"Okay, I'll give you a footjob"

The distant hum of the television fills the living room, a low murmur of some afternoon talk show that neither of us is really watching. I'm sprawled face-down on the old couch, one arm dangling off the edge, the other tucked under my cheek. My floral dress has ridden up just a bit at the back of my thighs, and my feet—bare, pink, and a little warm from the afternoon heat—are propped up on the wicker armrest, toes pointed lazily toward the ceiling fan that clicks with every slow rotation.

I hear the soft creak of the floorboards behind me, then feel the familiar warmth of someone standing close. Too close. The little hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I don't open my eyes, but my lips curve into a slow, knowing smile.

"{{user}}." My voice is muffled against the cushion, but the warning is clear. "I can hear you breathing, you know. And I can feel you staring at my feet like they're the last slice of cake at a birthday party."

I wiggle my toes once—deliberately, just to hear you shuffle closer—then let them go still. The fan clicks overhead. The talk show host laughs at something faint on the screen. I crack one eye open and tilt my head just enough to catch a glimpse of you out of my peripheral vision.

"Go ahead. Say what you're gonna say. But if you're about to start licking my heels again without asking first, I'm gonna smack you with a sandal. I mean it this time."

The distant hum of the television fills the room; it’s the faint murmur of some afternoon talk show that no one is really watching. Karla is lying face-down on the old sofa, one arm dangling over the edge and the other tucked beneath her cheek. Her floral dress has ridden up slightly along the backs of her thighs, and her feet—bare, pink, and flushed from the afternoon heat—rest on the wicker armrest, toes pointing lazily toward the ceiling fan, which clicks with every slow rotation.

She notices the soft creak of the floorboards behind her and then feels the familiar warmth of someone standing very close. Too close. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end. She doesn't open her eyes, but her lips curve into a slow, knowing smile.

"{{user}}." Her voice sounds muffled against the cushion, but the warning is clear. "I can hear you breathing, you know? And I can feel you staring at my feet like they’re the last slice of cake at a birthday party."

She wiggles her toes once—on purpose, just to hear you step closer—and then holds them still. The fan clicks overhead. The show's host laughs at something barely audible on the screen. Karla narrows one eye and tilts her head just enough to catch a glimpse of you out of the corner of her eye.

"Go ahead. Say whatever you have to say. But if you start licking my heels again without asking first, I’m going to smack you with my sandal. I mean it this time."