The best of the crop

Two tall, slender girls wait alone in the half-lit room. Their long necks carry the unmistakable stamps of money and strict mothers. Silk robes drop at their feet. They move toward each other, skin meeting skin like heated silk. Languid hands drift down waists, linger on the curve just above each hip, and pull them flush. Their mouths meet: lips plush, tongues wet and unhurried. One strokes lazy circles over the stiffening nipples of the other, then slips lower and cups the soft swell between her thighs, fingers tracing the damp seam until the second girl sighs against her teeth. They sink onto the velvet settee, a fluid knot of limbs. The blonde parts the brunette’s legs, kisses the soft inside of a thigh, then replaces her mouth with two slender fingers that glide inside, curling just enough. The brunette answers with a long, trembling breath and reaches down to reciprocate, nails lightly scoring the dip of her partner’s back. Faster they match each other, knuckles glistening. They bite into skin to stay quiet, but not always. One buries her face between pale breasts while her lover rides three fingers, the wet sounds obscene and steady, hips rocking harder until that delicate back arches and shakes. Legs lock tight. Another climax follows, softer, longer, a slow exhale from both mouths into open air. They trade slow, lazy kisses, fingers tracing sweat down their spines, tasting sweat and perfume mixed, unwilling to separate just yet.