Swimsuit Shenanigans

Kimmy Kimm watched the door like it was a promise she already planned to break. Reagan Foxx finally stepped out in a modest one-piece, navy blue and obedient. Kimmy’s mouth went slack. That fabric swallowed curves the way a school uniform swallows a secret. The Bahamas were calling, and Reagan was answering in a nun’s disguise. “Take it off,” Kimmy said, low. The first replacement clung higher, a triangle top barely corralling full breasts, bottoms riding just above the swell of her hips. Reagan turned slowly under the bedroom light. Kimmy felt the pull low in her belly, but she asked for the next suit anyway. This one shrank again—thin strings tied behind Reagan’s neck, another pair knotted at each hip. When she bent to adjust them, the cleft of her ass showed, smooth and forbidden. Kimmy’s pulse hammered behind her zipper. She almost forgot to speak. The last suit might as well have been string and intention. Reagan slid it on. Tiny panels clung to her nipples. A single thread disappeared between plump cheeks. She checked the mirror, then glanced at Kimmy’s face. Caught the heat there. The hunger. Reagan tugged one tie loose. The top fluttered to the floor. Another pull, and the bottom followed. Naked now, she closed the distance. Her voice came out warm and sure. “Better?” she asked, pulling Kimmy’s mouth to hers.