Who Am I?

Tiffany always hated how perfect everyone thought Angelika was. So she yanked her onto a chair, bound her wrists and ankles tight, then kicked her own bare feet up. Angelika stared for half a second before she lowered her mouth, licking between Tiffany's toes, running her tongue up each soft arch like she'd been starving for it. Tiffany kept the phone aimed down, recording every wet sound. When Angelika's mouth got tired, Tiffany hooked a finger under her own skirt, tugged her panties aside, and shoved her stepsister's face right in. Angelika licked through the thin fabric, tasting warm cotton and Tiffany's heat beneath, moaning because she had no other choice. Bound, owned, used. Tiffany giggled, smirked at the lens, whispered, "Still think you're the golden girl, sis?" Each slow stroke of that tongue sent little sparks up Tiffany's spine, proof that jealousy could turn into something filthy, fast.