Love in St. Petersburg

Winter city wind crawls under my coat. I see two young women behind a frost-laced pane, their skin flushed, lips locked. One girl spreads her legs on a velvet chaise while the other kneels between them, tongue parting smooth, puffy folds. Her fingers work slow circles around the swollen clit, then sink knuckles-deep into the slick heat. The girl on the chaise gasps, nails scraping fabric, thighs trembling. Their breasts press together—nipples stiff and pink—when the kneeling lover climbs up, straddling a trembling thigh and grinding her own dripping cunt against it. Wet sounds mix with short, needy whimpers as hips snap faster. Both sweat despite the cold glass between us, breath fogging the pane, bodies writhing in pursuit of a shared, helpless climax.