Backstage of Lesbo dream

The women lie in a drift of white linen under a waning moon. They begin with nothing more than the brush of fingers, that first electric certainty trembling down her arm. The curve of one breast grazes the other’s mouth. Lips open, draw the nipple in; the smallest pull answers through flesh like a bell. Two bodies braid in velvet air. Weight and breath trade places, knees part the quiet, a cheek grazes the delicate heat where thigh meets softness. Tongues slide in slow, sure strokes that water the silk between open folds. One mouth drinks a muted cry, then deeper, sucking gently as her lover’s hips rise in answer. Two wet centers brush and lock. The motion is slick, private, nothing hurried. Their pace tightens only when the ache demands it. Breath after breath, their skin learns new depths of each other until the final tremor breaks slow as the promise of an other night.