We Love Wet Pussy

Angel nursed her bad arm for weeks. Angie stayed close the whole time, cool hands, quiet voice, soft mouth when the door clicked shut. They carried one thing in common: both of them went wild for a cunt that dripped. So the day the sling came off, Angie pushed Angel down on the couch and slid straight for the prize. She moved slowly at first. Her tongue traced slow stripes across Angel’s stomach, collarbone, the soft slope under each breast. Angel’s breath hitched; she arched, already imagining how Angie would open her. Angie’s fingers worked under the waistband of the cotton shorts and found Angel’s lips, then slipped inside the panties. She pressed, rubbed, teased until the fabric turned dark and stuck to every fold. When the shorts hit the floor the panties were see-through, clinging, soaked to the seam. Angie circled her knuckles right over the swollen clit, and Angel twisted, hips rolling, fucking the couch cushion in little helpless jerks. Angie tugged the cotton aside, tongue flat and greedy now, lapping the slick that spilled fresh with every pass. Angel’s fingers found her own nipples, pinching them stiff. Angie’s tongue flattened, flicked, drove, never letting the wetness cool. She brought Angel right to the edge, then slid two fingers in slow and sure, curling, coaxing more nectar out to swallow. Angel’s thighs shook. She gasped Angie’s name, voice cracking as the orgasm hit—wet, long, and loud enough to echo off the quiet walls. They swapped places. Angel took the same patient route: long kisses first, then fingers parting Angie’s neat white lips. She licked slow figure-eights until Angie’s voice climbed an octave, thighs clamping, then let loose in one hoarse cry as she pulsed around Angel’s tongue and fingers, cunt clenching, dripping down Angel’s wrist in warm little pulses.