As your toes lace with her’s, you glare and sneer. Your lips, without sound, speaking the most breathless of curses just as your rival’s unleash the same.
And though there is nothing contrived or feigned in your simmering hate or the intoxicating sharing of it.
As your battle of soles and toes — heels and legs begin, a feeling of joy washes over you.
For in all the world, in all the women you might encounter, you found one willing to delve with you deep into the world of foot fighting.
Not reluctantly, but quickly.
Not with a sense of caution, but absolute abandon.
She wanting it no less than you.
Your rival becoming your release.
Your enemy accepting the role of sexual salve to a wound of desire that will never heal.
Her feet pushing into and then against yours in duel the desperate drink that will ever endeavor to cure your thirst and her’s.