My Boyfriend's Porn

Eliza practically bounced when she spotted Charlotte across the room. They hadn't stolen enough time together since the new boyfriend entered the picture, yet Charlotte had texted with an unmistakable undertone of curiosity and trouble. She pulled up a laptop, cheeks already pink, explaining that she'd peeked inside her man's browser history and uncovered an avalanche of lesbian scenes—hours upon hours of slick bodies, soft cries, tongues flickering between parted thighs. They decided they shouldn't go through life untouched by such knowledge. So they queued a video, whispering to each other in nervous bursts. At first the sofa felt too wide between them, but the performers moved with such frank hunger that heat curled low and tight inside both women. They confessed a sudden ache, agreed that fingers might relieve the pressure. Clothing shifted, thighs parted; small, wet sounds mixed with the speakers' moans. Fingers weren't enough. Charlotte's hand drifted to Eliza's knee, an offer or a question. Mouths met. Tongues tasted. Then they peeled the rest away and pressed skin to skin, thighs sliding open against each other until slick folds rode slick folds. When they switched to sixty-nine, one woman's breath faltered around the other's clit and replaced it with a trembling kiss. They tasted and rocked until orgasm rushed through them, tight and splintering, as though borrowed footage on a borrowed computer had gifted them something neither could give back.