Teaching Lady Pinkdot

Lady Pinkdot's been wanting more lately. The kind of more that keeps her awake at night, stomach tight. Whitney could smell it on her. She doesn't warm her up slow either. She takes Lady's wrist, brings the knuckles to her mouth, and starts working her middle finger inside, testing how much heat and give Lady has in her. Then comes the ring finger. Pinkdot's breath catches, but Whitney keeps going—thumb folded, the web of her hand slipping past that last tight ring of muscle. She waits. Holds. Lets the stretch move through Lady like heat rising through a copper pan. When Whitney finally opens her fist, Lady's hips leave the sheets, back arched, knuckles white around the fabric. Whitney works her hand in a slow grind, pressing up where it counts, watching every tremor cross Lady Pinkdot's face as she gives her what she's been craving without knowing how to name it.