Femjoy Porn Videos
Summer Days
Matty slid into the booth at eight and tried to play it cool. Bernie showed up five minutes later in that black dress she swore she only wore for funerals and funerals-adjacent disasters. They ordered whiskey and onion rings, swapped sarcastic remarks about their bosses, laughed too loud when they meant it. Around drink three, the laughter shifted key. Matty watched the way Bernie’s mouth lingered on the rim of the glass and felt the whole room tip sideways. Bernie’s knee found Matty’s under the table, pressed once, stayed there. Neither of them moved. The check came; they didn’t touch it. Instead they headed out to the alley behind the bar so Bernie could bum a cigarette she didn’t actually want. Matty lit it for her, fingers brushing Bernie’s lips on the pass. The cigarette stayed unlit. Bernie pushed Matty against the brick wall and the kiss that followed tasted like bourbon and salt and a decade of almosts. Hands worked quickly—jackets shoved aside, buttons snapped open—Bernie’s palm cupping Matty’s tit through lace, thumb scraping the hard peak until Matty hissed. Matty answered by yanking Bernie’s dress up past her hips, sliding two fingers straight into heat that had been waiting all night. Bernie rocked on them, hips grinding, wet already soaking Matty’s knuckles. They fucked like that—standing, half-dressed, the cold air raising gooseflesh while sweat rolled down Bernie’s spine—until Bernie came with her forehead pressed to Matty’s shoulder, biting down hard to keep quiet. Matty followed seconds later when Bernie dropped to her knees, sucked her clit between sharp teeth and two insistent fingers crooked just right. When they finally straightened their clothes, the cigarette was still on the ground, crushed under Bernie’s heel, never smoked.
Matty slid into the booth at eight and tried to play it cool. Bernie showed up five minutes later in that black dress she swore she only wore for funerals and funerals-adjacent disasters. They ordered whiskey and onion rings, swapped sarcastic remarks about their bosses, laughed too loud when they meant it. Around drink three, the laughter shifted key. Matty watched the way Bernie’s mouth lingered on the rim of the glass and felt the whole room tip sideways. Bernie’s knee found Matty’s under the table, pressed once, stayed there. Neither of them moved. The check came; they didn’t touch it. Instead they headed out to the alley behind the bar so Bernie could bum a cigarette she didn’t actually want. Matty lit it for her, fingers brushing Bernie’s lips on the pass. The cigarette stayed unlit. Bernie pushed Matty against the brick wall and the kiss that followed tasted like bourbon and salt and a decade of almosts. Hands worked quickly—jackets shoved aside, buttons snapped open—Bernie’s palm cupping Matty’s tit through lace, thumb scraping the hard peak until Matty hissed. Matty answered by yanking Bernie’s dress up past her hips, sliding two fingers straight into heat that had been waiting all night. Bernie rocked on them, hips grinding, wet already soaking Matty’s knuckles. They fucked like that—standing, half-dressed, the cold air raising gooseflesh while sweat rolled down Bernie’s spine—until Bernie came with her forehead pressed to Matty’s shoulder, biting down hard to keep quiet. Matty followed seconds later when Bernie dropped to her knees, sucked her clit between sharp teeth and two insistent fingers crooked just right. When they finally straightened their clothes, the cigarette was still on the ground, crushed under Bernie’s heel, never smoked.