Teaching Chary

Chary had been eyeing Nikki's fists all summer. She finally asked on a bright July afternoon—sunlight slanting across Nikki's kitchen table, a glass of iced tea sweating between them. Nikki smiled, set the glass down, and told her to strip. Chary dropped her shorts and stepped out, heart punching her ribs. Nikki took a slim aluminum bat from the umbrella stand and warmed the metal with lube. Chary leaned over the table, belly against the wood. The bat slid in slow, blunt cold giving way to stretch. Nikki worked it in lazy circles until the mouth of Chary's cunt shone and took the width. When she pulled the bat free, pussy lips clung to it like wet silk. Nikki closed her hand into a fist—thumb tucked, knuckles slick—and pushed. Flesh gave, then yielded, then swallowed her wrist. Chary gasped, toes curling against tile. Nikki fucked her with slow, punch-deep strokes, palm turning on every pass. Chary's cunt swallowed knuckles, let them go, swallowed again. The rhythm snapped tighter. Juice dripped from Nikki's forearm and hit the floor in warm drops. A low groan climbed out of Chary. Her belly fluttered, thighs shaking. Nikki curled her fist just so, and the dam broke. Chary came hard, squirt gushing over Nikki's knuckles in long, blinding pulses, body seized and trembling while the orgasm tore through her in bright, battering waves.