Andrea And Melinda Smoke The Pink Cigars

Two east European girls, Andrea and Melinda, burn with need in the half-light of a bare apartment. Blonde Melinda drops to her knees first, spits on her fist and works her hand up the shaft until her cheeks hollow out. She gags fast, throat tight and wet, like she’s starving for it. Andrea sprawls on the couch behind her, legs open, two fingers curled inside herself, the noise slick and dirty each time she jerks her hand. Her breath comes ragged; she keeps her eyes fixed on Melinda’s bobbing head and moans low, every sound rolling up from deep in her gut. The man pushes Melinda’s forehead all the way down until her nose mashes his belly, holding her there while he twitches inside her throat. She splutters, mascara streaking, yet her tongue keeps fluttering. Andrea spreads wider, frantic, three fingers now, hips pumping up to meet them, wet pussy glistening under the cheap bulb overhead. He finally pulls out, threads slick with Melinda’s spit, and turns his attention to Andrea. He folds her knees back and shoves in all at once, splitting her open hard. The couch jerks against the wall, every thrust a loud smack. Melinda crawls closer, still salivating, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, then drags her tongue up Andrea’s trembling thigh so she can taste everything happening. Andrea’s moans crest into hard-edged screams as the man hammers deeper, nails biting her own calves. Melinda bites her lower lip, sliding two slender fingers back into her mouth for taste and needing something else there again. Both girls glance up at him at the same time: no surrender in their eyes, just raw competition over who’ll take the load harder, who’ll sound filthier, who’ll wear the evidence longest. The night stretches tight and mean, and neither is in any hurry to call it.