Motherly feelings

Babuska has always watched Betty Stylle the way a hand watches silk. That afternoon, when the younger woman stepped inside, something in her snapped. She touched Betty's wrist, held it too long. One kiss turned hungry. They sank to the bed and pushed each other's thighs apart. Tongues slid over swollen folds, slow and messy, then faster. They climbed onto the double-headed toy and sank onto it together, hips rolling, the thick length splitting them open, wet friction driving each stroke deeper. Betty's cheeks flushed darker. She pushed three fingers past Babuska's slick entrance, then her whole hand, wrist turning, wrist pushing, until the older woman trembled around the tight stretch and clenched hard.