Backstage with Helena G.

Helena G. The girl still wears braces when she first steps through the doorway, shy smile and little white teeth glinting. Now she spreads on the mattress like she owns the light, knees wide, cunt already wet and open. She pushes two fingers inside, then a third, and stops. Nothing deeper comes out. She tugs at the rim, frustrated, the soft pink folds clinging to her knuckles but refusing to give more. I kneel between her thighs, take her wrist and press her hand harder against her own slick. Four fingers slide in, her thumb trapped, and she gasps when the thumb finally slips past the knuckle. A wet sound fills the room each time her fist sinks another inch. Her belly tightens, breath snags, mouth open around metal brackets. I wrap my palm over hers and ease the whole hand in past the wrist, her cunt stretched into a glistening ring. She moans, raw, grateful, hips jerking up to meet the pressure until the knuckles disappear completely.