Mario came to deliver my Mercado Livre package - I handed him my QR code instead. I always prefer this exchange; no awkward work interruptions, just clean transactions.
10 minutes later, he hits me up on Messenger: "Available if the price is right." Clear this was about cash for him - and I love that. Mercenary types mean I can be just as selfish in return... He couldn't believe he'd get paid just for a "foot massage." Explained the real deal - the filming, the details. We sparked up, I hit record, and my hunger kicked in.
 
Wolf in sheep's clothing. Small but thick feet, that perfect combo of softness and ripe stink. Didn't hold back - massaged like I owed him money, sucked like a fucking industrial vacuum. His reactions? Gold. Moaning, eyes rolling, hips twitching - watching him unravel while I throat-fucked his soles was art. He left with his jeans straining, me high on conquest, like I won the lottery. 
 
We were slamming tequila shots when he rolled up on his bike. Everybody knows you can't ride drunk... so obviously his keys had to stay at my place.
What happened next? Let's just say his soles got more action than his engine that night.