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painful I’m scared to take my shoes off because I know I’m going to cry.  But if I leave them on, the pain is so bad that I’ll cry anyway.  I can’t fucking win.
    I hobble out to my car with Tiny following close behind.
    “Thanks.  Have a good night.”
    He makes a grunting sound and nods before walking away.  I climb in my car and just as I bring my foot up to rest on my opposite knee, there’s a knock on my passenger window.  It scares the shit out of me and I scream.
    “Fucking hell, Oak!” I curse.  He opens the door and folds his massive frame into the seat.  “You scared the shit out of me.”
    “What’s wrong with your foot?”
    “What the hell are you doing?”
    He grabs my foot and pulls it across the console to cradle in his lap.  When he doesn’t answer, I try to pull away, but he grasps my ankle and holds me steady.
    He unlaces my shoe and I suck in a deep breath, holding, waiting for the pain to rip my through my nerves.  He eases the shoe from my foot and I cry out in a mixture of pain and relief.  Pain, because my foot feels like it’s on fire, throbbing like it’s just been set free from its captive confines and pulsing with wild abandon.  Relief, because it’s no longer held captive and can finally breathe and have room to swell and ache without restriction. 
    “Fuck,” I groan, drawing the word out as tears fill my eyes as he removes my sock and what feels like a layer of flesh with it.  I bite down on the inside of my mouth, determined not to let the escape.
    “Jesus H Christ,” he mutters.  “What the fuck happened?”  He lifts my foot to examine it in the light shining dully in the distance from the bar.  Having no success, he reaches up and turns on the interior light of my car and curses when he catches sight of my mangled foot.
    Fuck, it looks worse than I thought.  My entire heel is red, angry, and rubbed raw.  Clear, sticky liquid oozes from the wound that was my quarter-sized blister. 
    He grabs my other foot and repeats the process. This time, I can’t hold back the tears and they trickle down my cheeks and fall onto my chest before soaking into the fabric of my work shirt.
    Discarding my socks and shoes onto the floor between his feet, he gently begins massaging the arches of my feet.  My head falls back and I sniffle.
    “Don’t cry, Willa,” he says softly. 
    “I’m not,” I rebuke stubbornly.
    He scoffs, and then drags his fingers through my toes causing a strange sensation to travel through my body.  My toes involuntarily curl and warmth rushes over me.
    “Uh, don’t do that,” I say awkwardly, trying to both remove my foot and force it further into his grip.
    “Do what?” he teases, as if knowing exactly what reaction he’s evoking from me.  Leaning down, he sucks my big toes into his mouth and my pussy clenches.  Holy fuck.   Okay, that’s kind of disgusting, but it’s more hot than anything else. 
    He places my foot back in his lap and continues massaging gently in silence.  He stays away from my tender heels, instead focusing on my arches and balls.  Through it all, the only thing I can think of is that his cock is growing harder and harder against the foot resting in his lap.  I desperately want to move so I can inconspicuously rub myself against him, but I refrain.  Barely.
    “I think it’s time you told me what earlier in the storeroom was about.”
    “It was nothing,” I say quickly.  Too quickly.
    “Don’t spew shit, baby.”
    “Don’t call me baby, baby, ” I throw back sarcastically, eager to clutch onto anything to distract him from his train of thought.  It doesn’t work though.  Of course it fucking doesn’t.
    He thrusts his hips upwards, his cock connecting with my leg.  “Makes me fucking hard as a rock when you call me baby.  Say it again,” he demands.
    “No,” I reply stubbornly.
    “Then tell me about earlier.”
    “No.”
    “You this stubborn when you’re being fucked?”
    “I beg