Barely There

Vinna Reed’s fist looks huge against Angel Piaff’s small cunt, but it sinks inside anyway. They spread towels under their hips before they start—better safe than sorry when every thrust might wring out another wave of juice. Angel’s thin body trembles, skin prickling, every muscle straining around the sudden stretch. Vinna curls her fingers, knuckles rubbing that smooth wall until clear liquid spills over her wrist in quick, rhythmic spurts. Angel moans like she’s been punched with pleasure. Her thighs shake; a fresh rush of wetness spatters the cotton and runs toward the sheets. Vinna grins and drives deeper, pulling out only when Angel’s cunt flutters and floods her knuckles again, a wet shine coating her hand from fingertips to forearm.