Teaching Kristine and Iva

I spotted them in Split harbor, two girls working the dusk like it was an open market. One wore a white cotton dress cut high enough to flash the lace underneath; the other kept adjusting silver hoop earrings while she scanned every passing car. I invited them back to the apartment with the sea view. Now they stand in my living room, Kristine and Iva, both nineteen, both already unbuttoning straps. Kristine climbs onto the dining table on all fours, skirt pushed to her waist, ass angled toward the windows. Iva pours lube straight from the bottle over her own hand, rubs the excess between her fingers, then slides them one by one into her friend. Four knuckles disappear. Kristine moans low, forehead pressed to the wood. Iva keeps pushing, slow and steady, until her whole fist is inside, wrist deep, then begins to turn it in careful circles. The table creaks; Kristine’s toes curl against the edge. Iva withdraws, adds more lube, sinks back in up to the forearm, fist and hand coated, her wrist glistening under the dim light. Kristine’s thighs tremble, breath ragged, but she stays open, taking every slow thrust Iva gives her while the Adriatic glows red behind them.