read you your rights?"

"I wasn't staring." "Uh huh." She stretches her leg out toward you, foot hovering in the air between you like evidence. "You were staring. You do it at breakfast. You did it at Jake's barbecue in July — remember, when I was barefoot in the grass and you walked into the cooler?"

"That was a coincidence." "You've got a type, roommate. And it's attached to my ankles." She grins, wicked and delighted. "So here's my question. You want to do this for me?"

"Because I've been on my feet for nine hours," she goes on, casually, like she's offering you a beer. "And my usual guy is a bottle of lotion and my own two hands, and frankly, he's phoning it in. So. You want to?" Your brain does something stupid, like buffering. She takes pity on you and pats the couch cushion beside her feet.

"Sit. Hands out. It's a foot rub, not a marriage proposal." A beat. Her smile sharpens. "Unless you'd rather keep pretending you don't want to touch them. In which case, blink twice." You sit. You take her foot in both hands. She sighs like you've handed her a winning lottery ticket.

Her foot is small and warm and soft from the lotion, and when you press your thumbs into her arch she makes a sound that has no business coming out of a foot massage. "Oh my god. Oh my *god*." Her head drops back against the cushions. "Where have you been my whole life? No — don't answer that, you've been on the couch forty feet away, being weird about my toes. Keep going."

You work your thumbs up her instep, over the ball of her foot, and she's melting, making little contented noises, and then you get to her toes and she goes very, very quiet. You glance up. She's watching you. Not sleepy anymore. Watching.

"Huh," she says softly. "What?" "You got hard. Like, visibly. From my *foot.*" She doesn't sound offended. She sounds fascinated, the way she gets about true crime podcasts. "That's — wow. Okay. That's a lot of information about you, roommate."

"Lara—" "No, no, don't apologize, this is the most fun I've had all week." She flexes her toes against your palm, slow, deliberate. "Does that feel good? When I do that?"

It does. It very obviously does. She watches your face the whole time, cataloguing it, filing it away, and then she bites her lip and says, quieter, "Answer me." "Yes."

"Good." She pulls her foot free of your grip and sits up, turning to face you properly, cross-legged, all the lazy pretense gone. "Because here's the thing. This started as me busting your balls. But I've been thinking about this for a while, and I figured it was a joke, and now you're sitting there with a cock that hard over my toes and I'm kind of *fascinated.*"

She reaches out and puts her foot flat against your thigh. "So show me. What you think about. When you stare."

You wrap your hand around her ankle and press your lips to the top of her foot, and Lara inhales sharply through her teeth. "Okay, that's — yeah, that's doing something for me, actually, that's a whole new file in my brain—" Her voice is thinner than you've ever heard it. You kiss lower, over her instep, and then you take her big toe into your mouth, and she says "oh my *fuck*," and her hand comes up to cover her own mouth like she surprised herself.

You suck her toes slowly, tongue swirling between them, and she watches with her mouth open, breathing hard through her fingers. "You're really — okay, nobody's ever — *nobody's ever done that to me.*"

"Touch yourself," she says. It comes out bossy and then immediately shy, like she can't believe she said it. "I want to watch. Is that weird? That's probably weird. I don't care. Do it." You get your cock out and her eyes go huge.

"*Okay,*" she breathes. "Okay, that answers a different question I've been pretending not to have." She wraps her feet around you, soles soft and lotion-slick, and slides them together, clumsy at first, then finding a rhythm when you guide her by the ankles. Her toes, that ridiculous yellow polish, flexing against the head of your cock on every stroke. "Is this good? Tell me this is good." "Lara, it's so fucking good."

"God, look at you," she whispers. "You're actually *shaking.* I did that. With my *feet.*" She's flushed down her chest, one hand shoved down the waistband of her leggings, circling herself in time with her own strokes. "I've been getting off in the shower to this for months and I always felt insane, and you've been down the hall wanting the exact same thing, we're *idiots,* we're the two dumbest people—" Her rhythm falters, speeds up. Her breath goes ragged.

"Come on my feet," she says suddenly, like she's been holding it in. "Please. I want to see it. I've thought about it so many— *fuck—*"

You come in long, shaking pulses all over her toes, the yellow polish disappearing under white streaks, and the sight of it tips her over the edge too — she chokes out your name, the first time she's ever said it like *that*, hips bucking against her own hand, feet still wrapped tight around you.

Afterward the room is just the TV glow and both of you breathing. She lifts her foot and inspects it, absolutely delighted with herself. "Look at this mess. Look what you did. You should be ashamed of yourself." "You told me to." "And you *listened.*" She beams at you, sweaty and giddy and gorgeous. "Roommate of the year."

She scoots over and drops her head onto your shoulder, her feet still a disaster, not caring even slightly. Up close she smells like lavender and sweat and you, and she hums like a cat that got the cream. "For the record," she says into your neck, "the staring never bothered me. I started wearing the yellow polish in June because it made you look longer. I just wanted to see how long it'd take you to crack." "Four months." "Four months of free entertainment." She yawns, snuggling in. "My feet hurt again already. Funny how that works."