Blaming Her

Amirah had it locked in her mind before she even opened her mouth. Bring someone new home, someone fresh, and hand her wife the thrill she kept talking about when the lights were off. Risky as hell, but the itch wouldn’t stop. She picked Zazie—blonde, sharp, with a grin that promised trouble—and made the call. Drinks, heat, the heavy thump of the club bass, and three bodies pressed too close on the dance floor. Nobody needed much convincing to take it upstairs. Sheets barely cooled, mouths met. Slow, tasting, testing. Anissa let her tongue slide against Zazie’s, no jealousy yet, just heat. They set the word—yellow—if the line got crossed. That was the last soft thing anybody said. Zazie’s lips trailed down until toes brushed tongues and wet heat replaced laughter. Pussy to mouth, toes in teeth, everything slick and desperate. Amirah watched her wife come alive under someone else’s tongue and the sight burned straight to her clit. Then scissoring started. Blonde and brunette locked legs, hips snapping, the mattress giving like it wanted in on the action. Anissa reached for Amirah and got air. Fingers scratched skin. Moans choked short. Yellow. The word hit like a slap, cracked the air open. Zazie’s moan guttered out. Amirah’s dirty little plan sat there, throbbing, unfinished, while three hearts knocked loud enough to shake the headboard.