Lingerie lovers

She likes my opinion when she picks what to wear before a date. I tell her which pieces will turn heads and she listens, every time. Sometimes I help her into the lingerie, my hands gliding over the lace straps and adjusting the sheer cups until everything sits just right. Blonde hair spills across her shoulders. She’s young, still eighteen, and the contrast of her fair skin against black satin makes me bite my lip. I tug the garter straps snug, fingers brushing the soft skin of her thighs. She gives a little shiver, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead she leans in and kisses me, slow and open-mouthed, tasting of cherry lip gloss. I press her back against the mirror, my palms cupping her breasts through the flimsy fabric. She moans softly. I sink to my knees, hook my thumbs in the sides of the panties, and ease them down just far enough to taste her. Her legs tremble. I lick slowly, deliberately, until her fingers twist in my hair and she’s panting my name. We stay like that until she’s dripping and begging, then I stand, spin her around, and let her watch in the mirror while I touch her from behind. Two girls in matching lingerie, flushed and desperate, neither one in any hurry to leave for that date.