Runaway Bride

Whitney spots the wedding dress first and nearly drops her oil bottle. The bride in question—Casey—looks ready to bolt. Still, a job’s a job, and Whitney’s got magic hands. Casey peels off the gown, cheeks pink, then stretches out face-down on the table. Whitney drizzles warm oil and starts slow, kneading shoulders, sliding palms lower. The talk flows easy: cold feet, untried cravings, one very specific curiosity about women. Whitney’s grin turns sly. Her thumbs trace the curve of Casey’s ass, then dip between her thighs. Casey’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. Whitney flips her onto her back, spreads those legs, and settles in. Tongue traces soft, teasing circles before diving in, lapping up every wet sound. Casey’s hips buck; her hands fist the sheet. Whitney doesn’t stop until Casey’s thighs clamp around her head and the first hard orgasm ripples through her. Not finished, Whitney climbs up, lines their slick pussies together, and rocks. Clit slides against clit in steady, filthy friction. Casey’s eyes roll; she grabs Whitney’s ass, desperate for more. The second climax hits louder, wetter, leaving both women gasping and grinning. Casey catches her breath, dress still crumpled on the chair. Whether she walks down any aisle after this is anyone’s guess—but she sure looks lighter on her feet.