Teaching Angel Piaff

Angel Piaff’s pussy opened greedily for Iwia’s fist, swallowing it right to the wrist. The thin, determined hand pushed deeper, gliding along slick walls, knuckles nudging hidden places Angel never reached alone. Each curl of Iwia’s fingers dragged against that slick heat, stroking until Angel spilled again and again—jets of clear fluid arcing past her own thighs. Every gush left her shivering harder, spreading wider, cunt pulsing around the slender wrist lodged so snug inside. Iwia didn’t let up; she twisted, flexed, dragged another rush free each time the blonde started to calm. By the end Angel lay soaked, thighs trembling, empty without that hand stuffed deep.