The art of love

Lady Bella knows her girls. Take Cristal Rose—the pale little blonde who calls her "teacher." During private lessons Bella keeps her lap open. Cristal climbs in without being asked, thighs parted. Her tiny skirt rides high as the older woman slips two cool fingers under her panties and strokes the already slick slit. Cristal bites her lower lip but pushes down, searching for more pressure. When Bella finds the tight ring of muscle guarding her entrance she presses just inside, gentle, steady, until Cristal’s breath stutters and her walls flutter. "So quick to bloom," the older woman murmurs, working her thumb in lazy circles over the swelling clit while her fingers ease deeper. The girl whimpers, a bright sound, hips rolling in little lifts that beg Bella not to stop. Wet sounds fill the quiet room each time Bella curls upward, and Cristal’s answers grow wetter—pussy clenching, thighs trembling. By the end the blonde is flushed from chest to cunt, lips parted in one long, glassy moan as Bella draws one last, deliberate stroke along the throbbing nub and whispers that tomorrow they will study once more.