Someday You'll Be A Bride, Too

Kristen stumbles back from the wedding, heels kicking off at the door, her bridesmaid dress riding up her thighs. Blossom’s still in her own frothy number, cheeks flushed from dancing and champagne. Kristen teases her stepdaughter about dodging the bouquet toss, expecting a giggle, but Blossom gets quiet, admitting she’ll probably never marry—not when she’s carrying a torch for someone who could never want her back. Kristen presses, soft at first, then sharper when Blossom finally cracks: it’s Kristen herself she’s aching for. The confession lands like a punch, but it knocks the sense right out of her too, because the truth is she’s been staring at that tight little body for months, pretending she wasn’t wet every time Blossom brushed past her in the hallway. Now there’s no pretending left. Kristen grabs Blossom by the waist, yanks her close, and shoves her tongue between those pretty lips. The silk bridesmaid dresses come off fast, buttons popping, straps sliding down bare shoulders, until both of them are naked on the living-room couch—Kristen’s heavier tits pressed against Blossom’s smaller ones, her thick thighs straddling the younger girl’s lap. Kristen grinds her dripping cunt against Blossom’s, their clits catching on each slick pass, juices smearing across skin. She gets two fingers knuckle-deep inside Blossom and fucks her slow and filthy, thumb circling the swollen clit until the girl’s thighs shake. Blossom begs, “More,” voice cracking, so Kristen drops to her knees, spreads those smooth lips with her thumbs, and eats her out like she’s starving—tongue fucking deep, nose mashed against the soft mound, slurping every drop that pours out. Blossom comes hard, thighs clamped around Kristen’s head, but Kristen doesn’t stop. She keeps licking, gentle now, drawing out the aftershocks until Blossom is panting and pulling her up for another desperate kiss, tasting herself on Kristen’s tongue. They trade places, Blossom sliding down to return the favor, sucking Kristen’s clit while three fingers pump in and out of her soaking hole. Kristen’s back arches, one hand fisting Blossom’s hair, the other pinching her own nipple as she comes with a low, guttural moan that fills the quiet house. Later, tangled together on the rug, sweat cooling, Kristen traces lazy circles over Blossom’s breast and murmurs that maybe catching the bouquet isn’t the only way to get hitched—she just found a whole new reason to stay home.