Milked

Vicky rings for Inna to bring fresh milk for her coffee. When the maid turns to dust the table, her short black skirt climbs higher. The desire hits fast. Inna wants her tongue between those legs. She steps close. Fingers grip the hem and pull until Vicky stands bare, nipples tight from the open air. Vicky peels the maid uniform down next, lace falling, breasts freed. Their breath quickens. Cold white liquid pours from the jug—spills over shoulders, runs down ribs, pools between skin. Fingers glide through the slick streams. Soon they climb onto the table, hips find mouths, thighs press against ears. Tongues push deep, licking cream and heat. Fingers thrust in time with soft sucking sounds. They come hard, wet thighs shaking, then again, moans raw against flesh. Cream coats lips and chins. Their hips roll greedy until the last shudder pulls them over once more.