My favorite manicurist is a young woman with a magic touch, who restores my hands and feet after my best efforts all week to catch my nails on just about any hard surface. This time the culprit was a jacuzzi over the July 4th holiday, and every time I got in and out, or more accurately was carried in and out, my toes scraped on the pebbled stone steps.
Totally worth it, though, I thought, as my lover and I were submerged up to our necks in swirling water, sipping champagne as her straddling legs pressed me up against a perfectly positioned bubbly jet, being kissed and fondled as the warm water churned and soothed, while fireworks exploded not a couple of hundred feet outside the enclosing garden wall of a casita at an exclusive desert resort in the desert. I loved being toweled dry and carried in to bed, where I slept like a baby.
So back to today at the manicure table; fingers first so that the nails get longer to harden. She's chatting away about her kids, her ex, her boyfriend and all the Industry gossip she's heard in the past week, and after the gels have set, it's toe time. I plop myself down in the wonderful leather of the massage chair and right away my back gets a workout as the hidden mechanism in the chair rumbles up and down my spine. Iím sitting on a cushion because my cheeks are a little sore, more about that later.
Soon the battered polish is off and she's expertly nipping the dead skin from my cuticles with her tiny cutters and filing my nails exactly the way I like them. Then my favorite part - the scraping with that huge file to smooth my soles and heels, and aaaah, yes, the massage, which undoes all the wrongs that life can throw at me. Then she dries my feet with a fluffy towel and makes my toes behave with the pink rubber separators, slips my feet into my velvety soft black flip flops, then folds her towel over the fronts under my toes so that the polishing can begin. She expertly applies hardener, then the french-white tips, which she narrows to a perfect line with her little brush dipped in acetone, and finally the clear coat to protect everything. We're done! I look great. I always give her cash, which ensures a good job, and then float out to the car and away.
There's a lot of traffic, well, this is West LA, and of course, I hit every light. While my foot is on the brake, my newly massaged soles and heels feel the velvety bottoms of my flip flops and I find myself thinking, God, I love my sandals. No, I really love my sandals. Wow, it's strange to love something that has been an ordinary part of my life as long as I can remember. I must be a freak, but I really, totally love my sandals. I start daydreaming about leather thongs slipping between my toes, straps with studs buckled across my feet, sparkly little rhinestones, the ones that zip up the back, that have multiple beaded ankle straps, that loop around my big toes, that . . . suddenly, OMG, I'm getting hot and have to turn down the a/c temperature.
My toes keep curling against the thongs. Mmm. OK, now the homeless guy has finally pushed his illicit grocery cart to the opposite curb, and itís time to pay attention. Iím off again, pressing the gas pedal so gently that the guy behind probably thinks I'm nuts. As we stop yet again my nipples are starting to tingle and get hard against the smocking of my sundress and are calling down below, damn it, so thank G-d I'm finally turning into my driveway and pulling into the garage. I reach up to click the door closed and turn off the engine.
Sitting in the soft leather, I realize that these are the sandals she spanked me with last night. Sure, I'd been sassy at dinner and knew I'd be well rewarded after our friends had gone and we were in bed, and sure enough she bent down and grabbed the flip flop from the floor where I'd kicked it off, threw me over her knee and made quite an impression on my delicate butt for longer than I liked. I was hot and burning red and came hard as she held me down with her thumb in my rectum and her fingers in my very damp pussy. I fell asleep until the pink dawn, when she had already left, then jumped up and showered and put on these sandals and this sundress to go to my nail appointment.
As I sat there in the garage with my butt still gently tingling from my belovedís touch, I found myself pushing the seat back, lifting up my dress and pulling my foot under me and rubbing the heel of my sandal against the pink satin that barely covered my smooth crotch. I exploded in another sweaty orgasm right there. G-d, I love my sandals. I really love my sandals. And I have the impression of the ridged soles on my bottom to prove it. Maybe Iíll be naughty again tonight, and Iíll have to make sure Iím wearing my favorite Rainbow flip flops, theyíre just a little heavier than these . . .
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