My Helping Hands

We’re sprawled at home and her tiny breasts looked delicious beneath that girlish dress. I had to film it. At first it was the camera’s eye—knowing someone would watch—that lit me up. We stripped each other slowly. I kept my socks on; somehow coming feels louder that way. Natasha reads my hunger instantly, drops to her knees, and buries her mouth between my legs. No teasing, no pause—just slow, slick strokes of her tongue while her fingers curve inside me. I fold quick, tight, gasping. Then it’s her turn, and even spread open she stays a little enigmatic, a puzzle that makes my mouth water. The moment my tongue finds her, the air thickens, hot and almost secretive.