The room is always white.

Not white like purity.

White like exposure.

White like nothing is allowed to hide.

There is a couch at the center—low, solitary, upholstered in light.

No shadows. No texture.

Only her.

She sits with her legs crossed, one heel dangling from her toe.

Black. Glossed. Sharp like punctuation.

A glass of red wine rests between her painted fingers.

She wears a bodysuit, high-cut and impossible, the fabric stretched across the valley of her breasts as if it’s learned to worship them.

Her legs shimmer under dark nylon.

She doesn’t move.

Not yet.

I see myself walking toward her.

Naked except for tights.

The same tights, every time.

Beige. Sheer. Useless.

I walk slowly. Deliberate.

There’s no sound. Not of my steps. Not of breath.

Only a hum. A brightness.

Like silence after screaming.

I kneel before her.

She smiles. Her pink lips curve slightly, knowingly, as if she’s seen this version of me a hundred times before.

Perhaps she has.

Her heel sways from her toe like a pendulum.

Then falls.

The sound it makes—soft, sudden, final—breaks the silence like a sigh.

She gestures toward her foot.

A single motion, imperceptible to anyone but me.

I lean in.

My lips meet the tip of her nylon-covered toes.

I kiss each one, reverent, careful.

The fabric clings to my mouth, silky and faintly warm.

I trail my lips over her foot, across the arch, to the sole.

I breathe her in.

She rewards me with nothing.

She doesn’t need to.

When I look up, she blows me a kiss.

It lands on my lips like permission.

I open my mouth and take her toes in.

The sensation is quiet thunder—soft friction, slick warmth, the silk of her against the silk of me.

My fingers graze the arches of her feet, and she presses one foot between my thighs.

The fabric of my tights is useless against her touch.

I am wet—soaked, aching.

Her toes begin to move.

Small circles.

Slow rubs.

Then faster.

I moan, but only inside.

My breath escapes in tremors.

My body folds, trying to hold the pleasure in place.

Her other foot slips deeper into my mouth.

I suck. I worship. I lose the outline of my thoughts.

She moves her toes across me—back and forth, slow then sudden.

Sometimes she circles, sometimes she thrusts.

Her big toe finds the center of me, pressing gently, then insistently, until I feel my hips shake.

I take her foot deeper into my mouth, as if I can thank her with my tongue.

She slides against me with perfect cruelty.

I feel myself give way.

The orgasm arrives like sleep. Sudden, full, irreversible.

My knees buckle.

I collapse, panting, shuddering, staring up at her.

One foot shines with my spit.

The other glistens with something else entirely.

I kiss her ankle, tasting myself.

I begin to climb her legs—up her calves, her thighs, the nylon warm from our shared friction.

She opens slightly, not invitation, but inevitability.

I want to press my mouth there.

I want to bury myself between her legs and lose time.

But I continue.

Up her belly, between her breasts.

I pause, running my tongue between the soft curves of her bodysuit.

Then I reach her lips.

She kisses me, slow and deliberate, her tongue searching mine with the same calm authority her toes used on my body.

We melt into each other—legs tangled, hands wandering, mouths open.

I do not know where I end or she begins.

I do not know if she is real.

The brightness intensifies.

The room begins to fade.

Our bodies blur.

I want to stay.

But I am pulled away.

Always pulled away.

When I wake, the light in my room is dull.

The sheets are damp.

My thighs still tremble.

The heel lies by the bed, though I do not remember placing it there.

There is no couch.

No wine.

Only silence.