Teaching Lyen Parker

First came the quiet tease of her tongue, slow circles over Lyen's swollen clit, breath warm, deliberate. Then one finger pushed in, gentle at first, coaxing the slick muscle to yield. The give was quick. Madlin added another, stretching the first tight grip into a steady rock, palm already slick to the wrist. By the time she tucked her thumb and pushed past the knuckles, Lyen’s breathing had gone ragged. Madlin’s wrist worked deeper, the fist twisting just enough to catch every needy ridge inside, a hot, wet sound marking each thrust. Lyen felt it, that perfect fullness, and her climax arrived before she could name it—wet, urgent, squeezing around Madlin’s whole hand like a fist of her own.