Her Breast Interests At Heart

Dee comes home dead tired. Kimmy's already parked on the couch, knees pulled tight, eyes like she's been rehearsing her lines for hours. "I want bigger tits," she blurts, "and I want you to do it." Dee sets her keys down hard. She could shut this down, but she doesn't. She moves in, slides Kimmy's top off like it's routine, cups those small, warm breasts, thumbs grazing the stiff nipples until Kimmy bites her lip. Dee circles them, weighs them, pinches. Everything's smooth and real under her practiced hands. Then she straightens. "They don't need changing," she says. Her voice drops lower. She leans in, tongue flicking over one tight bud, drawing it into her mouth. She sucks slow, deep, sucking hard enough to make Kimmy moan, hand braced on the back of the couch. Her teeth graze, her free palm slides beneath the other breast, lifting it to meet her lips. She feasts—wet, noisy, deliberate—until Kimmy's back arches and her fingers twist in Dee's hair. Every suck turns hungrier, every squeeze rougher, and Dee's breath is hot between her girl's tits as she drags her tongue up the valley and back down. She bites, soothes, teases until Kimmy's whimpering, hips rolling, panties soaked. Dee never breaks eye contact. She's proving a point, and the demonstration is filthy, wet, and far from over.