“Kissing Booth”

25 min read

Three drinks in Alex says, “Can I ask you an inappropriate question?” Knowingly, I respond, “I already know what you want to ask. The answer is, sex education really needs to be more comprehensive and inclusive. There are way too many adults out here with questions about lesbian sex. Wait, was that your question?” 

“Duh!” She responds, sipping her drink, tilting her head and smacking her lips (complete with popping sounds for emphasis). Laughter fills the room. 

“Yes, sis. How do you do it? Like, don’t you miss dick? I love some dick.” 

“Alex,” I reply, with raised eyebrows and a smirk, “They sell dick at the store. Eight inch Wednesday dick, ten inch Saturday dick, purple dick, medium brown dick, curved dick, thick dick, vibrating dick, just walls full of dicks.”

She confidently counters, “But, it doesn’t feel the same.”

“Alex,” I say, metaphorically clutching my pearls, “is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

This time the laughter in the room is more like girlish giggling. 

In a voice slightly deeper and slower than before, Alexi earnestly inquires, “I mean, does it feel the same?”

“No. Honestly, I like it better. It doesn’t like, get warm and you need a lot of lube.” Anticipating the usual rebuttal I quickly add, “Everyone needs a lot of lube with a strap.” 

Shandra asks, “A strap?”

“A strap-on!” Monica shoots back, rolling her neck, side-to-side, enunciating every syllable.

I continue, “Think about it. A fake penis is always hard so it’s done when I’m done. And it’s only as messy as I am so there’s no reason for it to fuck up my Ph balance. Think back on the best sex you’ve ever had. The stroke is just as important as penetration. Imagine if you could match the perfect stroke with the perfect sized penis for your mood. And then imagine being ready for that dick because that person didn’t say one single annoying man thing to you all week. Chileeeeeee!”

We’ve drawn a crowd. 

Alex says, “But, real ones, you know, move.”

“They do. They also cum quick and are incredibly inconsistently firm. I support partaking in organic penis, I’m just no longer interested.”

A room full of women suddenly become somewhat still and reflective. I suppose it is a lot to take in. So, I add, “And why is this conversation about dick? You all have vaginas. Imagine if the entire sexual experience only revolved around exploring the pleasure points on a woman’s body, your clit, your g-spot. Imagine cumming every single time you had sex. That takes more time and intention than most penises can provide. When a woman’s body opens up, I can tell where and give that spot all of my attention. A penis can’t feel what my fingers can. And if or when it does, it might tap out. My fingers, my lady’s fingers, just do what they’re told.”

Curious women have gathered around the island in the kitchen. They are all married to men, dating men, and interested in relationships with men but are now gathered around this table, hanging on my every word. 

Breaking a moment of silence, Shandra blurts out, “I don’t want to eat pussy!” Waving her hand in the air as if they were being thrown at her face and she could swat them away. 

“I just don’t want titties on my back,” Talisa says nonchalantly while taking another sip of dark liquor. 

“No one said anyone has to eat pussy. I get to eat pussy. I like pussy, you don’t have to. And titties are comfortable as fuck. You haven’t lived until you’ve fallen asleep on a grown woman’s titty. Shiiiiiiit.” 

Laughter. They’re back. 

“The trick is taking male pleasure completely out of the equation and prioritizing the orgasms of every woman in the room. You’re the only woman in your bedrooms so that should be easy.”

“Hmmmmmm,” Alex sarcastically jabs before throwing back the rest of her drink and pouring another. She adds, “I’m very satisfied. I’m just curious about the differences, you know, logistically,” while making an interlocking scissors motion with her fingers. 

More laughter.

I say, “Invite your men just to use their fingers and mouths. We are soft and warm so they’re going to want to be selfish, but ask them for a week of fingers and head. Let them get to know your body all over again. The inside of a woman’s vagina opens up and tells you where she wants to be touched. It’s a different kind of slow-building pleasure that’s just for you.”

Shandra says, “Oh, I already know my man. He’ll touch it, want it, get it, nut, and go to sleep. It’ll be me and my own fingers for the rest of the week. 

Understanding laughter ensues. 

“Damn, y’all are still in the struggle. Im’a pray for you. I haven’t even gotten to the superior benefits of lesbian delivered head yet.” 

“Uh, don’t. I can’t today,” Alex says as she guzzles another glass of wine. 

I vaguely suggest, “What about next Saturday?” 

My own eyes are focused on the drink I pour myself but I can feel each woman’s eyes on me as we collectively pause. My eyes still lowered, I say, “I have an idea. All who are willing and able, come to my house at 9 Saturday night. I’ll call some friends. We’ll have a lesbian kissing booth of sorts.” 

I exchange numbers with seven women. One whispers to me privately, “This won’t be my first time.” 

Seven women get an invitation the following day that reads:

ONE NIGHT ONLY

Step right up

Enter at your own will

Prepare to be amazed by the ride of your life

You are invited to look behind the curtain 

And join the experience

Indulge your curiosities 

At 

The Lesbian Kissing Booth

*Please dress comfortably and expect semi to complete nudity

Five RSVP instantly.

Saturday. 8:59 pm turns to 9:00 pm. 9:00 pm becomes 9:38 pm and the doorbell rings. “It’s open!” I yell from the living room as two voices and two sets of footsteps proceed through the curtains. 

“It’s open!” I hear Cree say in her signature raspy voice. Monica and I look at each other, eyes wide as we gather our courage. I proclaim, “Fuck it!” as we open the door and walk through a series of curtains. The first, dark, soft velvet. The second and third, shades of pink silk. Beyond the partition, Cree awaits with two glasses of wine. She greets us each with a kiss on the cheek and says, “Alex, Monica. It’s so nice to see you.”

The room smells like a mixture of rose, cinnamon, and marijuana smoke. She hands us robes, a set of slippers and points to a changing room instructing, “Meet you back here when you’re done.”

Cree sits beside us, her words float. “It’s so nice to see you again. How are you feeling?” 

“Relaxed now,” I say slightly stuttering.

“Good. That was my intention. So, I’ve prepared three rooms for you to experience. Each door will be closed. On the table beside it you will find a lamp, a  hint and a bowl full of ‘tokens.’ You must turn the lamp on to signal that the room is occupied and give the token to the woman inside to offer your consent. You can change your mind at any time, of course. Who wants to go first?”

“Alex?” Monica says, permissively gesturing towards me. I bide my time and respond, “After you.” 

“Fuck it, right!” She declares, throwing back the entire glass of red wine and abruptly disappearing around the corner.

The first lamp turns on. 

I say to Cree, “I’m excited but nervous.”

“I know what to do about both,” she gently responds. “Give me your hand.” I obey and she begins to massage. Her touch draws something out of me and  I drift almost entirely off before I hear her say, “The lamp is off. Are you ready?”

My turn.

The sign at the door reads:

Licky Here

If you say “Yes” 

Please get undressed 

Your toes up to your naval

Tokens suggest

You are a meal

Presented at the table

The bowl labeled “tokens” is full of blindfolds. I take a deep breath, turn on the lamp, put one on, and turn the doorknob.  A woman’s voice says, “Come in. Is it okay if I lift your blindfold?” 

“Yes.” 

I stand in awe of the woman before me. I’ve watched women make love in porn and lusted after some from a distance, but now I am about to feel it for myself. Her thighs stand out most of all. They are brown, full and lead into curvy hips, barely covered by lingerie. The green slip is all she has on. I know because I can see through. Low-cut silk and lace reveal the silhouette of her breasts, nipples and their piercings. I wonder if they are silver like the one in her septum or gold like the jewels in her dark locks. 

She leisurely removes my robe and I realize this woman is more than a vision, she is my teacher. I help her remove the robe, arm by arm as I look up and see the bed behind her. 

“Lay back,” she says steering my body by the shoulders and lowering me onto the pillow-covered mattress. The bed is full of jewel-toned pillows. Some are satin, some fur, some large, some small. As I position myself at the center she says, “It’s time to put your mask back on.”

I silently obey. 

Her footsteps suggest movements from north to south. All of my other senses are heightened in the absence of sight. She smells like vanilla and mango. Her singsong voice echoes, “Is it rude to stare? Your skin is like root beer.” Her fingernails, spiked and long, graze my thighs and then my ankles and back up again. Nails to ankles, knees, thighs, hips. She kisses beside my navel. “Your body is so soft.” Dragging her finger over my lips and chin, “Your lips are so full. Your nose is so round. I really love your nose.” 

She drags her fingers back down over my chin. I cannot help but tilt my head back and offer her my neck. She traces my collarbone, brushing her fingers back and forth, circling at the center. “I really love your breasts.” 

She pulls my bra to the side, revealing a single breast and nipple just enough to kiss and encapsulate with her tongue and  lips. Her hand wanders to the other breast and sets it free. She delicately teases one nipple with her mouth and the other with her fingertip. I let out the first moan. 

She taps lightly onto my knees, gesticulating, “Open your legs.” 

A command in words and touch. The slightest pressure is applied to the inside of my thighs.  A gentle request for the hips to relax and open. My legs unfurl instinctively. I am transformed into a will-less marionette for this nameless puppeteer; my limbs attached to her desires. She pulls herself into me, face to face with the erogenous epicenter of an 8.0 earthquake rumbling beneath my panties. 

“Your pussy smells delicious, I can’t wait to taste you,” she murmurs. No hands or lips or tongue exchange touch for an eternity. Her face and my pussy echange breath until they interlock. I feel it. Her energy surges through me, gripping my spine and my own air, like a gulp of pure electricity. I need her. At this precise and knowing moment, she presses her thumbs on either side of the doorway to euphoria. I am open to the waves of her imagination. Touching, so close to ecstasy, throws my body into frenzy, each pressing of her thumbs into the crevices between my thighs and lips is like a battery to a circuit. An ache and deep throbbing have been activated. 

Just then, she grazes the outside of my panties. Her touch feels like raindrops. 

“Your pussy is so warm.” 

I can feel my clit swell. My hips rock into her and beg for more. I know my mouth is open because she reaches up and drags her thumb across my lower lip before returning it to the folds beside my pussy. She goes from lip to lip. I can feel her fingers flirting with pleasure. My mouth opens wider, my head leans back. 

“Can I take your panties off?” she whispers. 

“Ple-Please.” 

She peels them to the side and separates my lips with her index and middle finger. She slides them up and down my center, lightly pressing either side of my clit. 

“Do you hear how wet you are?” Her voice is hot and melts me into dripping wax.  

My body sounds like splashing water. 

“Pl-.” I pant. “ Please take them off.” 

I reach down and begin to tug at them myself. Lifting my body off the table, she reaches for them, running her hands over my ass, pausing deliberately to appreciate its fullness. Her hands reach my waist. She tugs at my panties, removing the final barrier between our skin. My wet pussy draws in the cool air of the room and the warmth of her breath. Every nerve feels every sensation. A soft licking of her tongue peels back swelling pedals and swirls around the growling summit between my legs. Her tongue dances inside of me, up and under my clit. She scoops my body up and closer to her like her arms are a forklift, not delicate at all. Her hands feel so strong as she grips my legs and moves up and over my thighs, pressing into my hips, steering my pussy into position. I can feel her head greedily rocking from side to side. It sounds like her cheeks taking turns slapping themselves against my inner thighs. It sounds like frenzied slurping. Pinched fingers around my waist are matched with a flickering tongue. A vibrating tongue. I have never felt such a thing. Her tongue moves like hummingbird wings. She stops, latching on to my clit with the smooth wet inside of her lips. Stopping only to say, “touch your nipples.” 

I am jarred by the reality of words interjecting my hedonistic sensibilities. My body twists and writhes in protest. I do not obey

“Touch your nipples.” 

Finally yielding, I  roll my nipples between my fingers and graze them with my own fingertips as she returns to her performance. 

In and out with her tongue. Diving her face into me. Sucking and pulling as though my clit is deep and long. Bliss forces its way to the surface. I squeeze my breasts, release them and place them around her head, pressing locs and lips into me. Her nose, mouth tongue, cheeks and chin are buried inside of me. I wrap my legs around her head. Perhaps we’ll die together. WE both release one final yell. Mine, the soundtrack to explosion. Hers, no doubt a reaction to the quake, an aftershock, a tremor. Perhaps her breath returning to her body in a single tempestuous thud. 

She is still. 

Her touch reverberates and I lay convulsing. She utters an impossible request: “Can you walk?” 

“No. It’s too soon,” I say through panting and delayed breaths. 

Removing my mask, pulling my panties up my limp legs, she says, “It’s time to go to the next room.” 

I don’t remember moving. Maybe I floated next door, propelled by the promise of increased pleasure. 

At the door, another sign that read:

Dancing Digits 

Fun houses are a chance to float 

Between truth and fantasy.

Enter here, 

A festival of fingers frolicking.

Beside the door sits another table with a lamp and bowl full of nickels labeled “tokens.” I don’t get it, but pick one up, click the lamp on, and turn the door knob. 

The room is filled with candles. Candles on the wall, candles on the floor. I tip toe into a den of warm, flickering light. Low light and limited sight amplify the sound of my own beating heart. It thumps and pounds louder than my own intrepid footsteps. Surely the woman in the distance can hear its heavy drumming against the air in the room. Certainly that is why she arises so swiftly and approaches so assuredly. My mind and body are still fragmented, held up in shadow of pleasure. My feeble limbs and post-orgasm mind struggle to take in the details. I extend my arm, open my hand, and offer her the nickel. Silently, rapidly, she approaches and accepts the offering. This quick-moving woman wears a sports bra and boxers. That is the only detail I am granted from a distance. She instantly stands before me, tall, the color of cherry wood, smelling like men’s cologne. 

She drags her finger along my palm and takes the coin. Without warning I am in her arms, navel to navel, breast to breast. My arms wrap themselves around her neck and my body yields itself to her strength. I am swept up. Her hair smells so good. Her hair is barely wrapped into a bun. I steal a single curl to touch softly and drag between my fingers along the back of her neck. It’s so soft. Her sports bra presses into her shoulder and I slide my finger between her skin and the strap as a draw back, attempting to see her face. There are two lines shaved into her eyebrow. Her shoulders are round and broad. My eyes are stuck on the teeth drawn into her arm. Animal teeth, sharp and long. A roaring T-Rex. Her chest is flat and compressed. The tattoo drawn into her neck catches my eye. Before my conscious mind decodes its shadows and lines I feel her hands dig into my ass and shift me up and into her body. My passion has been activated. I want to bite her shoulder. I want to lick her neck to see if the dew reflecting candle light tastes like sweat. 

Her thumbs press into my hips, opening them and granting her access. These fingers are sturdy, brawny, able to raise me up and into her embrace. I am swept up. I run my palms down her arms to know my captor. Her muscles tighten, revealing firm lines. They flex as she shifts my weight, orchestrating my body’s rise and fall, a gentle toss to draw me nearer and more surely at her mercy. My pulse quickens and rolls into my throat, trapping the air from escaping. Startled by the pause and my instincts to submit so thoroughly to a tall shadow, I decide to challenge her power. 

I roll my pelvis into her, straighten my spine, lean, draw back to look into her eyes. I want to kiss her. I hold her gaze, bite my own bottom lip and gently scratch her back. She returns a look that says, “Challenge accepted.” Handing me back the coin, she bellows, “Flip it.” 

Heads.

Without pause, asserting her dominance, she transfers me to the yellow velvet chase in the center of the room. Her body naturally lands between my legs as she lays me on my back. They open wide as her hips thrust between them. In one fluid motion she peels my arms from around her neck and raises them up, over my head, restraining both wrists with one hand. Her right hand pins me down while her left pinches my waist as she drives her pelvis into mine and stares into my wanting eyes. How the fuck did I feel that? A surge of energy runs through my core. I spread my legs and open my mouth, unconsciously offering points of entry. She’s so close. I want to kiss her. I’m doing it. 

Writhing and restrained, subdued by her weight, I reach the only way I can. I extend my tongue to persuade her lips to come near. I taste her bottom lip with the tip of my tongue and grind my greedy pussy into the space between us, imploring it to disappear. Her strength overpowers me. Bearing little regard for my will, she tightens her grip around my wrists, extends my arms further above my head, and pushes my hips into the cushion beneath just before shifting her hand to my pussy. She takes it by the handful, demonstrating her reach. Her fingers and palm grip me entirely and all at once. Her constant stare penetrates me. The combination of sensations spark another convulsion-causing shock.. The anticipation of touch reverberates from head to toe. Every sensation rings and echoes beneath my skin. 

I want to be fucked so badly. I can feel my pussy throbbing, begging for any touch she is willing to give. 

Just then, she unhinges herself from me, like clasps on luggage. She takes my air hostage and I am breathless. She has turned my desire into an unravelling hem, caught on her cruel retreating steps. One step back. Now two. My face desperately pleads, “No more” and she stops as if the words were spoken. Extending her open palm, she says, “Flip it.” I know she means for me to take the nickel and toss it,  but I am stuck. She repeats, “Flip it.” 

Clumsily, I fumble for the coin and pray for a moment of dexterity. 

Heads again. 

She is left-handed, left-wristed, left-fingered, and thumbed. I know because they take turns sliding over my panties and clit. She pulls the soaked fabric to the side and repeats the motion, this time, skin to skin. Her thumb slides up, under my clit and back down, threatening to cross both thresholds of desire. She slips up beneath my rising clit and down, just above entry. Her other fingers press and release like they are keeping tempo. 

She twists her wrist and turns her finger into a paintbrush. My water is the paint. My pussy is her canvas. Every thrusting movement, a brush stroke. It’s like they are dancing. Salsa, ballet, and African dance inside my body. I cannot help but sing. Louder and louder, I scream, “Oh, my God. Oh. My. Oh, my God.”

The more I receive her, the more I need her touch. I reach down and grab onto her hand, using it to fuck myself. We both fuck me. I control the pace of her thrusting as she curves her fingers inside me and charts a new course on my pleasure map. I did not know this place existed. An ache radiates from her fingertips and into every place in my pussy, all at once. I didn’t know I could feel this. 

Just as her fingers drum the baseline to my crechendo, she stops. She pulls out and presents her glossy digits, revealing them to me as they gleam in the candle light. She peels them apart, slowly displaying a sticky web of my body’s creation. She turns her hand to reveal what looks like frosting. 

“Is that me?” 

Her eyes, tacit acknowledgement that she is pleased by my surprise and her own accomplishment. She stares into my eyes as she licks them almost completely clean, finger by finger. 

I can no longer bear the silence and make a sound I can’t identify. It feels like the breaking of chains. Like a closed chamber has been forever unhinged. Pins and needles rush through me as she kisses my thigh. The tenderness of her touch gives me permission to breathe. We pause just enough for her to say, “Flip it.” 

I reach over, retrieve the nickel, flip it, catch it, and present it for her to see.

“Tails. Turn over.”

“Turn over?”

“Face down.”

I hear her, but don’t react. So, once again, she takes control. She pulls me closer by the hips, lifts, and flips me over. My chest flat against the soft velvet upholstery, she raises my hips, aligning every entry to her navel. She pulls them up as she presses into my spine and whispers, “Arch your back.” 

My heart pounds. My face presses into the fabric as she kneels behind me and fucks me. Her fingers feel so deep and so thick. My sound is muffled by the pillows. I have no doubt makeup and spit mark them as I scream. Each yell gets deeper and deeper; growling each time she thrusts in, grunting every time she pulls out, without regard for neighbors or company. I am unable to restrain myself. 

I try to push back. Temporarily, I control the pace and slapping sounds her hand makes against my thighs. She wraps her arm around my waist to stabilize herself and remind me that my authority is only according to her permission. My knees collapse. She lifts her knee beside me, to brace herself as she maintains the pace. The more I buckle, the more she pumps and pushes. I am almost flat against the couch and she is relentless. Her elbow is rocks like a pendulum in motion. I can hear my pussy splashing and my own skin slapping against itself. My legs stiffen just before they shake. The more I convulse, the faster she fucks. In and out as I am electrified. My legs naturally close and collapse as I shake, but she doesn’t stop. She flips her wrist, and shifts the angle of her thrust. The new sensation feels like her fingers reaching past my pussy and into my chest. She moves her pelvis closer to mine and thrusts her fingers like they are attached. 

“Fuck me,” I stutter and plead. 

Suddenly her stroke is something more. It is her energy coursing through my entire body, pressing against my skin, begging to break free. Her entire body lays parallel to mine and her weight renders me motionless. I surrender to her as her stroke shifts to deep, slow, rocking. Her lip drags against my ear and she begins to moan. Some of her soft curls have escaped from their loose updo and drag like feathers against my cheek. The light stubble on her legs prickles the skin on my legs as they rub against me. I feel her body jerk and tighten as I clench the inside walls of my pussy and scream, “Please cum!”

The sweat from her stomach pools on the small of my back. My pussy drips down her wrist. And we explode in unison. I can feel the inside of my pussy throbbing around her fingers until she suddenly removes them and takes her body off of mine. Before I process my own pleasure, she slaps my ass. The sound, perfect placement, perfect force, and the vibration it sends through my body send me into a frenzy. She steps back to watch me shake and drool. When I am still, my limbs are lifeless. 

“Turn over.”

I barely open my eyes and reach for her in the darkness. 

“Turn over,” she repeats. 

I turn over and reach up for her again. I drunkenly mumble, “Please help me. I’m stuck.” 

She bends down, neatly adjusts my panties, and places my arms around her neck before scooping me up like a bride being carried over the threshold. As we walk toward the door I borrow my head into her chest and smell her cologne. I have to kiss this woman. She pauses to put me down but I hold tighter around her neck. Sensing my desire, she leans in to kiss me. I let out a sigh as her soft lips press against mine. She gently places my feet on the ground before leaning down to kiss me once more. She grabs my face, looks into my eyes, pulls my mouth into hers and kisses me passionately, one last time before opening the door. 

Stunned and exhausted, the only thing I can think to do is turn off the lamp. The low light resembles the candlelight inside. It takes a moment to realize the lamp in the next room is still on. I’m outside and Monica is still inside. It hits me, there is one more room to experience and I have lost my robe. I stand in the hall, almost completely naked and alone with my thoughts. Did that just happen? Was that real? It was and there is one more room to enter. 

As I wander down the hall and approach the final door, Monica’s moans grow louder and evolve into full-blown screaming. 

“Don’t stop. Oh, shit! Fuck me, Daddy. Don’t you stop.”

I am frozen, unsure if I should give them privacy or listen in. I stand motionless, completely bewiched by the uniformity of the banging sounds coming from inside. The bed hammers against the wall like 808’s on full blast. For a moment, I lean back against the wall and take it in.

Slaaaaaaap. 

“Ahhhhhhhh!”

A slap, immediately followed by low-pitched yelp. The rhythm doesn’t skip a beat. 

I notice the bowl on the table. The tokens are condoms. I don’t understand, but place one in my hand. Is there a man in there? The note outside the room says,

Srapping Young Boi

Some places are for reaching

Some angles are for seeking

Some people come with parts to play

Some pack it up and bring it

Curiosity takes over and I reach for the door knob. I cannot be expected to sustain this level of arousal alone. At first I peek quietly. The person on top is a woman. Her shape gives it away. Boxer briefs hug her round hips and thick thighs as she curves her spine forward and backward into the perfect stroke. The only thing I can see clearly is her fair skin reflecting the soft light and her movement from the back. I watch from behind as she dives in and out of my friend’s pussy while she screams. I don’t want her to stop, so I stay as quiet as possible. The woman on top’s lower back curves as she pulls out and straightens as she goes in but her shoulders are almost completely still. Each time she thrusts the bed knocks against the wall and I revisit a state of hypnosis. 

She notices the strip of light from the hallway breaking through the cracked door and pauses. Squinting, she looks back at me and catches my eyes with hers. Monica peers out from beneath her and catches me too. Monica acknowledges my presence but our gazes never meet. She returns to her desire, whispering, “Max, don’t stop.”

Locked in my stare, Max resumes her performance. She glides inside of Monica but tears inside of me. Her eyes penetrate my body and draw me closer, so I come in and close the door. 

Crude details emerge as my eyes adjust to the darkness. Max brushes her chin-length locks from her face as she returns her focus to Monica. Monica is on her back, legs splayed. A closer look reveals the dark-colored penis attached to Max’s briefs. Max reaches over and squeezes a lotion or liquid onto it and begins to stroke―slowly, like it is her own. It’s lube. It must be lube. With her right hand, she swoops both of Monica’s legs up and places them over her right shoulder. That surprises me. She’s shorter in stature, but strong. Max holds her ankles with her right hand and guides her dick back into place with her left. Monica lets out a familiar gasp as Max renters her. It is a sound I have made many times—with men. It is the sound we all make when good dick slides in for the very first time. Her voice triggers the memory and my pussy recalls the feeling. Monica and I gasp, almost in unison.

Acknowledging our collective pleasure and her dick as its source, Max looks over her left shoulder and back into my eyes. We reconnect just as she begins to go deeper into Monica. Monica’s moaning starts to build. I can see that she no longer cares about control. Her screams begin to clamor on top of each other with each stroke and her body begins stiffen, her hands clenching the satin sheets. Max’s body moves like a pendulum and I cannot look away. I scan her body. Her full breasts are restrained beneath a black sports bra. They are barely exposed at the top and move in tempo with her rocking. Her grip on Monica’s ankles morphs into her entire arm cradling Monica's lifeless legs as they dangle over her right shoulder. Max’s left hand grips and steers Monica’s thighs so she stays near enough to feel every inch of pressure. 

Noticing Monica threatening to slip away, Max suddenly pulls out and Monica’s body jolts and folds into itself. Just before Monica rolls over to her side, Max wraps her arms around both of Monica’s thighs and uses her whole body to tug Monica’s body back into her. Max pauses. Their bodies are exhaling in agreement. Max lets out a deep sigh as she drops her head. She wipes sweat from her brow. I know what comes next and my pussy tightens in anticipation. Max tosses the locks out of her face and forces Monica’s knees back and plants her broad hands right underneath them, centering Monica’s pussy to the ceiling in the process. Before Monica recognizes what Max and I both know, Max lifts her body and drives her dick into her pussy. Shaken, Monica’s body jolts up in a way that seems involuntary. Her and Max’s eyes meet. Monica’s lips are forming silent words, but they never come out. She claws into Max’s back. Max’s eye’s pierce back at me, inviting me to come closer, but I just shift in place in an attempt to hide the wetness developing in my sheer panties. She smiles and turns around with confidence. Her hips clap against Monica’s ass and the mattress. She doesn’t move like any woman I’ve seen. That’s a stroke. The thump of the headboard and wall are so familiar. Her stroke is long. I stare as her dick pulls out again. Monica’s pussy blooms and her body jerks. Max’s body reminds me that she is a woman but her physical dexterity tells my pussy otherwise. It cannot distinguish between desire and logic and I do not care. I feel my pussy tingle as this woman thrusts her dick back into my friend over and over again. Monica braces herself against the wall behind her, pushing into every pump. Monica’s bare breasts rock in time with Max’s pounding. Her legs threaten to tremble but I can’t take my attention away from her breasts. Her nipples contract and harden. The skin on her breasts ripple like waves in a pool. They shake faster and faster, almost slopily. 

Monica’s cries turn to grunts. I look up and realize that Max is monitoring my reactions. I stand, mouth unconsciously agape, while Max glares, biting her lip. Her face looks like an animal growling, fierce and wild. I watch her study my body, look me up and down as she fucks my friend. 

“Fu―ck! Fuccccckkkkkk!” 

Clap. Clap. Clap. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

“Shit.” Her head droops to the side. 

“Yes.” Her eyes retract in her head.  

“Fu―”  Her voice dissolves.  

 Monica’s words become strained yelps. She’s about to come. My heart quickens. Max speeds up. The bed is now moving away from the wall. Max looks back at me one more time, slowing her stroke to hard and intermittent thrusts. She leans back and grabs one of Monica’s limp legs for stability. She stops. 

“Come,” Max commands. 

Monica lets out one last roar before collapsing. Max grips and strokes her dick with her left hand while she surveys her work. She dips her right shoulder and shoves her right index and middle finger inside of her new trophy. Monica doesn’t move. When she withdraws, her fingers are milk-white. She draws them into her mouth for aftertaste. I want to come closer now. I hope she can smell my desire. 

Without looking my way, she asserts, “Are you next?”