Where the Boys Aren't #16 - Part 3

The title arches, claiming angelic girls. The title flatters the room. Four blondes drift across the balcony, skirts folded up their lower backs. Nothing heavenly rides their hips. Each woman finds her own heat. Two knees kiss polished tile. Finger-tips chase slick folds, a knuckle pushes deeper, another traces the tight crease above. One lets her middle digit slide all the way home, then curls, hooking that hidden front ridge until her thighs twitch. Her ass stays high, cheeks spread by the sheer want behind every stroke. Another runs her thumb over the pink mouth beneath her tailbone and groans. Breaths stack, turn jagged. A glossy fingernail glistens. Pressure builds, a pulse, and release rolls through shaking hips. Fingers keep moving until the ache decides it’s finished.