Super Girls

April had a thing for the news reporter costume. She wore it anyway, even before Dillion asked. Green jumpsuit hugged the masseuse like a second skin, and the belts snapped taut when she reached for the oil. Dillion looked up from the table, eyes narrowing. ‘Keep it on.’ Thick golden oil slid between April’s palms. She started slow, working around each of Dillion’s tight nipples, rolling the slick flesh until it glistened. Her thumbs pressed deeper circles under the heavy curve of each breast, making wet, soft noises that filled the quiet room. Dillion’s ass came next, round and taut, April’s fingers gliding between each cheek, over the backs of her thighs, leaving dark wet trails. The air heated. April’s jumpsuit zipper slid an inch lower on its own. Her nipples brushed the fabric every time she leaned. Dillion watched the zipper move, throat tight. April caught the look and smiled without breaking rhythm. They met halfway on the table. Mouths open, tongues meeting hard, tasting salt and oil. April tugged the jumpsuit past her chest. Dillion pulled her lips around April’s pale nipple, sucking deep until April hissed and pushed farther forward. The table creaked. April slid lower, flat across Dillion’s stomach, her tongue leaving a wet path between the girl’s breasts and down the center line. When she knelt between open legs, the headset collar of the costume caught a curl of Dillion’s hair. April tugged it free. Her tongue found Dillion’s shaved cunt already swollen, already wet, and pushed straight inside in one smooth thrust. Dillion cried out, thighs flexing. The tongue drove deeper, flicking, curling, pressing every wall until Dillion grabbed the sides of the table and came, voice breaking and loud, soaking April’s mouth. Neither girl moved for a moment. Then April stood, drops still sliding from her chin, zipper still low.