Make Up Lessons By Mommy

Petra watched Nickey's hands move across her own face with gentle precision. Her girlfriend had always been good with brushes and fingers, always knew exactly how to make something glow. But tonight the air felt different—something electric, waiting. Dava entered without knocking, stepped around them, poured herself a drink like she already belonged in the room. "You two look so serious," she said. "Let me help." Petra told her no. Too quickly. Dava smiled, poured another, took the mascara wand. Nickey laughed—breasts rising in that thin tank top—and did not move when Dava leaned in close to dust her eyelids. The older woman's hand slipped, brushed the swell of Nickey's cleavage, lingered. Nickey arched into it, lips parted. Petra froze as Dava's tongue flicked across the shell of her girlfriend's ear, whispering something low and filthy. Nickey's nipples tightened visibly under cotton. She turned to Petra, eyes glassy with heat. "Come on, baby," she breathed. "She's hot. Let her play." Petra hesitated only until Dava's fingers pushed the strap from Nickey's shoulder, until those famous tits spilled free and Dava's mouth closed around one pink nipple like she meant to devour it. Then the decision already belonged to lust. Together they pulled Nickey down. Mouths met skin. Hands grew sure. The room shrank to heat and breath and the wet sounds of tongues fighting for claim. Petra tasted her mother's lip gloss on Nickey's throat. No turning back now.