Butterfly catcher

Bambi strikes fast. The young woman named Lepidoptera looks like another delicate moth, all pale skin and fluttery lashes. Her dress drops first. The fabric slips off narrow shoulders, catches at her wrists for one breath, then pools at her feet. Nothing underneath. Bambi smiles, wide and unashamed. She crowds in close, palms sliding over small, bare breasts, thumbs brushing peaked nipples until the girl’s breath catches. Next the butterfly catcher pushes Lepidoptera down, spreads her open, and sets to work tasting her. Slow, greedy pulls of the tongue up each smooth thigh until the center is wetter still. Lips part, seal, suction on the small swollen clit, working it with steady strokes. Two fingers slide inside, hook, press that soft spongy spot until the girl’s hips twitch and arch. Juices coat Bambi’s chin, shine on her lips. She doesn’t stop. She adds another finger, filling her, licking in measured circles until quivering thighs clamp around her head. When the first tremors crest into orgasm, Bambi stays there, drinking the pulses, moaning softly against the slick heat, as though Lepidoptera were another prize she means to pin, wings trembling, between silk sheets.