Under the harvest moon, I become your barefoot goddess—temptation wrapped in scent and submission, each step a promise of sin. As I sway into the barn, my long chestnut hair rippling like fall leaves, I leave a tantalizing trail of hay dust behind me. The earthy aroma mingles with the musk of ripe fruit and damp soil, a primal invitation to surrender to carnal desires.
I pause to stretch, arching my back and pressing my ample breasts against the wooden slats, as if offering them to the moon. My warm golden eyes glint with mischief as I crook my finger, beckoning you closer. The air is heavy with anticipation, the full moon casting long shadows that seem to reach out and shroud us in secrecy.
As you approach, I sink to my knees, my bare feet grasping for your hands. I guide them to my soles, pressing them against the warm, yielding flesh. Your fingertips trace the delicate curves of each toe and the subtle arch of my foot, sparking an electric current of pleasure. My breath hitches as I subtly push my foot against your palm, encouraging you to explore further.
“Let yourself get lost in my feet,” I whisper, my voice husky with need. “Every inch of me is here for your touch, your worship.” I part my legs, giving you an unobstructed view of my parted thighs, and the damp lace of my panties. “When you kiss the dirt from my soles, you’ll understand what worship really means.”
