Over The Top

Jordan and Luca sit close, talking about strong women and the muscle on display at the women's AFL. Luca has been lifting and it shows. They roll their shoulder, grin, and make a show of flexing—lean, solid, begging to be touched. Then they slap their arm down on the table and dare Jordan to an arm wrestle. "Loser streaks naked around the house," Luca says. Hands lock. Jordan's breath catches. Muscles knot, arms shake, grunts fill the kitchen until Luca slams Jordan's wrist to the wood with a sharp cry. Jordan is laughing before she even stands. Shirt first—bra next—shorts shoved down, panties kicked away. Luca whoops and chases her, bare feet slapping boards. Breasts bounce heavy, nipples taut in the cool air, and Jordan runs squealing, arms flung out for balance. They skid around the sofa, collide, and tumble onto it in a tangle of hot skin. Mouths meet hard. Then softer. Then greedy again. Luca kisses lower, spreading Jordan open with sure fingers, tongue finding the slick bead of her clit and circling it slow. Jordan groans, hips lifting, and slides two fingers into Luca, curling them against the swollen front wall until Luca's thighs tremble. Their breath shortens. Bodies twist until they’re cunt to cunt—swollen lips sliding, juices mixing—grinding in a slick, rolling rhythm that makes them both gasp. Tongues stay busy, lips sealed tight over each clit in turn. Moans climb. Hip bones knock. Then the first orgasm rips through Jordan; she cries out, thighs clamping Luca’s face. Luca follows, shaking, cunt pulsing under Jordan’s mouth. Breathing hard, they crawl up together, curl close, and lick the salt from each other’s pits—slow, lazy, tasting sweat and skin until the room grows quiet.