Good times

Frisky slouches on the couch, restless. The living-room light catches Dalila’s dark hair and the swell of her big tits under a thin top. "This show sucks," Frisky mutters, thumbing the remote until the screen goes black. She leans in, shuts Dalila up with a kiss. Dalila’s mouth parts, soft and warm, and their tongues meet like they’ve both been waiting for it. Frisky’s hand slides under Dalila’s shirt, finds smooth skin, a stiff nipple, a sharp breath. Jeans unbutton, zippers rasp, panties drop to ankles. Fingers slip between parted thighs—slick, swollen, young. Dalila moans into Frisky’s mouth as two fingers push inside her, slow at first, then deeper, curling to hit that tender spot. Frisky rocks against the heel of Dalila’s palm, grinding her own drenched pussy until the couch creaks. They move together, mouths locked, hips rolling, wetness coating knuckles and thighs, chasing that sharp, wet release.