You’re on your knees on the walkway in front of my house. You see nothing but what’s directly in front of you.

The hot stone digs into your knees; the bright sun stings your naked back. You feel nothing but the pulsing of your foot-addicted dick.

Birds tweet, doves coo, cars drive by, men call out appreciative comments as they pass the house. You don’t see, you don’t hear. You are obsessed with the high-heel dangle in front of you.

I use this time, sitting in the shade of my porch to catch up on emails and text messages. You may begin stroking.