Teaching Meg

Meg lucked out with the kind of hands that belong in a gallery—Nikky knows exactly where to press, where to open. Slick up to the wrist, she slides in with patient insistence, two fingers already turning Meg’s clit into a live wire. Every curl pushes against that deeper swell, drawing out another rush of wetness until it runs warm down Meg’s thigh. She comes hard, sharp cry caught somewhere in her throat, then keeps clenching around the next three fingers when Nikky gives her no time to float. The fourth slips in like a secret, pressure blooming wide and wet, Meg’s spine arching off the sheets. Sweat beads at her temples. Her moans turn ragged as the thumb tucks under, the whole fist sliding just past the resistance, filling her in slow, rolling strokes that keep her right on the edge of another shuddering orgasm. Every muscle pulses. Every breath breaks on pleasure. And Nikky simply holds her there, open and dripping and completely, beautifully wrecked.