Backstage of Boston marriage

Two women, one blonde, one brunette, tear into each other on a backstage couch. The blonde grabs fistfuls of her lover’s breasts, squeezing the heavy curves until the brunette’s nipples stiffen and push against the thin fabric. She leans in, tongue flicking slow circles, then sucks hard enough to make the brunette gasp. The brunette’s fingers slip beneath her skirt, drag the lace aside and bury two fingers straight between swollen folds. They ride each other’s hands, hips jerking, the scent of slick heat rising. Every moan bounces off the dressing-room walls. When the blonde spreads wider, the brunette drops to her knees, buries her mouth between smooth thighs and licks in long, hungry strokes, never breaking eye contact until the blonde shakes, thighs locked around her ears, coming hard and loud.