Teaching Dolly

Nikky fists with the clean authority of someone who knows exactly what she wants from her own cunt. She spreads the lips, settles her knuckles against the opening, and works them in slow circles until her hand disappears. Dolly kneels close, cheek almost on the mattress, watching every stretch and sound. “Curl your fingers once you’re past the second knuckle,” Nikky says. Her breath stays even, her tone instructional. “Feel how it opens further when you twist?” She demonstrates the motion in short, confident pulls. Wetness coats her wrist; a low, guttural noise slips from her throat whenever her thumb follows. Dolly’s eyes widen. Her own fingers rest on her thigh, forgotten, the nails pale against flushed skin. Nikky pauses, palm buried, and rotates her wrist just enough for the ridge of knuckles to press outward. “Don’t rush,” she murmurs. “Let it grip you back.” The lesson is hands-on, precise, and dripping: every adjustment, every angle, every slick tug on display.