Bachelorette Bet

Holly Day lingers in the wreckage of her own bachelorette. Empty bottles catch the light while her best friend Emma Magnolia wipes glitter off the table. Holly reaches for her hand. “You made it perfect,” she says. Emma pauses, eyebrows lifting. Perfect? She recalls the music dragging, the stripper tripping over her own heels, the crowd losing interest halfway through. Holly insists the woman held her own. Emma smirks, unconvinced, and bets she could do better right here, right now. They trade laughs until the dare lands. Emma offers a private lap dance. If Holly ends up hotter than the stripper left her, Holly pays with an orgasm. Holly blushes but sits anyway, legs parted, wedding band catching the lamplight. She’s certain she’ll stay cool. Emma steps in, hips rolling in slow circles that brush Holly’s thighs. Her breasts, heavy and natural, press forward as she arches. Holly swallows. The heat between her legs builds with every grind. Emma slides lower, red hair brushing Holly’s collarbone, then higher again, nipples grazing Holly’s lips through thin fabric. Holly’s fingers clench the armrests. When the song ends, Holly is breathing hard, thighs slick. She tugs Emma closer, settling them into a clumsy sixty-nine on the carpet. Holly’s mouth finds Emma’s cunt while Emma parts Holly’s folds with two fingers, sliding in deep. They lick and rock until Holly’s bet comes due, her tongue working Emma through the sharp, trembling climax that proves Emma won.