Blondage #1 - Part 2

Two women tumble offstage flushed and breathless, skirt already twisted high. She cracks the bottle, golden liquor catching light before she drenches the other, liquid running between warm skin and settling in the hollows. Tongues chase every slick bead, tracing sternum to collarbone to the quickened swell of breasts. The towel hits the floor. Fingers push cotton aside, thighs give, and then mouths replace hands. They feed on the taste, sucking, swirling. Each wicked pull wrings soft whimpers from open throats. One slips two fingers inside the other, finds her already molten and drawing tighter, knuckle-deep. The second presses forward, tongue relentless, hips rolling against that hand. Wet sounds mingle with breathless gasps. A third finger joins, stretching, curling, coaxing. Neither cares who might hear through thin walls, breath catching, hips stuttering, the whole messy spread pushing them toward the edge again.