Who Am I?

Tiffany sees her stepsister as the one who never slipped, never stained her record. Tonight she flips the script. Angelika sits bound to the chair, wrists crossed behind the slats, ankles pulled back and cinched tight. She can only watch, eyes wide, as Tiffany peels off her own top and settles on the edge of the bed, legs spread. Tiffany’s hand drifts down; two fingers part slick folds and she begins to stroke herself in lazy circles. The air thickens with the wet sound and the faint scent of arousal. “Open,” Tiffany says. Angelika leans forward as far as the ropes allow. Her tongue finds the sole of Tiffany’s raised foot, tracing the arch, then sucking each toe in turn until they glisten. Tiffany keeps filming with her free hand, the small lens capturing every flick of Angelika’s tongue, the way her small, natural breasts rise and fall with quick breaths. When the toes are thoroughly wet, Tiffany draws her foot back and nods toward her own soaked panties. Angelika’s mouth follows. She presses her face between parted thighs, breath hot through the thin cotton, then drags her tongue along the damp seam. The fabric clings, outlining the cleft beneath. Tiffany’s hips tilt forward; she rocks against Angelika’s mouth while the camera records every muffled moan and glistening trail of saliva. Jealousy burns away any last hesitation. In its place, something hotter takes hold—raw, mutual, undeniable. Angelika’s tongue works in eager strokes; Tiffany’s fingers circle faster, guiding, pressing. The chair creaks. The camera light blinks. Neither woman looks away.