Where The Boys Aren't #14 - Part 4

Two women fuck against the graffiti wall behind the pool tables. The Black one has her arm under the white girl's thigh, fingers knuckle-deep inside her, knuckles slick. Her braids brush the other girl's collarbone. The kiss is messy, more teeth than tongue, every few seconds a tiny, wet sound from the white girl's cunt—sweet and obscene in the half-dark of the bar's back hallway. The white girl gasps against her mouth, breath hot. Her hips roll without rhythm now, chasing the pressure where fingers press up and in. She has one hand gripping the back of her lover's neck, the other fumbling under the hem of the Black woman's tank top to find bare skin, breast, tight nipple, sweat. Their clothes are half on, twisted around waists and pulled aside—denim shoved low enough to free what matters. In the corner the jukebox still runs, the pulse of bass bleeding through the brick. Neither woman cares. They only break long enough to look at each other: pupils blown, mouths flushed. The Black woman drops to her knees, pulls the white girl's jeans to mid-thigh, and pushes her tongue between wet folds. Her lips seal; she sucks gently while the blonde shudders above her, hand in braids now, muttering low filthy nothings—yes, right there, don't stop. Outside the hallway someone laughs. Inside, the fingers slide deeper, and the blonde's knees start to give.