Backstage of Girls night out

They slide onto the corner stools at their usual place and let the short skirts ride where they may. One girl, the taller, drinks her martini neat and fast; her mouth stays shiny from the first sip, the second, the third. Her friend watches that mouth and bites her own lower lip, then leans in until knee presses against warm inner thigh under the dim bar light. The touch travels fast upward—a blunt question, an eager yes. Under the bar they find each other slick and already throbbing, fingers moving sure and lazy while the bartender fills another round. They talk too loudly about nothing. They laugh just as the shorter girl hooks two fingers and holds them there, pressing the swollen spot with deliberate circles until her friend’s toes claw the foot-rail and she rocks once, twice, coming quiet but visibly, thighs twitching in the half-dark. They’re back at the flat before the ice in their glasses melts. Clothes fall in the hallway. The tall one drops onto the bed first, spreads, watches while her friend licks a wet stripe up the center and starts sucking like she’s been waiting hours. Thighs lock around her ears, hips lifting to the steady pull of mouth and tongue. When the second girl climbs up and swings her own legs wide, they face each other, cunts open, knees interlaced, and grind until the mess drips down inner thighs and sheets. One comes with a shout; the other just gasps through a longer, quieter peak, still moving her slick folds over the first girl’s fast-rolling hips.