Darcie and the Butterfly

Darcie has always gone weak for ink on a woman. So when Connie mentioned her butterfly, she didn't hesitate. She wanted to see it, close. Connie smiled like she knew exactly what that meant, then turned around and pulled down her waistband just enough. The butterfly sat low on the small of her back, wings spread, delicate linework fading into skin that looked soft enough to bite. Darcie stared. Connie held still, letting her look. But it wasn't just ink. Connie's curves begged for attention too—round hips, the dip of her waist, the faint scent of skin warmed under cotton. Darcie's mouth went dry. She had come prepared for more than looking. Under her dress, nothing hid the smooth swell of her breasts, the pink gloss between her thighs already slick with anticipation. And her tongue—God, she could already imagine how it would move, slow and shameless, tracing that butterfly first, then lower. She stepped closer. Her fingers brushed the edge of the tattoo, then slid down. Connie shivered. Darcie smiled. Her clothes were coming off next. All of them.