The Photographer

Budapest. Zazie sat alone on a cold bench, legs apart, skirt riding up. Wind picked up. She was fishing for something—anything—when Christina cruised past, eyes sharp, scanning like a buyer at a cheap market. She found what she wanted. They talked deals, money flashes between words. Christina promised a quick shoot. Brought her home. Smell of money turned into something thicker, wetter. Door clicks shut. Christina steps out in black lace that barely covers her heavy tits and shaved cunt. Zazie freezes, soda can sweating in her hand. Music clicks on. Christina starts rolling her hips, slow, filthy. Pulls Zazie in. Hands low on the girl's waist, dragging her close. They grind. Christina's palm cups Zazie’s small breast, thumb drags across her nipple through the thin top. Other hand slips under the skirt, fingers stroking the cotton over her slit. Zazie jerks back, cheeks red, asks about the photos. Wants out. Wants paid. She poses. Arched back. Legs spread. Christina shoots, but her stare burns hotter than the lens. The camera drops. Christina pushes Zazie onto the couch, yanks the panties aside, and buries her mouth between those soft lips. Tongue working, fingers holding her open. Zazie moans, fists in Christina’s hair, then swings around so they can 69—mouth on clit, hips rocking, wet sounds filling the room. They flip and grind, tongues everywhere, fingers knuckle-deep, chasing it until both shake and come, slick and loud, mouths locked like they’re trying to swallow each other whole.