Backstage with Sophie Moone and Antonya

Sophie Moone walked in expecting a plain massage. One look at Antonya stripped that idea clean away. The blonde had doll-smooth skin, bee-stung lips and the slim hips of a girl who still moved like a colt. Clothes felt ridiculous. Sophie peeled hers off before the door had fully clicked. Antonya didn’t pretend shock. Her pupils flared, the soft cotton of her uniform suddenly glued to tight nipples. Lotion warmed in her palms. She stroked long lines down Sophie’s calves, then traced higher, slower. The moment fingertips grazed the swell of her sex, Antonya shuddered. Trembling knees carried her forward; she leaned in to taste. They kissed open-mouthed, breaths hitching, until fingers replaced lips and slick need became the only language left.