No One Here But Lust

Freya Parker and Vanna Bardot face each other in the empty room. One woman brunette, the other redhead, every line of their bodies pulling them closer. Freya’s hands move first, sliding down her own stomach until her fingers part her natural tits and find her nipple, pinching, rolling. Vanna watches, breath quickening, then mirrors the motion—her own hand slipping lower, stroking slow circles over slick skin. They stay close, eyes locked, each watching what the other does to herself. Freya’s hips roll. Vanna’s thighs tense. Their breathing grows ragged. Nothing else exists but the wet sound of their hands and the heat building between them.