Shorts too tight

Two girls share the couch in tiny denim cutoffs. The redhead sits spread-legged, one leg hooked over the armrest. The brunette leans in, knees touching hers, breathing heavier with every second. Tight seams bite into soft flesh. Fabric stretches. Neither seems in a hurry to look away. Sabrina slides her palm up Shrima’s bare thigh, thumb tracing the hem that barely covers anything. Shrima watches the slow movement, lips parting. Fingers hook under denim and tug, testing. The redhead lets her knees fall wider, denim creaking. A quiet click of the button, a slow drag of the zipper. Then Sabrina’s hand disappears inside, knuckles moving beneath stretched cotton. Shrima arches. A low sound leaves her throat. Sabrina leans closer, kisses the corner of her mouth, then lower, along her jaw. When she draws her fingers out they shine. She brings them to Shrima’s lips. The redhead sucks them clean without breaking eye contact. They trade places without words. Shrima’s mouth finds the brunette’s neck, then travels south. Her fingers slip past the open fly of Sabrina’s shorts, pushing the denim aside. Sabrina lifts her hips, letting the fabric slide lower until it catches around her knees. Shrima presses her tongue flat and slow between parted lips. Sabrina’s hand finds the back of her head, guiding, holding. The shorts stay tangled halfway down both pairs of legs. Skin meets skin, hot and slick. Every movement rocks the couch, denim brushing denim, breath turning ragged. They stay locked like that, taking turns tasting, pushing, giving, until the tight little shorts are nothing but afterthoughts on the floor.