Teaching Brandy Smile

Brandy Smile slips through the door like she's done it before. Her hands tremble. She's tasted what Cindy can do, and tonight the need has sharpened into something she cannot ignore. Cindy waits, naked, thick fingers flexing like she already knows where the evening will lead. The room grows tight around the want that radiates between them. Cindy opens the first bottle, coats her wrist in a slick shine, then kneels at the edge of the bed and spreads Brandy with the same careful greed she might use on herself. Two fingers at first, then three. The stretch swallows her past the knuckles. Brandy's breath catches, breaks, returns in ragged pieces. A fourth finger. Then the thumb tucked tight. Cindy angles her hand, turns her wrist, and pushes until the whole palm disappears inside. Brandy's thighs tremble around the intrusion. The knuckles breach, then slide, and suddenly everything inside her yields and pulls her wider at once. Cindy holds still, feeling the rhythmic pulse around her wrist, the slick heat contracting, searching for rhythm. She curls her fingers into a fist, not sudden, just present. Brandy's cry breaks loose when the knuckles press deliberately against her front wall, hunting the swollen spot only this kind of pressure reaches. Juice spills over Cindy's forearm, each thrust drawing more. Brandy's hips buck in silent surrender to the slow depth of the fisting. She pulls her own nipples, back arched, mouth open. Cindy answers with measured twists, sometimes short stabs that punch the air from Brandy's lungs, sometimes deep stillness that forces Brandy to feel every inch. Sweat films their bodies. The rhythm falters. Brandy cums with a torn moan, hips locked forward, the entire fist so deep the wrist lies flush against her opening. Her walls clamp again and again until the tremors fade. Cindy keeps her hand inside until the last aftershock eases, then eases her wrist free, leaving Brandy spread and leaking, breathing like she's been underwater and finally surfaced.