The afternoon sun h*ts the glass like it was made for me.

I walk in first.

I chose this dress with exact intention. Short, tropical, coral and turquoise and gold. It moves when I move. The flip-flops are simple white leather, nothing fancy, but my toes are painted that deep red that always gets attention. I know what I’m doing. I always know.

You arrive in your expensive shirt and your expensive watch, already used to winning. You shake John’s hand first, then mine. And there it is—the half-second your eyes drop to my feet. Just a flicker. Enough.

I smile politely and turn.

I walk ahead on purpose. Every step is measured. Heel lifts, arch shows, flip-flop slaps softly against the polished concrete. I can feel your eyes on the backs of my legs instead of the vaulted ceilings. Perfect.

At the big window I shift my weight and let one flip-flop hang from my toes. Swinging. Casual. “The light in this room is exceptional,” I say, voice warm and professional. You’re not looking at the light. I let the flip-flop fall c*mpletely, step out of it, feel the cool floor under my bare sole, then slide it back on with a slow curl of my toes. Your jaw tightens. I see it.

Kitchen. I lean on the island, one foot lifted behind me so the heel and the arch are on full display while I talk countertops. Master suite. I kick both flip-flops off “to feel the carpet quality.” My bare feet sink into the thick fibers. I flex my toes just enough. You’re already losing the ability to focus on square footage.

By the time we sit at the small breakfast table, you’re cooked.

John starts with the numbers. Asking price, contingencies, HOA. I slip my foot free of the flip-flop under the short tablecloth. Bare toes brush your ankle. Soft. Almost accidental. You stiffen but you don’t pull away.

I climb higher. Arch against your calf. Toes tracing the inside of your knee. Slow circles. You’re trying to answer questions and your voice is already breaking. I press the sole of my foot flat against your inner thigh and watch you forget how to speak.

Then I find you.

Hard. Straining against the fabric of your pants in the middle of a professional meeting. I smile inside and start working you properly. Long, deliberate strokes with the arch of my foot. Toes curling around the ridge of you. Pressure, release, pressure again. The same way I’ve done it to John a hundred times. Only now it’s a weapon.

John keeps talking like nothing is happening. I keep my face perfectly polite, eyes on the paperwork, while under the table I stroke you closer and closer. You’re gripping the edge of the table. Breathing shallow. Throbbing against my sole. So close it must hurt.

I push you right to the edge.

And then I stop.

C*mpletely.

I slide my foot back down your leg, slow and cruel, and slip it neatly back into the flip-flop. Like nothing ever happened.

You make a broken l*ttle sound. I tilt my head, all innocent concern.

“Is there a problem?”

You’re left aching, desperate, bl*e-b*lled in a million-dollar house while John calmly offers another viewing. You say yes too fast. Of course you do. You’ll come back. You’ll sign whatever we put in front of you. And every night until then you’ll be thinking about my feet.

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