Cheeky chicks

We call ourselves the Cheeky Chicks. Two blondes and one with raven-black hair, always ready for fun and filthy jokes. One quick look at our smirks and the way our eyes shine and you know the thoughts running through our heads are nothing but trouble. We stand close, skin warm under soft lingerie that clings where it should and rides up where it shouldn’t. Our hands slide without a word, curious and sure. A finger traces a strap, then pulls it down just enough to watch the fabric snap back. Smiles turn to bitten lips and soft gasps as we press closer, bodies brushing, teasing. The blonde reaches first, slipping her hand beneath black lace to cup and squeeze. The other answers by sliding her thigh between parted legs, pressing until the heat is impossible to ignore. Each touch gets bolder. Fingers dip lower, knuckles dragging over silk that’s already damp, pulling the fabric aside for a clearer view. Breath hitches when skin meets skin, wet and slick. We take turns, one holding the other open while the third watches and then joins, fingers sliding in deep, slow, then faster. The black-haired girl leans back, thighs spread wide, letting the blondes take what they want—mouths, tongues, hands—until her head drops and the only sound left is the wet rhythm of our play.