Teaching Hadjara

Hadjara stands naked, skin bare as birth, her cunt swollen and ready. She thinks she wants it now. The whole fist. Chanel watches her like a teacher who already knows where the pleasure breaks open. She moves behind, slick hand first. Fingers spread Hadjara's lips apart until the knuckles press flat. She works slow, folding her thumb under the palm, then pushes. Hadjara's body flutters around the advancing knuckles, tight and hot, then yields. Chanel’s fist slides deeper, wet flesh swallowing each inch. By the time the last knuckle pops through, Hadjara is leaking, running in clear threads down her thighs. Chanel curls her fingers inside, gentle, exploring the way muscle clenches back. Juice soaks her wrist, runs across her skin. She begins to rock—short, steady strokes—and Hadjara’s knees bend, each thrust answering with another gush. The room grows slick beneath them. Chanel never rushes, never forces. She only reads the give and the grip, coaxing another spill every time her wrist turns. Hadjara’s breath comes raw, her thighs shaking, the velvet inside stretched around Chanel’s hand until the juice drips off her knuckles in steady drops.