Wrong Number

Georgia snaps pictures of her slick pink cunt and sends them off to her boyfriend, only the messages land in Bianca's inbox instead. Bianca studies the shots until she's wet, then greets her client the next morning with clenched thighs and a polite smile. Hands trace oil over bare skin, gliding from shoulder blades down to the cleft of Georgia's ass, each sweep slower, heavier. Heat builds beneath the surface. Oil beads, skin warms, the towel slips away entirely. Bianca strips her own top and pours liquid over her breasts, letting it run before she slides down Georgia's back, bare nipples dragging across flushed flesh. Georgia tenses, realizing too late that the stranger between her legs isn't her partner. Bianca keeps moving—fingers stroke, part, sink inside—speaking in short breaths about the photos she received, each word punctuated by the slick push of her hand. Georgia stops asking why. She widens her thighs, inviting the exact touch she's been aching for. Wet sounds follow as Bianca works her deeper, intent on one thing: making the client come hard enough to forget anyone else ever existed.