Green Thumbs

Izzy Wilde and Hime Marie can’t get away, but they make it work. Their green-stuff habit always pulls them back together. Overalls cling damp, hems undone. Both wear nothing up top. Sweat along the ribs. One tilts the can, the other leans in. They smirk, eye-fucking across the leaves. Eyes stay locked until they pop the straps. Water arcs in cold darts. Nipples snap tight. Petals drag over the puckered flesh, leaving sticky trails. They inch closer, breathing faster. Then mouths crash. Teeth click. Tongues slide deep. One shoves the other against the trellis, hips snapping forward, bodies grinding through undone denim. The plants sway above them as heat takes over.