Summer of love

Some claim love belongs to summer alone. For others, summer simply clears the schedule. Nilla, nineteen, brunette, moved through the evening crowds of fresh graduates, and Irene, sixty-one, held the door open at the club. Their eyes caught once, then held. That same afternoon, sunlight slid across the sheets in Irene’s bedroom. Nilla was already straddling her, knees spread wide on either side of the older woman’s hips. Irene’s hands, veined yet steady, cupped Nilla’s ass, spreading the smooth cheeks apart while Nilla rocked her wet cunt against Irene’s mound. Their mouths met hard, tongues sliding deep, Irene sucking on Nilla’s lower lip until it darkened. Nilla reached back, grabbed Irene’s wrist, and guided two thick fingers into herself. The older woman thrust them up, knuckles kissing flushed folds, thumb pressing the young clit in short, practiced strokes. Nilla gasped, spine bowing; a clear strand of slick stretched from her cunt to Irene’s wrist before breaking. She rolled her hips faster, grinding down, the wet slap of skin meeting skin filling the quiet room. Irene rose onto an elbow, took one small breast in her mouth, teeth scraping the nipple, and bit just enough to make Nilla cry out. Nilla came with short jerks, thighs trembling, cream coating Irene’s hand and running down her own inner thighs. Before she could catch her breath, Irene flipped her onto her back, spread her knees, and sank between them, tongue dragging from clit to asshole in one long, slow lick that left Nilla shaking again.