Teaching Geyshila Kort

Geyshila Kort stood small in the room, her cotton panties printed with a cartoon giraffe riding up one hip. Cute. The door clicked open and Nikki Thorne walked in. The lace came off. Geyshila pulled the underwear down, stepped free, and climbed onto the table. She drew her knees wide. The air touched wet folds already dark and swollen. Nikki’s fingers glistened under a thin coat of oil. She lined three of them at the opening and pushed. The ring gave at once, warm silk pulling them deeper, opening around the knuckles with a soft, liquid sound. Geyshila’s stomach trembled. Nikki fed the rest of her hand in, slow, twisting, until the thumb tucked and the widest part slid home with one wet, decisive pop. Inside, the fingers opened and closed in a steady rhythm, pushing the walls outward, massaging the front wall until Geyshila’s hips lifted on their own. Each thrust lifted clear strands of slick that stretched and broke between Nikki’s wrist and the stretched rim. The fist sank until wrist disappeared, then retreated just enough for the knuckles to flare again, a glistening plug of flesh and lube. Geyshila’s breath hitched and spilled in short gasps. Outside the window, traffic moved. Inside the room, the wet, rhythmic sound of a cunt stretching around a fist kept its own steady beat.