More Bridgett

Bridgett backs against a weathered crate, shorts already around one ankle. Sandy sinks two fingers into her, working slow circles, thumb stroking her clit each time she pushes in. Bridgett’s hips chase the motion. Her thighs tense, muscles jumping. She gasps when Sandy adds a third finger and twists. I keep the lens on her face as Sandy’s wrist works faster. Heat, wet sounds, then Bridgett’s moan cracks open and the dam bursts. Clear piss gushes over Sandy’s hand, splatters the ground, runs warm down Bridgett’s calf. Sandy doesn’t flinch—she laughs low and smears the slick up over her own stomach. Bridgett trembles through the last pulses, fingers still tangled in Sandy’s hair. She looks at the camera with wet lashes and a smirk that says do it again.