Suzanna

And this li’l Piggy

He has a foot fetish, doesn’t he?
Yes, I know about it.

Where do you think he was last weekend?

He, my feet, and me. Me stuck between the two.

My feet and him.

Last weekend.

Stutterday and Stunday.

I stuttered my way past the door; my feet stunned me.

A million and one toes had I that weekend. All dancing and standing tall to his touch.
All ablaze with a million and one senses. One for each touch. One for each moan.

Bits of nail paint clung to the corners of his mouth.
I tasted them later and they clung to me. They were glad to be back on me, he said.

Toe tips were worshipped. Candles were lit at the altar of my feet.
My nails glinting its blessing on to his teeth.

A dimpled chin lay on a dimpled ankle as toes wiggled thoughts to his nose.

Then he told me about you.
My toes cringed in fright. Curled away from his tongue. The Missus. Oh she has toes too?

My toes turned cold. Froze to his touch. The candles wouldn’t thaw it. His mouth iced it.

Then he spoke.
How my toes would never compare to yours.
How yours are petals, while mine are buds.
How yours is water, and mine is moss.
How yours floats, and mine pads.

And.

How I’d find you here today.


(Right opposite the pedicure chairs and basins at Peaches)