Joyride

Presley Dawson has been waiting all morning. When Alena pulls up in that cherry-red Mustang—her father’s pride and joy—she barely gets the door open before Presley is on her. Mouths crush together, fingers jerk cotton tops over heads. Shorts slide down thighs and land in the dirt. Naked, they back into the tall grass. Alena mounts Presley’s face first, knees planted, hips rocking. Presley’s pierced tongue works in wet circles, coaxing slick sounds from Alena’s pussy with every sweep. Alena leans forward, mouth finding Presley’s throat, then slips down between spread legs to return the favor. She laps and sucks, tasting salt and heat, while Presley moans into the soft inside of Alena’s thigh. The wind picks up. Alena moves first, folding over the hood, palms braced on hot metal. Presley kneels behind, tongue darting deep, chin soaked. Alena’s cry tears out raw and sharp when she comes, shaking against the car. They switch. Presley perches on the edge, ass flush with scarlet paint, legs open. Alena buries her face, tongue flicking Presley’s swollen clit until the girl arches, heels drumming the fender, and comes with a broken gasp. Afterward, they kiss hard—skin tacky with sweat—then drift apart, bare, before slipping back into whatever clothes the wind hasn’t stolen.