Girls at home

Boroka stopped by her best friend's apartment just before midnight. The door barely closed before they were pressed against it, hands sliding under cotton shirts, mouths open and hungry. They kissed in the hallway with their jeans half-unzipped, then stumbled toward the bedroom kicking off sneakers as they went. On the mattress her friend rolled her onto her back, tugged Boroka's thong down her thighs, and buried her face between her legs without a word. Boroka gasped, hips lifting, fingers tangled tight in the other girl's hair. When her friend's tongue found her clit she swore softly and spread wider, heels digging into the sheets. A minute later she pulled the girl up by her shoulders, flipped their positions, and buried two fingers deep while her mouth worked the same spot. The sounds were wet and messy, the kind that come when neither of them cares about being quiet. Later, slick and shaking, they lay tangled with Boroka's thigh wedged between her friend's legs, grinding slow and steady until the last tremor faded.