Joanna and Cecilia Vega

In a Paris basement club, time stuck between beats, I met Cecilia. She took the lead without asking. I followed her hips down the corridor, heat pressed against fabric and then against skin. She shoved me onto the leather and pulled her thong to the side, greedy. My fingers found her wet— slick, no pause, just the sound of her swallowing breath and the rush when two digits slid inside. She rolled her hips fast, took everything, came hard and quick before the chorus even dropped. Then she eased my cock free, sank onto it slow, wet heat gripping inch by inch, and I finally pushed up into her, fucked upward like the last night of leave, her thighs spreading wide, mouth open at the ceiling like a prayer she didn’t need to say out loud.