CPR Seduction

Silvia lies on the mat in her silk robe, dark hair spread beneath her. Liz drops to her knees, practiced hands finding the pulse at her throat, eyes lowered like a student who wants the grade. Breath first, check the rise and fall of Silvia’s chest. Then Liz places the heel of one palm between her stepmother’s breasts and pushes—once, twice, steady and mechanical. On the third push Silvia’s robe parts. No bra. Liz still seals her mouth over Silvia’s, blows once, and the air she gives comes straight back as heat and tongue. They break for air. Don’t. Liz bites her own lower lip, then kisses harder—wet, hungry, no certification in mind. Hands slide. Silk drops from shoulders. Tits—soft, heavy—fill Liz’s palms. Nipples bead. Silvia groans low, hips lifting to grind against Liz’s thigh. They roll. Fingers work Liz’s shorts down, find her slick and ready. Two strokes and Liz’s breath stutters. Silvia rolls her onto her back, mouth on her neck, teeth grazing. Liz spreads. Silvia’s tongue replaces her fingers, slow circles turning sharp, insistent. Pulse hammers at Liz’s throat. She comes with a bitten-off cry, back arching off the mat. Panting now, laughing. The CPR dummy waits, forgotten, beside two people who have already failed every rescue protocol except the one that ends with sweat and shaking thighs.