My mentor Mabel

Connie knows the score. Mabel pays her bills, holds her hand through the late-night calls, buys the lingerie she can't afford. In return, Connie shows up after dusk and gives the older woman everything she craves. She lets Mabel open her thighs and take her time, tongue hot and slow, tasting the slick heat between her legs. Mabel never rushes. She runs a palm over Connie’s tight stomach, traces the curve of each breast, feels the nipples tighten under her thumbs. Connie leans back on her elbows, legs parted wide, and moans when Mabel slips two fingers inside her, curling them with a practiced hook. The younger woman’s hips lift, greedy, chasing every thrust. Mabel leans in, breath warm against Connie’s ear, and whispers what a good girl she is. Connie answers by spreading herself even wider, eyes half-lidded, letting Mabel watch the way her cunt clenches and shines. The gratitude between them isn’t spoken anymore; it’s fucked out instead.