Wild Elevator Ride

Two women in black lace stand close, hips already angled toward each other. Anna Claire’s fuller breasts press against the cups of her bra while Chanel’s smaller ones peek through sheer mesh, nipples tightening in the cool air. The doors slide shut. They meet in the middle, mouths open, tongues slick and quick. Bras drop. Hands replace silk. Anna’s palm cups the gentle curve of Chanel’s chest, thumb brushing the tight peak; Chanel answers by drawing one of Anna’s nipples between her teeth. Breasts graze, slide, press again. Heat climbs. Chanel’s fingers dip lower, find Anna already wet, slide in without hesitation. The elevator hums. Neither woman hears the floors tick past. They move together—hungry, unhurried—until the bell rings on a floor that might as well not exist.