As Sister Samantha draped her legs across my lap, I circled her ankles with my fingers, savoring the contact. Her skin was a canvas of unblemished porcelain, warm, impossibly soft, and devoid of the calluses that usually mar a commoner's feet.
They were the feet of a woman who walked on clouds, or perhaps just marble cathedral floors.
"Don't you need... oil or something for this type of thing?" she inquired.
"Nah," I rumbled, my gaze locked on the delicate arch of her foot. "Experts like me only use hands. It's all about locating the stress points, Sister. The places where you carry the weight of your devotion."
I wrapped my hand around her right foot, my palm molding to her heel. "And in your case, holy sister, the tension is buried right... here."
I buried my thumb into the junction where the arch met the ball of her foot, grounding and slowly applying pressure.
She hissed, a sharp intake of breath that sounded like a prayer cut short.
