Wild plays with Bettie and Olga

For Bettie and Olga, men never entered the equation. They wanted pussy—wet, soft, wanting pussy. So it was hardly a surprise when they slipped away together at work again. They always found a bathroom stall, the supply closet, some empty break room. Today it was the back corner of the supply room, with the door half-shut and the fluorescent light buzzing overhead. Bettie lifted Olga onto a stack of copy-paper boxes, spread her knees, and went straight in. Her tongue slid between Olga’s lips, flat and slow at first, tasting salt and heat. Olga’s head tipped against the shelves; one leg hooked over Bettie’s shoulder, stocking elastic tightening across her thigh. Bettie worked her tongue in quick, clever circles around Olga’s swollen clit, never losing rhythm even when Olga’s heel dug into her back. Two fingers slipped inside without warning, curling once, twice, before she started stroking in time with her mouth. The paper boxes creaked under them. “More,” Olga breathed. Bettie pulled a slim silver vibe from her blazer pocket, thumbed it to a low buzz, and pressed the tip against the same tight spot her fingers had found. Olga shuddered, hands gripping the shelf edges until her knuckles went white. They never spoke much. Just soft, wet sounds—mouth on slick folds, silicone humming inside, breath catching. When Olga finally came she clamped her thighs so hard around Bettie’s head that the boxes slid a little, spilling a snowdrift of invoices across the floor. Bettie kept licking until Olga’s grip loosened. Then she stood, wiped her chin on the back of her wrist, and kissed the corner of Olga’s mouth. “My turn.” Olga dropped to her knees among the scattered papers, already reaching for the buttons on Bettie’s slacks.