Fashion Girls

Malia tilts her shades just so, testing how the light catches the rims. Mariah leans close to read the brand on the arm, then closer still because she wants to. The conversation curves into low laughter. Giggle. Silence. They’re staring at each other now instead of the glasses. Mariah’s thumb brushes a strap off Malia’s shoulder. The rest follows. Tops, skirts, panties—each layer tossed without ceremony until bare skin touches. They sink onto the rug, legs linking, heat meeting heat. Mouths search. Tongues work. They lick each other like they’ve been hungry all day, clits rolling against skilled lips, breath breaking on quick, wet sounds. Nobody mentions fashion anymore.