Teaching Nesty

Nesty lies back with her knees spread wide. Her fingers slip inside first—one, then two—pushing past the soft resistance until they curl and slide back out glossy with her own slick. She adds a third, and her breathing hitches as she works them deeper, coating each digit until her pussy lips gleam. The heel of her hand grinds against her clit with every stroke. When Kissy appears she wastes no time. She folds her hand, wrist slick with lube, and presses four fingers past the stretch. Her knuckles catch for a heartbeat, then sink in. Nesty gasps. Kissy pushes farther until her entire fist disappears. She holds there, knuckles nestled inside the tight heat, then curls them. The motion becomes a slow, relentless pump—forward and back, forward and back—wet suction filling the room. Nesty writhes, thighs trembling. Kissy opens her hand inside, then closes it again, turning her wrist so the thickest part of her fist drags over every swollen ridge. She pulls almost free, only to drive back in, forcing another inch each time. The two of them move together now: Nesty rolling her hips to meet every thrust while Kissy’s forearm flexes and glistens. The pace quickens. Each plunge sounds filthy—slick skin meeting slick skin—and Nesty’s cries crest louder with every turn. Kissy never slows, never softens; she just keeps fisting harder, deeper, until Nesty’s muscles seize around the intrusion and a sharp, wet climax floods her wrist.