Love My Way
by JenSorel
If you don’t live in L.A., if you’ve never been to Hollywood, you just don’t know. You don’t know the parade of beauty that comes and goes, lives and prospers. There’s an inner circle that, if invited, elicits opportunity after opportunity to savor whatever your heart desires. It’s all practically laid at your feet, it comes to your door, doesn’t knock or miss a day. It’s the party of beautiful people that you can resent or, if invited, flaunt.
She comes to me like the perfect gift, the perfect present few days after Christmas, a revitalizing resolution a few days before the new year.
“Hello,” she says in a whisper laced with sweet perfume.
“Hi,” I say with a smile laced with innuendo.
“I’m…”
“I know who you are.” Everyone does. Everyone as in the world. Another famous face stands before me and this one makes my heart thump, my stomach flutter with butterflies, my legs weak and my insides leak. All this at “hello.” She’s that beautiful. That sexy. That captivating. That intoxicating.
I drink her in.
“What’s that look?”
I blush. “I guess I’m a fan. Of your work. And I honestly can’t believe how stunning you are in person.”
She blushes, which surprises. Boldly I lean in and whisper, “You are lovely.”
“Stop.”
“Why?”
“Because. You’re lovely. We’re all lovely. Look at this party.”
“Hollywood.”
“Yes, Hollywood. What do you do?”
“I appreciate all the beauty.”
“Stop.”
“I’d like to appreciate you.”
“You talk like a man. If I wasn’t so tipsy I’d think you were coming on to me, just like a man, just like every man.”
“Maybe you’re not so inebriated.”
“So you are? Coming on to me?” she inquires with a scent of hope in her words.
“I could ask the same of you. You came over and said hello to me. You know?”
She laughs. “I did. Guilty as charged. I just thought you looked like someone.”
“Someone you know? Or want to know?”
“You,” she says with a funny glare. “Who are you?”
“Listen. I’m tipsy too. Maybe it’s making me bold. Maybe I’ll regret this. Maybe not. But the likes of you does not come over to talk to me every day. So, here goes. Let’s go have a drink somewhere else.”
“You come on strong.”
“It’s the Kettle One.”
“So, you’re not coming on to me?”
“I am,” I whisper, playing my hand. “Coming on to you. Coming on you, with you, from you, because of you.”
“Oh my,” she murmurs, unable to take her eyes off my lips.
“You coming over to me? Was that for a reason?”
“Told you. I thought you looked like someone.” She grins. “Someone I wanted to know,” she adds, making the thumping in my chest go bonkers, the butterflies feast on my belly, my legs quiver and my insides swim.
“Oh my,” I say as she touches my wrist. “We’re going to have so much fun.”
“Are we?” she whispers. Then adds, “I don’t know your name.”
“Jennifer.”
“Jennifer. So, what does Jennifer enjoy?”
“Enjoy?” I respond, realizing for the first time since she sauntered over to me I think of my undying desire, my lust for feet. I imagine her feet, naked in front of me. Thump. Flutter. Quiver. Drip. Standing before her I am overcome by the thought of her naked toes in my mouth, her lovely soles in my face, her famous feet allover me. I look at her. She raises an eyebrow in anticipation of my words. “You have no idea what I’m into.”
She drinks. “Wow. That’s’ a tad intimidating. Yet enticing coming from you. Someone a lovely as you. Should I be scared?’
“No. Not at all. Just be ready for something amazing.” I move toward her and put my lips near her earringless ear, her sexy little ear. I feel her breath on my neck. “I’m going to suck your pretty little toes until you come.” I pull away, heart racing, stomach flipping, legs wavering, anxious to see her reaction. She scans the party, ponders my words. Her eyes dart my way. She licks her pinkish lips, parts them to speak.
“Jennifer what?”
Her place. We kiss a long time. On a couch, soft hands all over each other. She’s done this before. I can tell. Not a lot, but she’s been here before. I wonder if she wants to be here more, if she enjoys women as much as men, or less, or more. Our soft and small faces slide across each other and she moans. I get the feeling she’s been away from this feeling a while. I get the feeling she’s missed it. I get the feeling she yearned to be back. I kiss her forehead, her eyes, her neck. I lick her nose, bite and suckle her chin. She laughs and moans, together. I kiss her. Deeply. My lips slide against hers, suck hers in between mine one then the other. Moans abound. She arches her back, pushing her chest into mine. I moan back. I wonder how far she’s gone before. I know I’ll find out soon. Between kisses I unbutton her blouse and put my hand on her breasts. I tickle her stomach and her ribs and her nipples. I suckle them, biting and licking. She’s wiggling and moaning and shuddering and groaning. I take her. She’s mine. I can’t believe I’m here, but I’m also not going to get nostalgic while in the midst. I’ll reminisce later. I’ll deal with the guilt later. Right now I just cheat and enjoy. It’s what I do. I slide my hand across her belly, down into her skirt. Biggest moan yet. I’m confident my fingers are about to get very wet when her moans form a word.
“Bedroom.”
She’s naked. I’m naked. She’s shaking all over. I’m between her sexy legs, attending to the slick passage she’s invited me into. My fingers slide in and out, two of them. My lips and tongue gleefully mop up, while poking and licking and kissing and sucking and ticking and pressing her exposed bliss button. She calls my name. My name. She wiggles and grabs the edge of the bed, pushing her face into the pillows in a vain attempt to muffle her joyous voice. Her hair is all over her lovely face and I watch her as I bring her closer, as I give her body joy, as I get her off. Her breasts heave, her stomach pulls in and pitches out, her legs shiver and her sex floods. I lick. I kiss. I tickle. I suck. I press. My face is wet and glazed. I watch her squirm and shiver and come closer. I shift and pull my face from between her legs. Fingers slide in and out, my thumb takes over rubbing and ticking and pressing. I know what I’m doing. She says my name, her own hair falls into her open mouth. I reach and grab an ankle. I’m certain under her blonde locks, eyes go wide. I bring her naked foot to my chest and I move into a favorite position, a place I know so well, a place I love to be with lover, a place I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d ever be with her. I move so my knees just touch her naked ass as it slips and slides across the silky sheets. My knees meet her soft bottom and the backs of her thighs and my arm rests between my own silky legs as it sides in and out. My other hand brings her captured foot to my face and I see her toes coming, then her sole, her soft and smooth and sexy and intoxicating sole. I breathe deep even before her foot is close enough to smell. I press her sole against my face and it feels like it’s meant to be there. They all feel this way, I admit. But this one moreso. I inhale. Again. I lick. I kiss. I tickle. I suck. I love. I love it. I love it, aspiring to suck each one of her perfect little toes.
Her foot is small, unblemished, smooth, distinct, poised. While I can’t believe others haven’t been here before, adoring this sole, surely chomping on her toes, the foot also exudes an air of virginity, making me feel as if I am the first lover here, a pioneer that will mark the sensual territory with licks and kisses, traces of lipstick and spit, tickles and suckling, with love, love my way. I marvel at that, that feeling, the pureness. Her chaste toes are thin and engaging. Each one is painted red at it’s tip, something I discovered when I sipped off her heels minutes before, as I finally made her completely naked as she whispered, “are my feet pretty?” My hands tickled her soles and I responded, “you are lovely, nose to toes and you know that.” She exhaled and parted her legs, her feet slipping from my palms, her wetness beckoning. I tended to her wetness with thoughts of her feet fueling my actions, feet as striking as her movie star smile, her leading-lady face, and her marquee figure. I tended to her until she was so close, then shifted to enjoy my favorite act.
Her toes all bend toward my face as I adore her sole. They all bend, beckoning me with tiny dollops of flesh that hang in the air, seemingly defying gravity, hovering just above the ball of her sweet foot, before the sole hollows into her deep arch and flourishes into her plump heel. Her feet are a movie, first act soles, second act toes, third act the climax of all. I watch the story unfold and kiss act one with an open mouth.
“Suck my pretty toes until I come.”
She says this as she struggles to catch her breathes. I smile, smootch her sole.
“Suck my toes.”
I lick.
“My toes.”
I kiss.
“Suck them.”
I suck. Each one of her toes. In my mouth. I suck her toes and she giggles and moans and quivers and comes. She comes a lot. Seems she comes anew with each toe, as each digit enters my warm and wet and eager and loving mouth.
Big toe moves past my lips into an unknown darkness, a moist and cozy home. I see her red nail disappear past my own nose and I taste her skin at her body’s farthest point. It’s worth the trip. Worth the journey. Every time. Moreso this time. Her skin there tastes sweet and salty and florid. I breathe deep and suckle the digit, slip it in and out at the same rate that my fingers slide and glide. She shakes, whole body shivers, tense with joy, her words confirming, calling my name, asking for more, more, more.
Index toe slips inside amid panting and anxious yelps. I like this toe on her. I like this toe in me. I lick. I kiss. I tickle. I suck. I make it all wet and flush. She goes, “Oh. God. Please. Never. Make. It. Stop.”
Middle toe. All gobbled up and it’s as if she never thought this toe would receive the same adoration as the first two. She yelps. She glees. She squirms, naked and exposed, her insides being rubbed by three fingers now, her joy coming in waves, drowning her needs, making her lose control, giving her something she was definitely seeking when she came to say hello, yet far and away exceeding her aspirations this eve. I can see it on her face under the tossed hair, amid her squeals and overflow.
Next toe goes missing inside my mouth and she keeps coming. I love this toe. It’s almost identical to the middle toe, but elicits even more joy in my unexciting lover. Her hands lets go the sheets and pillow and seeks the anchorage of the headboard. She leverages the newfound grip and arches her back, drawing my fingers deeper and pushing her foot closer. I don’t think she’s ever been her before. I welcome her with my mouth and with my hand. I bite the toe and chew on it until I hear my name.
Pinky toe. It’s the smallest toe, but there’s more than enough of it on her to appreciate and adulterate. I make it feel as important as the big toe, slide it in and out, making it pull straight as I blow it, as if it was a man’s rigidness, as if it was the most important digit of all. This makes her crazy. This makes her buck. This makes her come again, or continue the coming, I can not tell which as since the moment I followed through on the whispered promise I delivered we were still acquaintances and clothed and partying with Hollywood’s elite, the moment I began sucking her toes she burst and it seems her joy took nary a time out as I travel toe to toe.
I take all her toes into my mouth for a brief moment. I suck all of them for a second. They wiggle inside, damsel-in-distress like and I love her for that. I pull them from me and they shimmer in the soft light, they shine in her blush. I wipe some of the shine onto my face, dragging her toes across my cheek and nose twice. I wiggle my fingers still inside her to see if there is any more joy in her. Her dramatic exhale, tells me she spent. I slip out of her and my fingers look like her toes, shimmering and shiny. I lay next to her, half on top of her. She lets go of the headboard, slides her palms over my skin. Our legs entwine and my feet find hers. I feel the wetness of one and then the viginity of the other as they both hug my downy soles and roguish toes.
I kiss her, take in her breath as it heaves out, give her some of mine as if she needs the kiss of life. I press my lips to her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her hair. I hold her, making her lick her own joy off my fingers while she regains her composure. Her skin is so soft. All over. She smells powdery, flowery, of lavender and iris. All over. I discover later that it’s the fragrance Farnesiana. Intoxicating. As is she. She pants. Her tossed hair sticks to my hand as she feeds. I push it off her face, free it from my hand. I uncover her beauty, her face, flush and content, eyes closed. She suckles my fingers, like I her toes. She breathes. I pull my fingers from her, trace them on her cheeks and chin. She opens her eyes. She smiles.
“I.” She inhales, thinks. “That.” I kiss her lightly. My breasts pour into hers. “I never.” Another kiss. “You.” She breathes, thinks.
I wiggle my toes. Push my knee between her wet legs. I roll an attentive nipple between my fingertips. I nibble on her earlobe. I whisper another innuendo-filled hello. Without the actual words, I beckon, “show me.”
She does. And it’s Oscar-worthy.
by JenSorel
If you don’t live in L.A., if you’ve never been to Hollywood, you just don’t know. You don’t know the parade of beauty that comes and goes, lives and prospers. There’s an inner circle that, if invited, elicits opportunity after opportunity to savor whatever your heart desires. It’s all practically laid at your feet, it comes to your door, doesn’t knock or miss a day. It’s the party of beautiful people that you can resent or, if invited, flaunt.
She comes to me like the perfect gift, the perfect present few days after Christmas, a revitalizing resolution a few days before the new year.
“Hello,” she says in a whisper laced with sweet perfume.
“Hi,” I say with a smile laced with innuendo.
“I’m…”
“I know who you are.” Everyone does. Everyone as in the world. Another famous face stands before me and this one makes my heart thump, my stomach flutter with butterflies, my legs weak and my insides leak. All this at “hello.” She’s that beautiful. That sexy. That captivating. That intoxicating.
I drink her in.
“What’s that look?”
I blush. “I guess I’m a fan. Of your work. And I honestly can’t believe how stunning you are in person.”
She blushes, which surprises. Boldly I lean in and whisper, “You are lovely.”
“Stop.”
“Why?”
“Because. You’re lovely. We’re all lovely. Look at this party.”
“Hollywood.”
“Yes, Hollywood. What do you do?”
“I appreciate all the beauty.”
“Stop.”
“I’d like to appreciate you.”
“You talk like a man. If I wasn’t so tipsy I’d think you were coming on to me, just like a man, just like every man.”
“Maybe you’re not so inebriated.”
“So you are? Coming on to me?” she inquires with a scent of hope in her words.
“I could ask the same of you. You came over and said hello to me. You know?”
She laughs. “I did. Guilty as charged. I just thought you looked like someone.”
“Someone you know? Or want to know?”
“You,” she says with a funny glare. “Who are you?”
“Listen. I’m tipsy too. Maybe it’s making me bold. Maybe I’ll regret this. Maybe not. But the likes of you does not come over to talk to me every day. So, here goes. Let’s go have a drink somewhere else.”
“You come on strong.”
“It’s the Kettle One.”
“So, you’re not coming on to me?”
“I am,” I whisper, playing my hand. “Coming on to you. Coming on you, with you, from you, because of you.”
“Oh my,” she murmurs, unable to take her eyes off my lips.
“You coming over to me? Was that for a reason?”
“Told you. I thought you looked like someone.” She grins. “Someone I wanted to know,” she adds, making the thumping in my chest go bonkers, the butterflies feast on my belly, my legs quiver and my insides swim.
“Oh my,” I say as she touches my wrist. “We’re going to have so much fun.”
“Are we?” she whispers. Then adds, “I don’t know your name.”
“Jennifer.”
“Jennifer. So, what does Jennifer enjoy?”
“Enjoy?” I respond, realizing for the first time since she sauntered over to me I think of my undying desire, my lust for feet. I imagine her feet, naked in front of me. Thump. Flutter. Quiver. Drip. Standing before her I am overcome by the thought of her naked toes in my mouth, her lovely soles in my face, her famous feet allover me. I look at her. She raises an eyebrow in anticipation of my words. “You have no idea what I’m into.”
She drinks. “Wow. That’s’ a tad intimidating. Yet enticing coming from you. Someone a lovely as you. Should I be scared?’
“No. Not at all. Just be ready for something amazing.” I move toward her and put my lips near her earringless ear, her sexy little ear. I feel her breath on my neck. “I’m going to suck your pretty little toes until you come.” I pull away, heart racing, stomach flipping, legs wavering, anxious to see her reaction. She scans the party, ponders my words. Her eyes dart my way. She licks her pinkish lips, parts them to speak.
“Jennifer what?”
Her place. We kiss a long time. On a couch, soft hands all over each other. She’s done this before. I can tell. Not a lot, but she’s been here before. I wonder if she wants to be here more, if she enjoys women as much as men, or less, or more. Our soft and small faces slide across each other and she moans. I get the feeling she’s been away from this feeling a while. I get the feeling she’s missed it. I get the feeling she yearned to be back. I kiss her forehead, her eyes, her neck. I lick her nose, bite and suckle her chin. She laughs and moans, together. I kiss her. Deeply. My lips slide against hers, suck hers in between mine one then the other. Moans abound. She arches her back, pushing her chest into mine. I moan back. I wonder how far she’s gone before. I know I’ll find out soon. Between kisses I unbutton her blouse and put my hand on her breasts. I tickle her stomach and her ribs and her nipples. I suckle them, biting and licking. She’s wiggling and moaning and shuddering and groaning. I take her. She’s mine. I can’t believe I’m here, but I’m also not going to get nostalgic while in the midst. I’ll reminisce later. I’ll deal with the guilt later. Right now I just cheat and enjoy. It’s what I do. I slide my hand across her belly, down into her skirt. Biggest moan yet. I’m confident my fingers are about to get very wet when her moans form a word.
“Bedroom.”
She’s naked. I’m naked. She’s shaking all over. I’m between her sexy legs, attending to the slick passage she’s invited me into. My fingers slide in and out, two of them. My lips and tongue gleefully mop up, while poking and licking and kissing and sucking and ticking and pressing her exposed bliss button. She calls my name. My name. She wiggles and grabs the edge of the bed, pushing her face into the pillows in a vain attempt to muffle her joyous voice. Her hair is all over her lovely face and I watch her as I bring her closer, as I give her body joy, as I get her off. Her breasts heave, her stomach pulls in and pitches out, her legs shiver and her sex floods. I lick. I kiss. I tickle. I suck. I press. My face is wet and glazed. I watch her squirm and shiver and come closer. I shift and pull my face from between her legs. Fingers slide in and out, my thumb takes over rubbing and ticking and pressing. I know what I’m doing. She says my name, her own hair falls into her open mouth. I reach and grab an ankle. I’m certain under her blonde locks, eyes go wide. I bring her naked foot to my chest and I move into a favorite position, a place I know so well, a place I love to be with lover, a place I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d ever be with her. I move so my knees just touch her naked ass as it slips and slides across the silky sheets. My knees meet her soft bottom and the backs of her thighs and my arm rests between my own silky legs as it sides in and out. My other hand brings her captured foot to my face and I see her toes coming, then her sole, her soft and smooth and sexy and intoxicating sole. I breathe deep even before her foot is close enough to smell. I press her sole against my face and it feels like it’s meant to be there. They all feel this way, I admit. But this one moreso. I inhale. Again. I lick. I kiss. I tickle. I suck. I love. I love it. I love it, aspiring to suck each one of her perfect little toes.
Her foot is small, unblemished, smooth, distinct, poised. While I can’t believe others haven’t been here before, adoring this sole, surely chomping on her toes, the foot also exudes an air of virginity, making me feel as if I am the first lover here, a pioneer that will mark the sensual territory with licks and kisses, traces of lipstick and spit, tickles and suckling, with love, love my way. I marvel at that, that feeling, the pureness. Her chaste toes are thin and engaging. Each one is painted red at it’s tip, something I discovered when I sipped off her heels minutes before, as I finally made her completely naked as she whispered, “are my feet pretty?” My hands tickled her soles and I responded, “you are lovely, nose to toes and you know that.” She exhaled and parted her legs, her feet slipping from my palms, her wetness beckoning. I tended to her wetness with thoughts of her feet fueling my actions, feet as striking as her movie star smile, her leading-lady face, and her marquee figure. I tended to her until she was so close, then shifted to enjoy my favorite act.
Her toes all bend toward my face as I adore her sole. They all bend, beckoning me with tiny dollops of flesh that hang in the air, seemingly defying gravity, hovering just above the ball of her sweet foot, before the sole hollows into her deep arch and flourishes into her plump heel. Her feet are a movie, first act soles, second act toes, third act the climax of all. I watch the story unfold and kiss act one with an open mouth.
“Suck my pretty toes until I come.”
She says this as she struggles to catch her breathes. I smile, smootch her sole.
“Suck my toes.”
I lick.
“My toes.”
I kiss.
“Suck them.”
I suck. Each one of her toes. In my mouth. I suck her toes and she giggles and moans and quivers and comes. She comes a lot. Seems she comes anew with each toe, as each digit enters my warm and wet and eager and loving mouth.
Big toe moves past my lips into an unknown darkness, a moist and cozy home. I see her red nail disappear past my own nose and I taste her skin at her body’s farthest point. It’s worth the trip. Worth the journey. Every time. Moreso this time. Her skin there tastes sweet and salty and florid. I breathe deep and suckle the digit, slip it in and out at the same rate that my fingers slide and glide. She shakes, whole body shivers, tense with joy, her words confirming, calling my name, asking for more, more, more.
Index toe slips inside amid panting and anxious yelps. I like this toe on her. I like this toe in me. I lick. I kiss. I tickle. I suck. I make it all wet and flush. She goes, “Oh. God. Please. Never. Make. It. Stop.”
Middle toe. All gobbled up and it’s as if she never thought this toe would receive the same adoration as the first two. She yelps. She glees. She squirms, naked and exposed, her insides being rubbed by three fingers now, her joy coming in waves, drowning her needs, making her lose control, giving her something she was definitely seeking when she came to say hello, yet far and away exceeding her aspirations this eve. I can see it on her face under the tossed hair, amid her squeals and overflow.
Next toe goes missing inside my mouth and she keeps coming. I love this toe. It’s almost identical to the middle toe, but elicits even more joy in my unexciting lover. Her hands lets go the sheets and pillow and seeks the anchorage of the headboard. She leverages the newfound grip and arches her back, drawing my fingers deeper and pushing her foot closer. I don’t think she’s ever been her before. I welcome her with my mouth and with my hand. I bite the toe and chew on it until I hear my name.
Pinky toe. It’s the smallest toe, but there’s more than enough of it on her to appreciate and adulterate. I make it feel as important as the big toe, slide it in and out, making it pull straight as I blow it, as if it was a man’s rigidness, as if it was the most important digit of all. This makes her crazy. This makes her buck. This makes her come again, or continue the coming, I can not tell which as since the moment I followed through on the whispered promise I delivered we were still acquaintances and clothed and partying with Hollywood’s elite, the moment I began sucking her toes she burst and it seems her joy took nary a time out as I travel toe to toe.
I take all her toes into my mouth for a brief moment. I suck all of them for a second. They wiggle inside, damsel-in-distress like and I love her for that. I pull them from me and they shimmer in the soft light, they shine in her blush. I wipe some of the shine onto my face, dragging her toes across my cheek and nose twice. I wiggle my fingers still inside her to see if there is any more joy in her. Her dramatic exhale, tells me she spent. I slip out of her and my fingers look like her toes, shimmering and shiny. I lay next to her, half on top of her. She lets go of the headboard, slides her palms over my skin. Our legs entwine and my feet find hers. I feel the wetness of one and then the viginity of the other as they both hug my downy soles and roguish toes.
I kiss her, take in her breath as it heaves out, give her some of mine as if she needs the kiss of life. I press my lips to her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her hair. I hold her, making her lick her own joy off my fingers while she regains her composure. Her skin is so soft. All over. She smells powdery, flowery, of lavender and iris. All over. I discover later that it’s the fragrance Farnesiana. Intoxicating. As is she. She pants. Her tossed hair sticks to my hand as she feeds. I push it off her face, free it from my hand. I uncover her beauty, her face, flush and content, eyes closed. She suckles my fingers, like I her toes. She breathes. I pull my fingers from her, trace them on her cheeks and chin. She opens her eyes. She smiles.
“I.” She inhales, thinks. “That.” I kiss her lightly. My breasts pour into hers. “I never.” Another kiss. “You.” She breathes, thinks.
I wiggle my toes. Push my knee between her wet legs. I roll an attentive nipple between my fingertips. I nibble on her earlobe. I whisper another innuendo-filled hello. Without the actual words, I beckon, “show me.”
She does. And it’s Oscar-worthy.
