Crowning and Rosebuds

Two women go at each other in a dark room, nothing soft about it. One’s already face-down, ass up, legs spread so wide the tendons stand out. Her partner works two fingers straight in, then three, twisting, scissoring, forcing the ring to loosen fast. Every pump makes a wet, nasty sound that bounces off the walls. She adds the fourth, knuckles disappearing, and the first woman gasps when her hole finally swallows the whole hand past the wrist. The fist stays inside, rocking slow, stretching the muscle until it stays open on its own, shiny and trembling. A quick pull-out leaves a deep, pulsing gape that doesn’t close right away. The top slides two fingers back in just to keep it that way, then pushes deeper again, turning her wrist so the knuckles press new spots. The bottom’s breath comes ragged, thighs shaking, but she pushes back for more. The top keeps the pressure steady, fist moving in tight circles, stretching her wide, making sure every inch of that hole stays on display.