Volleyball With Friends

They left the volleyball behind. Now Avril straddles Laura on the long deck chair, bare tits swaying with each shift of her hips. She kisses with a lazy kind of hunger, bites Laura’s lower lip, then lets her tongue trace slow circles around the stiff nipple crowning Laura’s small breast. Laura gasps; Avril smiles and repeats the stroke. Sun warms the whole length of them, oil-slick from a summer morning’s sweat. Avril reaches back and slips the knot at her own hips. Bottoms fall away. Her tight little backside lifts in the air, the motion lewd and unconscious at once. She leans again, mouth still busy, and peels Laura’s suit down her smooth thighs too. Nothing between them now except wet skin and the drum of blood. Fingers wander. Tongues chase droplets. The two move with the sure, practiced rhythm of girls who know every inch of each other. Then Avril rolls Laura to her knees, spreads her open, dips in tongue and fingers together. No warm-up—just one sudden, perfect push that makes Laura fold forward and whimper. Two or three strokes later Laura’s thighs shake; she comes fast, hard, throat open on the quiet deck. Laura finds her breath and turns them both. She settles Avril flat, nose pressed low, lips sealing over clit. Avril arches right off the canvas, one hand tangled in Laura’s hair, the other clutching at her own breast. The orgasm snakes through her fast, gathers, snaps. Her small frame shudders once, twice, then goes slack. They kiss again—slow, salt-slick—each tasting the other. Chests rise and fall. Somewhere in the distance the net clicks against its poles. They stay where they are, limbs braided, listening to the lake breathe.