Angela leaned into me, whispering hoarsely against my ear: "I almost came three times… just from walking… my clit's so fucking sensitive now… if I move wrong, I'm gonna squirt right here in front of them…"
Mira sat across the fire—eyes locked on Angela's lap, on the obvious wet spot, on the way Angela's thighs kept twitching. She didn't speak. But her breathing was fast, shallow, fingers twisting in the grass, thighs rubbing together in tiny, desperate circles.
Lisa tossed another log on the fire, sparks flying up.
The night stretched out—warm flames crackling low, wet denim clinging to Angela's thighs, her bare pussy leaking steadily beneath the ruined crotch of her jeans, and Mira watching across the fire like she was starving.
Her eyes kept flicking to Angela's lap, to the dark, spreading stain on the front of her pants, to the way Angela's hips kept twitching in tiny, involuntary circles every time she shifted.
