A Big Fist For Little Frida

Melody kissed Frida like she meant it. Slow, wet, her tongue pushing deep while Frida squirmed. But she was holding something back. Melody reached lower, curled her fingers, then eased them inside. Frida’s cunt was slick and yielding. Four knuckles fit. Then her thumb tucked down, and she slipped the whole hand in past the wrist. Melody watched her forearm disappear. She twisted, flexed, opened her hand inside. Frida’s pink walls clung tight, pulsing as Melody stretched them. She rocked the fist in slow punches, pressing the knuckles against the sweetest spot until Frida’s breath hitched and her thighs shook. Melody smiled against her lips and kept working her hand deeper, turning little sighs into long, broken moans.