Fist First

Fox and Marina stayed in while Melbourne locked down. Their home got smaller, the heat between them grew. Gentle kisses started slow—on the couch, late afternoon light spilling over bare thighs. Marina spreads for Fox. Hair covers everything, thick and red and soft, and Fox dives right in. She licks long strokes, tongue flat, then tight little circles that make Marina’s breath catch. Fingers follow, two at first, sliding in easy. Then three. Fox curves them, finds that spot, presses harder. Marina’s voice cracks. Four fingers now. The stretch pulls her open. Fox folds her thumb and pushes deeper, past her knuckles, until her whole hand disappears inside. She moves carefully, patient, turning her wrist until Marina shakes and comes with a raw sound that fills the room. They flip. Marina on her back, big blue eyes wide, lips parted. Fox climbs over her and settles that bush right over her mouth. The hair muffles Marina’s moans. Her tongue works up, greedy. Fox grinds down, hips rolling slow, then sharp. Marina grips her thighs, pulls her closer. They stay like this—locked in, breathing together—until Fox’s thighs tremble and she lets go.