Me and my friend

Donna Bell was in my kitchen, and the sight of her made my pulse stutter. Her lips, painted deep red, parted slightly around a champagne flute. The silk robe she wore gaped open at the sternum, the curve of each breast visible through the thin fabric, full and heavy. Her nipples pressed the silk like two small stones. Light climbed along her thigh, spilled over hip bone, settled where the hem barely cleared her cunt. She’d just shaved. The skin there was tight, faintly flushed from the hot water. She walked toward me slow, letting me watch. When she reached the counter her fingers brushed mine; the brief contact was a match strike. She didn’t smile, but the color in her cheeks deepened. I ran my hand up the inside of that smooth thigh, found the heat I knew would be there. She was already wet—slick enough to coat two fingertips in one slow stroke. Donna exhaled, hips canting forward, and the motion made the robe fall farther open. Her tits lifted with each breath, nipples tightening more as they hit the cooler air. She hooked a knee onto the stool and spread herself wider. I slipped two fingers inside her. She pulsed around me, so tight, so fucking warm. When she tilted and took me to the knuckles, a low sound tore loose from her throat, raw and unfiltered. My thumb grazed her clit, circling once, then twice, each pass a deliberate, wet click. She rocked on my hand—measured, controlled, spine arching—until the silk slid completely off one shoulder. The weight of her breast brushed my wrist. She reached down, cupped the back of my hand, kept it pressed deep while she ground. Her inner walls fluttered, gripped, fluttered again. I felt every minute contraction around my fingers, the tiny ripples of her body pleading for more. Her free hand slid down her own stomach, traced her clit above my thumb, and then she pulled away just long enough to turn. She bent, palms flat on the granite. The robe rode up over her ass until it gathered in the small of her back like smoke. Her cunt shone, lips parted and flushed dark pink, the faint sheen of wetness trailing down the inside of each thigh. I stepped in close, freed myself, lined the head of my cock against that wet slit. One slow push and I sank to the hilt—her walls dragging, greedy, her cunt swallowing every inch without resistance. She gave a guttural, pleased sound and pushed back until her ass met my hips. The slap of skin on skin was the only noise for a moment. Then she began to fuck back onto me, rhythmic, deliberate. Each stroke pushed deeper, the head of my cock hitting the forward wall of her cunt, the drag of her tight entrance against the base of me as she withdrew and thrust again. My hand slid between her thighs, slick fingers pressed to her clit. The next shudder rolled through her like current; her shoulders dipped and her cunt clenched in a hard, rhythmic pulse. She came silently at first, lips parted, nothing but a thin, breathless gasp escaping. When she had settled to soft, sporadic clenches, I drew back and slammed in again—deliberate, relentless—until my own release gathered hot and urgent behind my balls. I gripped her hips, drove in hard, and emptied myself deep, pulse after pulse filling her until it slid out around me, warm and thick. We stayed joined a moment longer. Then she glanced back, that wicked half-smile forming, and whispered, “Miss me yet?”