The New Girl

Franny straddles Henna’s thigh and grinds slowly, her hips rolling with deliberate friction. One thin strap of her nightdress slips off her shoulder and Henna hooks it lower with a single fingertip, baring the girl’s breast to the air. She cups the swell, thumb flicking the hard nipple, drawing a quick gasp. Henna leans back against the sofa, lips curved, calm as a queen on her throne while Franny moves with mounting heat. When Franny tilts forward to kiss her, Henna holds her chin, tasting the younger mouth slowly before releasing her with a whisper: “Stay just like that.” Her palm slides under Franny’s dress and finds damp silk. She pushes the fabric aside, two firm fingers parting slick lips and stroking the clit in lazy circles. Franny’s breath shortens. Henna watches every flicker cross the girl’s face—eyes half-closed, lower lip caught between her teeth—as the pressure builds. A low moan slips out when two fingers sink deeper, curling just right. Henna chuckles, lazy and satisfied, driving the steady rhythm while Franny rides it harder, thighs trembling, greedy for every measured thrust.