Teaching Blanche Bradburry

Suzie runs a tidy little sideline. Word travels fast when a woman's hands are talented enough to unravel other women. She works on technique. She listens to the wet, rolling sound her fingers make against yielding flesh, then folds in another knuckle when the moment clicks. Blanche shows up looking certain of what she wants: the method and the finish. She lies back, knees parted, heels planted on the sheets. Suzie watches her face, not her cunt, at first. Eyes half-closed, pulse ticking hard at the throat. Then the glance drops. Two fingers glide in easily; three follow after a slow twist. Blanche breathes through it, hips tilting upward like she wants to hurry. Suzie holds her open. She stays deliberate, letting the soft ridges inside swell around each added finger until four sit snug. Blanche swears softly, the sound rougher than perfume and silk. The thumb tucks last. Suzie pushes through the widest stretch and turns, knuckle by knuckle, until her hand fits past the grip. Blanche's thighs shake once and stay open. From there it's rhythm and patience, steady wrist motion keeping constant contact, thumb brushing deeper inside while the knuckles rub where she feels tightest. Every few strokes Suzie pauses, lets the pressure build on its own. Blanche's breathing turns ragged. Her cunt clutches in short, greedy spasms until she finally comes around the fist, pulling, closing, holding on. Suzie stays steady, palm curved, hand and arm caught in that grip until the tremor fades.