Teaching Lulu

They bring out a girl who looks like fresh trouble dressed in soft cotton. One glance and you might swear she was still learning how to wear her own name. One glance is all she needs to shred that idea. Lulu came in wide-eyed but dripping for an education, fists this time, and she chose the right school. Two firm women in leather and lace laid her open across a velvet bench. They kissed her neck. They took her wrists and worked lube like gospel across every trembling inch. Fingers became the promise, then four at once, then a knuckle disappearing past that greedy little cunt, then another. She arched, fingers clawing air, a small cry caught and swallowed by a hungry mouth. The room smelled of salt, expensive oil, and the dark kind of surrender. The second woman twisted her wrist slow and silky while the first watched, thumb circling Lulu’s swollen clit in time. Knuckles stretched, folded, vanished to the wrist—again, deeper, crueler, softer. She gasped, thighs shaking, a wet throb pulling them farther inside. Sweat gathered on her belly. A single whimper followed the sudden pop of joints buried to their limit, heels drumming against leather. They held her like that, full and shaking, mouths tasting every caught breath, letting her ride the edge until she felt split wide open and reborn in the same aching stretch.