The Bee Sting

Jelena stood outside, sun cutting across her body, when the bee struck. Pain exploded through the soft skin above her left breast. She lunged indoors, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes searching for ice, for anything. Gina heard the slam of the door, glanced up from the couch, and grinned like she’d just seen an opening. "TV said to suck out the stinger," she said, already on her feet. Jelena hesitated, shoulder blades pressed against the wall, pulse hammering. Pain won. She let the fabric slide lower. Gina dropped to her knees without asking twice. Her mouth found the reddened spot, warm breath skating across the curve of breast, then sealing tight around the tiny puncture. One slow pull. Another. The stinger came free, but Gina stayed, lips parting wider, tongue flattening over the stiff nipple that had risen beside it. Jelena’s fingers tangled in her stepdaughter’s hair, pulling, pushing. The sharp pain slid into something deeper, wetter. Gina tugged the fabric all the way open, latched onto both breasts in turn, sucking until the bruises formed around each nipple. Jelena’s breath caught, broke, turned into a low, filthy sound. Gina yanked the older woman’s shorts down in one impatient motion, pushed her onto the kitchen table. She pressed her mouth between spread thighs, licking with the same slow insistence that had started on Jelena’s tits. Jelena’s legs locked around Gina’s shoulders; she arched, every muscle drawn tight, coming with her hand braced hard on the back of her stepdaughter’s head. Gina stayed there, licking through the aftershocks until the room was silent except for their breathing and the faint ticking of the clock.