Fashion Victim

Darcie Dolce plans to hit the fashion show tomorrow without her assistant. Bree Daniels watches the door slam behind her boss and decides enough. She phones a lingerie shop two blocks away, has the clerk messenger a crimson bustier that barely covers her nipples, and waits. Later, Darcie steps back inside, stops cold at the sight of her usually plain assistant now poured into gleaming red satin. Compliments spill before she can stop them. Bree steps in close, cups both her own breasts and tells her the outfit’s purpose: one ticket for her too. Darcie blinks, insists that she’s the boss, that this line can’t be crossed. Bree doesn’t listen. Her palm slides under Darcie’s blouse, palms heavy flesh, thumbs the soft peaks until they stiffen. The moment the kiss lands—wet, hungry, inevitable—the pretense of authority dissolves. Blouses hit the floor, skirts peel away, lace tangles around ankles. Bree sinks to a knee, drags her tongue across the curve of each breast, sucks a nipple hard until Darcie’s knees buckle. Clothes become a haphazard pile beneath them. Fingers, mouths, strident moans mark every inch explored. Bree spreads on the low leather couch, Darcie climbs astride her chest, drags her own tits across Bree’s face until both arch and gasp. Legs tangle next. Darcie buries her tongue between slick folds while Bree returns the favor from below; the sixty-nine rocks with wet, rhythmic sounds. Still not satisfied, they roll again—hands parting cheeks, tongues licking and pressing deeper into each tight ring, dirty promises traded in panting whispers. When Darcie finally collapses across her spent assistant, the new arrangement is sealed. Tomorrow morning two seats wait in the front row, and both women plan to use them.