Speechless

Amia walks in. No staff in sight, just Catie behind the desk, eyes already locked on her. Catie likes working alone, likes the quiet. She leads Amia to the table, smooths oil across pale skin, and starts with deep, measured strokes. Her hands move slow, sink in, press until every knot gives way. The room stays still. Only the faint sound of breathing and the soft drag of skin on skin. Amia sinks into it. Her muscles loosen, then something else begins to rise. Heat builds beneath Catie’s palms. Catie feels it, responds. Her touch shifts, lower, until fingers slip between Amia’s thighs and find the smooth, bare lips already slick. She circles, presses, draws soft, helpless sounds from Amia’s throat. Clothes drop to the floor. Catie climbs onto the table, settles her hips over Amia’s. Their pussies meet, wet and hot, and the rhythm starts—slow at first, then harder, a steady grind that makes the table creak. Amia’s hands grip Catie’s ass, pulling her down. They move together until the first sharp cry breaks the silence. Catie turns, swings a thigh over Amia’s face, lowers herself until Amia’s tongue finds her. She rocks, forward and back, while her own mouth returns to the swollen clit beneath her. The air grows thick with heat and the wet sounds of mouths and skin. Both women come hard, bodies shaking, the only witness the quiet room around them.