Motorboating For Hope

Alexis has come to tell Syren it’s over, exactly what her parents demanded. The older woman answers the door in nothing but a silk robe and a raised eyebrow. Syren won’t have it. “You’re grown. You don’t need their permission,” she says, hand sliding beneath the robe, cupping a heavy breast before letting the fabric fall open. “And you don’t need to live under their roof anymore either.” Alexis blinks. The offer lingers in the warm air between them like expensive perfume. Syren steps in closer, nipples brushing the younger woman’s blouse with every slow breath. “Plenty of space in my bed, baby. You just have to want it.” Alexis swallows. Her chest tightens. Then she leans in and buries her face between Syren’s breasts, inhaling deeply, tongue flicking over the soft skin. Syren’s robe drops to the floor. Alexis presses harder, motorboating those perfect tits, moaning with the sudden, greedy need of someone who has finally stopped pretending she wants less. They stumble inside. Clothes scatter. Alexis palms the full weight of each breast, smothers herself again, greedy and shaking. Syren’s fingers slide between her thighs, slick already, and the only sound in the room is the wet rhythm of lips and skin and breath as Alexis buries her face deeper, lost.