My cup of tea

Two girls lounge on the couch. Tea steams in white cups. Their silk thighs press close, and between them the wet, hot folds of their cunts throb. A brush of fingertips. Then the tea is set down, untouched, because tongues meet and promises dissolve. One girl slides lower, draws the other’s knee aside, drinks the slick heat between her legs. The second arches, fists the cushions, pushes harder into that eager mouth. Clothes peel away, sweat shines on bare skin. They straddle each other, cunts locked and slippery, hips rolling in a rhythm that drives every gasp louder. Fingers sink deep, curl, withdraw glistening; mouths follow wherever need opens. Moans turn to cries, pleasure mounts without pause. Bodies twist, grind, devour. Release hits hard, shaking, and even as they tremble the hunger stays. No limit, no finish, only the next slow grind of drenched flesh against drenched flesh.