At home

Alisa and Aliza had nowhere to be. School had ended, the sun climbed slowly, and the apartment belonged to them until dinner. They moved without rushing. Alisa chose a soft cotton dress; Aliza slipped on leggings. Then each reached for the brush, trading slow strokes that let strands slip between their fingers. With so many empty hours ahead, they let one touch become another. They stretched across the bed, clothes drifting to the floor piece by piece. Alisa cupped Aliza’s small breasts, thumbs circling until the nipples tightened, while Aliza slid a hand down and parted Alisa’s smooth lips. Fingers glided through wetness, seeking the snug heat that opened willingly. They lingered here, mouths tasting necks and collarbones, before one of them rolled the other onto her stomach. Hands spread cheeks apart; tongues traced the pale skin and found the ring of muscle, swirling wetly until it softened. A finger pressed in, slow, twisting with more spit, sinking deeper. Pleasure coiled low and hot. They traded places again, tasting each other in every way—lips on cunts, tongues inside assholes, breath catching and easing. Hours stretched like warm silk. Each caress deepened the ache, each slow thrust of fingers or press of mouth pulling soft cries from their throats, until the day melted away between their warm, entwined bodies.