69 on the pier

What else is there on a day that feels cut from blue glass? They drove until the road thinned into sand. She turned up a dirt track only locals claimed. No crowd, just dune grass hissing in the wind. They spread their towels close to the ground as if to keep a secret flat. Clothes left in folds like dropped petals. Chanel knelt between Effie's parted thighs. Effie's cunt was thick with dark hair that curled and clung to the salt on her skin. The younger woman's tongue moved slow and certain, parting the heavy lips, tracing upward over the exposed clit until Effie's breath hit sharp in her throat. Effie arched, hips rolling to catch the steady pull of mouth on flesh. Sweat slid between her breasts and pooled at her belly. She reached down, held Chanel's hair at the roots, kept her exactly where she wanted her. Chanel answered with a wet sound, tongue sliding lower, circling the entrance, then pushing inside until Effie's thighs trembled around her ears. When Effie came she did it quiet, teeth against her own fist, thighs clamped hard enough to leave marks. After, she turned, pressed Chanel onto her back and returned the favor with the same hungry patience. The sun burned their shoulders. Their mouths tasted of salt and heat and cunt. Age made no difference in the space between them, only the shared rhythm of wet tongues and open legs and bodies rising again to meet each other.