She Looks Familiar

We hired her because the house needed cleaning. Small Hands and I took one look and felt the air tighten in our throats. Nadia Styles in our backyard, vacuuming in denim shorts. Not a look-alike. The woman herself. She sighed over the sink. Free tubes had wrecked the business, she said; now she scrubbed tile for grocery money. We watched the muscles shift along her back while she wiped. An idea drifted up, casual as smoke. Poolside, sun flaring off chrome, we asked if she’d pose like an old box cover for extra cash. Her laugh was quick, unguarded. She peeled the cut-offs down, bikini bottoms soaked darker where she pressed against the lounger. Hips tilted for the invisible camera, fingers brushing the thin strip between her legs, the way she used to on glossy centerfolds. The lens stayed forgotten once we touched her. Small Hands slid inside her cunt first, slow, savoring every silky clutch; I knelt behind, eased into her ass, stretching that famous ring until she exhaled hot against my neck. We moved together, alternating strokes, her ass cheeks parting then gripping around us, slick from sun-warmed lotion and spit. She came grinding down on both cocks, voice breaking open, and we followed, filling her one after the other, thick ropes clinging to her folds and hole. Afterward we licked the streaks from her tits, our mouths meeting across her nipples, tasting salt and sun and each other until nothing remained but wet shine and bruised lips.