A Lapdance To Remember

Rachael paces the kitchen like a cornered animal, tension rolling off her shoulders. Emma watches her stepmother from the doorway and pushes for answers. Bachelorette party talk slips out—Rachael heard strippers would be on the menu and she hasn’t a clue how to sit still through a lapdance without combusting. Emma’s first instinct is to put the fear to bed, yet reassurance isn’t enough. She offers a test run right here, right now: herself on Rachael’s lap, slow and steady. Rachael hesitates, then nods. Emma climbs over, grinds down in lazy circles, palms sliding over bare thighs and hips. Innocent at first, but every rock of her hips tightens the room. Rachael’s breath catches; wetness betrays her. Emma feels the heat, answers by pressing closer—tits brushing, mouths near enough to taste—until Rachael’s hands grip hard and hungry. Panic flashes, but Emma stays, lips parting in invitation. “Let me help you relax,” she whispers, and fingers drift between Rachael’s legs. Kisses turn hungry, tongues tangle, then Emma sinks to the floor, spreads Rachael open, licks long and slow until every nervous edge melts into shaking pleasure. Best rehearsal either of them could ask for.