Ana Foxxx and Charlotte Stokely

The photographer stepped out. Fifteen minutes. Charlotte undressed Ana first, peeling the lace cup from her left breast, then the right, sucking each nipple until they stiffened against her tongue. Ana laughed softly and pushed two fingers past the silk of Charlotte's thong, finding her wet, sliding inside without asking. They moved with purpose—Ana on her knees, tongue working quick circles over Charlotte's clit while two fingers stayed buried deep. Charlotte held Ana's hair, guiding her, thighs trembling around her shoulders. She came fast, jaw tight, breath hissing through her teeth. Then Ana rose, turned, bent over the prop couch, ass lifted. Charlotte worked two fingers inside her cunt and one into her ass, pumping both in time until Ana's moans broke. She bucked once, twice, then stilled. They straightened, retied straps, smoothed fabric. When the photographer walked back in, the only sign anything had happened was the flush still riding Ana's cheekbones and the faint sheen on Charlotte's lower lip.