Meeting Effie

Catwoman's new friend Effie retired from the stage years ago, yet she still takes on the occasional student. She gets Catwoman down between her thighs, wide and settled against the couch, teaching her one slow flick at a time. The younger woman’s tongue circles, then laps. She tastes salt and sweat and something deeper that makes Effie’s hips twitch. The old dancer’s cunt is swollen and dark, folds thick with age, but the little pearl between them is hard and hungry. Each time Catwoman drags her tongue across that spot, Effie grinds forward with a low grunt. Her voice rasps like a scratched record: keep it flat, use more pressure, don’t be shy. Catwoman listens, breathes, licks. She can feel Effie’s thighs begin to shake, the old woman spreading wider, pushing her clit right against the wet muscle like she wants to ride it. And she comes with a hoarse moan, one hand in Catwoman’s hair, the other gripping the edge of the cushion, body still moving, still greedy for more.