Melody Kord
54.4K views
Birgitta pushes back from the little table in my galley kitchen and hikes her pencil skirt to her hips, thighs already shiny from what we just did on the back step. Karen's still crouched between her legs, tongue lapping slow and sloppy, a little purr of approval every time Birgitta twitches. Estell—actually Estelle on the lease—leans against the fridge, shorts dangling from one ankle, two fingers buried so deep the knuckles disappear. Every thrust pulls a wet pop from her own cunt, and she grins at me like this is better than anything on TV. Beside her, Estelle Belle gasps in tiny, high bursts while Brita works three slick fingers inside her; Brita’s wrist rolls, twists, then spreads her wider until the inner walls flash pink, glistening in the afternoon light. Britta mutters something filthy about how tight the squeeze is, then curls her fingers upward, pumping hard until Estelle Belle’s knees buckle. Brigitte is at the stove, bare ass out, flipping eggs that no one will eat—her free hand already buried in her own cunt, middle finger circling her clit in double-time. Brigitta Nelson laughs at all of us, lounging with one heel on the counter, legs open, letting Judith kneel and tongue-fuck her slow, deep, noisy—wet sounds bouncing off the cabinets while eggs sizzle and the girls keep coming, one after another, bodies jerking and hips rolling like they plan to do this until the fire alarm goes off.
Melody Kord
Birgitta pushes back from the little table in my galley kitchen and hikes her pencil skirt to her hips, thighs already shiny from what we just did on the back step. Karen's still crouched between her legs, tongue lapping slow and sloppy, a little purr of approval every time Birgitta twitches. Estell—actually Estelle on the lease—leans against the fridge, shorts dangling from one ankle, two fingers buried so deep the knuckles disappear. Every thrust pulls a wet pop from her own cunt, and she grins at me like this is better than anything on TV. Beside her, Estelle Belle gasps in tiny, high bursts while Brita works three slick fingers inside her; Brita’s wrist rolls, twists, then spreads her wider until the inner walls flash pink, glistening in the afternoon light. Britta mutters something filthy about how tight the squeeze is, then curls her fingers upward, pumping hard until Estelle Belle’s knees buckle. Brigitte is at the stove, bare ass out, flipping eggs that no one will eat—her free hand already buried in her own cunt, middle finger circling her clit in double-time. Brigitta Nelson laughs at all of us, lounging with one heel on the counter, legs open, letting Judith kneel and tongue-fuck her slow, deep, noisy—wet sounds bouncing off the cabinets while eggs sizzle and the girls keep coming, one after another, bodies jerking and hips rolling like they plan to do this until the fire alarm goes off.