Making Their Exes Jealous

Zariah lifted her phone and wiggled her eyebrows. “Revenge glow-up. Two birds, one camera.” Ameena shrugged, already reaching for the ring light, then they squished together on the couch, cheeks pressed, lips puckered. Click, click. Every snap dragged them closer until lips brushed on purpose instead of by accident. Sweat-damp tank straps slipped. Ameena’s thigh slid between Zariah’s, skin hot, slick. Zariah’s fingers slipped under the waistband of Ameena’s shorts and curled right where it counted. Phones forgotten, the girls peeled everything off—shorts, crop tops, even the tiny black thong one of them still can’t remember putting on this morning. Zariah pushed Ameena flat, tongue tracing circles around stiff nipples, saliva catching light, before dragging lower and spreading Ameena open with both thumbs. She licked slow and filthy while Ameena clutched the cushions and moaned into her own wrist. Then positions swapped—messy, laughing—until they lined up cunt-to-cunt, slick sliding slick, hips rolling in greedy figure eights that rocked the couch sideways. They ground harder, wet noises getting ridiculous, until Ameena hooked a leg over Zariah’s shoulder and both came loud enough to disturb the neighbors two floors up. Aftershocks still twitching, they snapped one last blurry selfie: mascara smudged, mouths kiss-bitten, middle fingers aimed at the camera.