Strapon girls

Cathy Heaven blooms like a peach split open by sunlight. That firm little body, all juice and give, lies stretched and warm across the sheets. She spreads her legs and the chill leaves the room. Colette waits, coiled muscle and gold hair falling across one nipple. She buckles the strap-on into place; the slick black shaft sways with each shift of her hips. When the head presses past Cathy’s entrance, it sinks fast. Colette plants her palms on soft thighs, drives deeper, and the air crackles around the low sounds they make.