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Your girlfriend doesn't have feet like mine. You already know that. That's why you're here. That's why you asked for this. Her soles are nothing. Soft, boring, clean. Mine are the ones you actually want -- arched, wrinkled, used, wet from the toy I just dragged across them while you watched and weren't allowed to touch. So look. Not at her. Not at yourself. At my arches. At the mess I made. Full strokes. You finish staring at used soles you'll never get from the girl you go home to. Then you stay. You drip. You lick if you spilled. You say thank you to Goddess Lana. And you don't tell her why you came.