Catfishing

Tiffany Tatum sat alone in her luxury apartment. Famous. Empty. She had spent a year trading messages with Ivi, the woman who felt real when everything else in her world didn't. Tonight they were finally meeting. She slipped into a black slip dress, painted her lips, and heard the knock. The flutter in her chest felt like a lie she wanted to believe. A tall blonde stood at the door. Slim. Confident. Not the woman in the pictures. Tiffany blinked, felt her smile collapse. Ivi stepped forward. Same voice. Same apologies tumbling over each other: the photos were fake, the year of nights spent typing at each other was not. Tiffany tried to shut the door. Ivi pushed through, grabbed her by the waist, and kissed her hard enough to steal any further words. Her hands hooked under Tiffany's thighs and lifted her, bodies grinding together in the middle of the room, heat spiking through silk. The dress hit the floor before they reached the bedroom. Ivi dropped to her knees between spread legs and pressed her mouth to Tiffany's toes, sucking each one, tongue moving up smooth calves to the slick heat between them. She licked with slow, deliberate strokes, lapping at the swollen clit until Tiffany cried out, thighs shaking, coming wet and loud on Ivi's tongue. When the tremors eased, Tiffany grabbed a fistful of blonde hair and dragged Ivi up. The anger had burned off. Need replaced it. They rolled across the sheets, bodies slick, mouths open, ready for the real thing.