Brandi Craves A Sex Slut

Brandi kicks her heels off the second the door closes. Her soles land on the stool like they own the place. Except the stool is Cherie, naked and waiting, chest pressed flat to the floor, ass high. Brandi exhales, letting the weight of the day slide out through her toes, wiggling them into Cherie’s warm skin. “Fucking nightmare," Brandi mutters, rolling one ankle, pressing down. Cherie doesn’t answer—doesn’t get to—but her thighs flex, a visible shiver running under the arch of Brandi’s foot. Excitement, plain and hungry. Brandi peels her blouse open, skirt shoved up to her hips, and sinks onto Cherie’s back, thighs spread, cunt already slick against the ridges of her spine. Fingers dive straight into Cherie’s hair, tugging her head back, a silent order. Cherie follows, mouth open, tongue ready. Then it’s fast and filthy. Brandi rides hard, hips snapping, taking everything Cherie offers—wet sucking sounds, the press of lips, the perfect give of a tongue that knows its place. Every time Brandi shudders and comes she grinds down deeper, using Cherie like she’s furniture built for pleasure. Cherie soaks it up, muffled whimpers trapped against soaked skin. Brandi flips her after the third climax, holds her open, and buries her mouth between spread thighs. She works greedy and relentless, sucks and fingers until Cherie snaps tight and breaks, thighs shaking, orgasm rolling out of her in one long, helpless spasm. Brandi keeps licking through every twitch, licking her clean, lips glistening when she finally lifts her head, satisfied and smug.