After class

I was already on the studio floor when Owen came back with water. Shirt off one shoulder. Leotard still on. Both black heels in my lap like I had been waiting to hand them over, because I had. The room smelled like rosin and skin. I am twenty-nine. He is thirty-four. We had said, before class, that after was ours. I do not grade him. I date him. I wanted him on the floor with me.

Take these, I said, and I set the heels in his hands. Then I put my bare feet in his lap instead. My soles were pink. I wanted him to look. Tell me I worked hard. Tell me I am beautiful down there. He did, quiet and specific. He named the arch, the toe I scuff, the line of my ankle. I went soft in the chest hearing it.

He kissed the top of each foot before the sole. I like that order. Polite, then hungry. His tongue was wet along the arch and I rolled my hips on the wood. The leotard dragged. My cunt was already wet from his mouth on my feet. I told him. I said, that is your mouth doing that, stay with my feet. He stayed. One hand cupped my heel. The other rested on my shin until I moved it higher.

I pulled the leotard aside and asked for his cock. He nodded, flushed, and freed himself. I laid one foot along his cock, gentle pressure, the way I like, never a stamp. He groaned and praised me back. So pretty. So mean in the sweet way. I smiled. I told him to fuck me while he held that foot. He held it and fucked me, cock slow in my cunt. I hooked the other leg around his hip. We rocked on the floor, my bare feet in his hands, his praise in my ear.

I came first, cunt gripping his cock, my hand tight on his wrist. He asked where. On my feet, I said. I want to see the cum. He drew his cock out and came across both soles while I held them up for him. Then he wiped me with his shirt and kissed my knees. I put the heels in my bag and we left with his hand at my waist.