Marco decided that whatever else happened this night, he wasn’t going to get called out for doing a bad job. It would be impossible to endure any more criticism from Dorris about anything he couldn’t control, like his height (“Come on, get the ankles!”) or his reach (“Really? You need to walk all the way around?”), so he wasn’t going to give her any more opportunity to complain. He scrubbed hard on her feet, despite the gallons of water flooding over them to rinse off his efforts. He worked quickly and effectively, though he would’ve worked better if she didn’t think it was so funny to step on him.
Here it came now. He looked up just in time to see her mirthful eyes, peeking over her boobs and belly like sunrise in the Swiss Alps, get blocked out by a broad, pink sole. The wrinkled flesh pulled him from his task and mashed him flat against the ceramic tub. He didn’t fight back, only rolled his eyes and held his breath as runoff surged around him and the puckered, damp flesh patted him or rolled over his entire body. She didn’t intend to hurt him, she discovered, but there was tremendous entertainment value to be had in interrupting him. Again, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing him frustrated: when she released him, he simply climbed back up, lathered up his entire body on the boulder of soap, and returned to scrubbing her foot down with his entire self. He sensed, however, that after too much of this he was bound to lose his shit, and that would just encourage her.
“I think that’s enough,” she said, her voice booming over the roar of the shower.