Foot Rubs Lead to Raw Fucking

Renata had been living with the want for six months, and the want had a shape now: Cody’s shoulders when he reached for a glass, the low sound he made when a show actually made him laugh, the way he never left his shoes in the middle of the floor. She was twenty-four, a marketing assistant who spent her days polishing sentences about lotions and serums, and he was twenty-six, the roommate who split the rent without drama and kept the apartment from feeling like a waiting room. They had moved in together because the listing was cheap and the location was good. She had started wanting him sometime in the second week and had not stopped.

Tonight the television threw blue light across the couch. A shared blanket covered them from the hips down. Her curly red hair was half-loose, spirals brushing her collarbones. Under her skirt she wore silk stockings she had chosen after her shower, the sheer fabric cool against her skin, the excuse about the apartment being chilly already thin even to herself. Her feet kept drifting toward his under the blanket and pulling back.

“Cody,” she said. Her voice came out smaller than she meant. “Want to trade foot rubs? I’ll do yours. Then you do mine. Just while we watch.”

He looked over. The corner of his mouth lifted. “You any good?”

“I can be.” Heat climbed her neck. “Socks off.”

He peeled them off and set his bare feet in her lap under the blanket. Warm skin. She poured a little lotion into her palm from the bottle she had set on the coffee table and started with his right foot, thumbs working the arch in slow strokes. The tendon flexed under her pressure. She circled the ball of his foot, pressed into the pad beneath each toe, slid her fingers between them until his calf loosened against her thigh. The television kept murmuring. She moved to the left foot and did it again, learning the slight roughness at the heel, the way his toes curled when she dragged her thumb hard along the sole. A quiet sound left his throat. Her own pulse sat high in her ears. Every glide of her hands felt like she was erasing a line she had drawn the day he carried his boxes in.

“That’s really good,” he said, low.

She kept going until the lotion was worked in and his feet rested heavy and warm in her hands. Then she drew her own feet toward him under the blanket, silk whispering against the couch. “Your turn.”

He shifted. His hands found her ankles first, careful, then slid up over the silk to the arches. The stockings made everything smoother and somehow more naked at once. His thumbs pressed into the center of her right sole and she felt the pressure travel straight up the inside of her thigh. He worked the ball of her foot, the narrow place under her toes, the silk sliding a fraction under his grip and then catching again. When he switched to the left foot she had to bite the inside of her cheek. Heat gathered low in her belly. She was getting damp, the thin fabric of her panties clinging, and she knew if he looked at her face he would see it. He didn’t look at her face. He watched his own hands on the silk, brow faintly drawn, as if the shape of her foot required concentration.

She shifted her hips without meaning to. The blanket hid the movement and did nothing to hide the ache. Her cunt felt swollen, sensitive against the seam of her panties. She tried to keep her breathing even. Cody’s free foot, the one not in her lap, moved under the blanket. She felt the warmth of his ankle brush the inside of her knee, then higher. He pressed in, slow, the hard ridge of his ankle sliding between her thighs until it met the soaked center of her. The pressure was blunt and exact. He pushed his foot more firmly against her cunt, the ankle bone seated right where she was softest, and held it there.

A small sound broke out of her. She couldn’t stop her thighs from tightening around him. One of her hands left the blanket and found his foot—the one still resting near her hip, the one he had given her to rub—and she gripped it. She dragged that foot down and pressed the sole and the arch hard against her cunt through the panties and the silk at her thighs, grinding in a short, helpless circle. The other foot, the one already between her legs, stayed wedged at her entrance, ankle flexing when she rocked. Wetness soaked through. She rubbed his foot against herself again, shameless now, the silk of her stockings rasping softly, her curly hair falling forward as she bent over the motion.

“Renata,” he said. His voice had gone rough.

“I know.” She kept the pressure, rolling her hips so his ankle nudged deeper against the give of her. “I can’t—God, Cody, I’m so wet.”

His free hand tightened on the foot still in his lap, thumb stroking the silk over her arch even while she used his other foot on herself. She felt him harden; she didn’t have to see it. The blanket tented faintly over his lap. Her own clit throbbed against the trapped fabric every time she dragged his sole across it. The television laugh track rose and fell and neither of them heard it. She ground once more, a longer stroke, and her thighs shook.

She let go of his foot. The loss of pressure made her whimper. She pushed the blanket off and stood, stockings gleaming, hair a red tangle down her back, panties dark at the crotch. Her face was flushed. She looked at him—at the obvious ridge in his sweatpants, at his hands still open on his thighs—and the shyness burned off all at once.

“Come into my room,” she said. “And fuck me raw. Every way. I want it in every hole.”

He stood. For a second neither of them moved. Then he nodded, once, and followed her down the short hall.

Her bedroom lamp was already on, low. She shut the door and turned. The silk stockings ended high on her thighs. She peeled her skirt and panties off and left the stockings on, then sat on the edge of the bed and opened her legs so he could see how wet she was, how the lips of her cunt glistened, how ready. “No condom,” she said. “I want you bare. I want to feel all of it. Say yes.”

“Yes,” Cody said. He shoved his sweatpants down. His cock was thick, flushed, already wet at the tip. He stepped between her knees, and she lay back, curly red hair spreading on the pillow, and pulled him down with her.

He entered her in one slow push. Raw, the stretch was immediate and perfect, no barrier, just heat and the slick drag of her around him. She gasped against his mouth. He settled into missionary and started to move, deep strokes that bottomed out and held, then drew back until only the head remained before he filled her again. Her stockings rasped against his hips. She hooked her ankles behind him and met every thrust, cunt gripping, the wet sound of it loud in the small room. “Harder,” she said. “I can take it. Fuck me like you’ve wanted to.”

He did. The pace turned heavy. Each drive shoved a broken sound out of her. She came the first time with her nails in his shoulders and her heels locked at the small of his back, pulsing around him, soaking them both. He didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, missionary still, grinding at the end of every stroke so his pelvis mashed her clit. She begged him not to pull out. When he groaned and buried himself and came, the first load flooded her deep, hot pulses she felt one after another, and she clenched to keep it, whispering yes, yes, stay inside, give it to me.

He stayed hard enough, or got hard again fast with her mouth on his neck and her cunt still fluttering, that when she rolled onto her hands and knees he was ready. Doggy next. She presented herself, silk-clad thighs spread, ass up, the mess of his cum already leaking. He gripped her hips and slammed back in. The angle was deeper. She cried out into the pillow and pushed back to meet him, red curls sticking to her damp neck. He pounded her dripping pussy in long, brutal strokes, the slap of skin sharp, one hand sliding up her spine to fist lightly in her hair—not yanking, just holding—while she told him not to stop, told him she wanted every inch, told him she was going to come again if he kept that exact pace. She did. The second orgasm ripped through her while he was buried to the hilt, and he fucked her through that one too, cum and her own slick making everything obscenely wet.

“My ass,” she said when she could speak. She reached back, spread herself, looked over her shoulder. “Raw. Slow at first, then deep. I want it. I’ve wanted it.”

He used the mess from her cunt to slick his cock and her rim, fingers careful, then pressed the head against her tight ass and waited for her breath. She nodded. He sank in by inches. The burn flared and eased into a thick, overwhelming fullness. She moaned, low and continuous, and when he was seated all the way she told him to move. He did—measured at first, then harder when she begged for it, slamming deep into her ass until the bed frame knocked the wall. Her hand found her clit and rubbed. The silk of her stockings was damp at the tops of her thighs. He groaned her name and came again, a second heavy load pulsing into her ass, and she pushed back to take all of it, shaking, telling him she could feel every spurt.

He pulled out slowly. She turned, hair wild, face wrecked and bright, and slid off the bed to her knees on the rug. “Throat,” she said. “I want the last of it there. Fuck my mouth. Don’t be gentle unless I tap.” She opened, tongue out, and he stepped in. She took him deep on the first stroke, the taste of herself and of him thick on her tongue, and set a rhythm with her hands on his thighs so he knew he could use her. He did. He fucked her throat in steady drives, careful of her breath when she needed it, rougher when she moaned around him and pulled him deeper. Spit slicked her chin. Her stockings whispered as she shifted on her knees. When he warned her he was close she stayed down, and he came a third time, flooding her mouth and throat in thick pulses she swallowed and chased, milking him with her lips until he was shaking and empty.

She sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, smiling up at him with cum on her lips and more of it leaking from her well-used holes onto the silk. “Every hole,” she said, hoarse and satisfied. “Just like I asked.”

He helped her stand. Her legs were unsteady. He lifted her—arms under her knees and back—and carried her down the hall to the couch. The television was still on, some late rerun neither of them had followed. He settled her against him under the blanket again, her curly hair against his chest, and his hand found her silk-clad feet, stroking the arches the way he had before any of it started, possessive and slow.

“Tomorrow night,” she whispered, already half-drowsing, thighs sticky, ass and cunt and throat all pleasantly ruined. “Same trade. Then you fuck me raw again. All of it.”

“Every night you want,” he said against her hair.

Raw, she realized as the blanket rose and fell with their breathing, had never meant the absence of a condom; it had meant the absence of every excuse they had used to keep their feet on opposite sides of the couch.