Velma And Daphne

Daphne stands at the stove in nothing but an apron, ass bare, turning bacon while the eggs hiss. Steam rises. The table holds orange juice in champagne flutes and two roses in a water glass. She hums. Waits. Hears the bedroom door open. Velma wanders in, glasses crooked, robe hanging open, phone already in her hand. "Morning," she mutters, distracted. Daphne turns, spatula dripping. "You forgot," she says. Voice flat. Velma blinks. The date registers. She swears under her breath. Daphne smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "After all those nights chasing cryptids you forgot our anniversary." Velma starts to apologize. Daphne cuts her off. She crosses the kitchen, grabs Velma by the robe, yanks her close. The fabric falls open. Daphne pushes Velma against the counter. Eggs forgotten. Juice spills. Daphne drops to her knees, parts Velma's thighs, tongue finding her clit before Velma can form another excuse. Velma's phone clatters to the floor. Daphne licks slow, then fast, fingers sliding inside, two at once, curling, stroking that spot that makes Velma's knees buckle. Velma moans. Daphne stands, spins her around, bends her over the table, ass up. She grabs the wooden spoon from the counter and slaps Velma's cheek once, hard enough to leave a mark. Then again. Velma gasps. Daphne spreads her open, spits, works three fingers in. She fucks her steady, wrist twisting, thumb working the clit. Velma comes hard, legs shaking, knocking the champagne flutes over. Juice runs off the table onto the floor. Daphne doesn't stop. She keeps going until Velma begs. Then she stands, wipes her mouth on the apron, and says, "Mystery solved. You're mine today."