Darcie and the Butterfly

Darcie’s eyes lingered on the edge of Connie’s shoulder, where the first strokes of ink slipped beneath her blouse. Word had reached her about the butterfly—how its wings stretched across the brunette’s skin, each line a promise she wanted to see for herself. So when Connie peeled back her shirt, Darcie didn’t hesitate. She stepped closer, fingers already unfastening her own buttons, revealing the pale swell of her tits and the smooth pink of her cunt, both warm and ready for touch. Connie turned, baring her back. The butterfly spread open across her shoulder blades, delicate and bright. Darcie’s tongue traced its outline first, tasting the faint salt of skin, then moved lower. She slid two fingers along Connie’s spine, found the waistband of her skirt and tugged it down until bare flesh met cool air. Connie’s breath caught. Darcie smiled, pressed her mouth to the small of her back, then lower still, tongue flicking where thigh met ass. She worked quickly—tongue, lips, the wet press of two fingers sliding inside—until Connie’s legs shook and the butterfly seemed to pulse with every shiver she gave.