Meeting Marketa

I went to Prague chasing rumors of a blonde who could wreck a girl’s plans without trying. Marketa. The name alone made my pulse skip. When the door opened, a willowy brunette was already waiting inside—Marketa’s friend for the afternoon, it turned out, and the one who made the first move. She kissed me like we’d skipped the introductions. Soft lips, then teeth. Her fingers traced the curve of my neck before they slid lower, finding the swell of my breasts beneath my thin summer top. I felt the heat rush straight between my legs. Marketa watched from the couch, legs crossed, letting us warm up. Then she stood. Her dress slipped to the floor in one motion. Pale skin, small pink nipples already tight. She pressed in behind me, breath warm against my ear, hands reaching around to cup what her friend had started to knead. Two mouths found my neck at once. They guided me to the bed without a word. The brunette stripped me next, peeling off my shorts, fingers dragging the damp cotton of my panties aside so her tongue could taste how ready I already was. Marketa straddled my waist, rolling her hips in slow circles while her friend licked deeper, tongue flicking, then sucking my clit until my thighs shook. I came once like that—fast, sharp—then again when Marketa turned around and lowered herself onto my mouth. She tasted clean and sweet, hips rocking while her friend climbed up to straddle my thigh, grinding her own slick heat against me. We moved together, bodies slick with sweat, the room filled with the wet sounds of mouths and cunts and the low moans none of us tried to hold back. Later, Marketa lay between us, legs open, letting both our tongues work her at once—mine on her clit, the brunette’s buried inside her. She came with a sharp cry, back arching, fingers tangled in our hair. We didn’t stop until the light outside had gone gold, and even then none of us reached for our clothes right away.