Bedtime stories

They lay tangled in silk sheets, two nineteen-year-old girls still warm from the summer night. One slid closer, phone glowing between them. Her fingers traced the shape of a kiss on the screen. The other girl’s breath caught. “Read it again,” she whispered. Soft words spilled out—lips parting, tongues meeting, hips tipping forward like they had minds of their own. The reader’s thighs pressed together. The listener’s nipples tightened beneath her thin tank top. “Show me,” the first girl dared. She hooked her thumbs in her panties and pulled the cotton aside. Bare, smooth, already glistening. The other girl stared, then did the same, knees falling open so nothing was hidden. Their pussies faced each other in the lamplight, pink, swollen, slick. A finger drifted down one wet slit, parting it with a quiet sound. The scent of arousal thickened. One girl leaned in, kissed the inside of her girlfriend’s thigh, then higher, until her tongue flicked the swollen clit she’d just exposed. They took turns tasting, moaning, learning how each lick made the other tremble. One pushed two fingers inside the other’s tight heat and curled them. The answering gasp was quick and filthy. They found a rhythm—lick, thrust, grind—until thighs shook and sheets twisted around their ankles. No one was sleeping tonight.