Holy Matri-Moly: Stuck With Bad Luck

Lacy Lennon paces her living room in a thin silk robe, heart hammering while she waits for Olive Glass. The last week of wedding prep had been a nightmare of lost deposits and tangled seating charts, so seeing her best friend's name on the doorbell camera felt like rescue. Olive hands over the ring box with a grin, then ducks into the bathroom to wash travel dust from her hands. Lacy pops the lid and gapes at the cold sparkle inside, then tries to ease the platinum band free. The ring slips, bounces once, and rolls clean beneath the couch. She drops to her knees without thinking, shoves an arm under the frame, and the robe parts like a curtain. Now she's wedged—shoulders jammed, ass high and bare, cunt and asshole on full display. The fabric of the robe hangs uselessly from one hip. She hears the bathroom door open and Olive’s low laugh. Fingertips graze the curve of her ass. “Well, well,” Olive says, giving the cheek a playful squeeze. “Need a hand?” Lacy’s voice is muffled by carpet. “Just pull me out.” Olive’s palm slides lower, thumb tracing the seam of her lips. “Mmm. Tell you what. I help you get loose, you let me taste this pretty pussy first.” The suggestion lands like a punch of heat between her legs. The knot of panic loosens. She exhales against the floor. “Fine. Hurry.” Two fingers part her folds, cool air against wet skin. Olive circles her clit once, twice, then sinks a single finger inside. Lacy’s toes curl against the rug. Her ring finger, the one still missing its band, digs into the floorboards while her best friend works another digit in, twisting slowly. Everything else—the wedding, the stress, the stuck posture—blurs. The only thing that matters is Olive’s steady rhythm, the filthy, wet sound of her fingers driving deeper, and the fact that Lacy suddenly doesn’t mind being caught like this at all.