Footjob Camp

She wakes up meaner every year. This summer she wants the kind of footjob that leaves a man begging with his whole body. So she books the camp, shows up early, and finds her practice dummy already buckled down and waiting. Blonde hair pulled tight, leather straps biting into his wrists and ankles. Beard rasping against the gag they shoved between his teeth. She doesn’t bother introducing herself. Just plants one bare sole on his cock and starts the drill. Left. Right. Slow circles with the ball of her foot, then a sudden pinch between her toes that makes his hips jerk. One foot stroking lazy and cruel while the other pins his balls flat to the table. Two feet working together, squeezing the shaft in a slick, merciless rhythm, never letting him tip over. Every time his breathing breaks she stops. Counts to ten. Starts again slower. Sweat beads on his chest. Pre-cum smears across her instep. She smiles without warmth and drags her heel along the swollen head until he’s shaking. The leather creaks. His moans stay trapped behind the gag. She keeps going, foot after foot, hour after hour, until the only thing moving in the room is the steady, deliberate flex of her arches. By the time the sun drops he’s glassy-eyed and leaking, cock twitching at nothing, every nerve raw. She steps back, wipes her soles on his thigh, and decides she just might pass after all.