When girls need more than balls
The gymnasium screamed energy, the kind that buzzed under your skin and made your fingers twitch.
The Volley Belles were one point away from snatching the regional championship, and the tension was thick enough to taste.
Sloane's blonde ponytail whipped around as she tracked the ball, her muscles coiled tight, ready to spring. Across from her, Blair's dark curls were plastered to her forehead with sweat, her eyes locked on the same target.
The opposing team's hitter launched herself into the air, her arm a blur as she smashed the ball down with brutal force. Sloane and Blair dove in unison, their bodies crashing to the polished floor in a desperate, synchronised sprawl. The ball ricocheted off Sloane's forearms, barely grazing Blair's fingertips before she redirected it upward with a sharp flick of her wrist.
Their setter didn't hesitate—she sent it soaring back over the net, a perfect assist. The kill shot landed with a resounding thud, and the hometown crowd erupted.
Sloane and Blair scrambled to their feet, colliding in a breathless, triumphant hug. The second their chests pressed together, something else sparked—something hotter than victory, sharper than adrenaline.
Blair's hands gripped Sloane's waist, fingers digging into the damp fabric of her jersey, and Sloane's breath hitched as she felt the heat of Blair's body seep through her own. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, neither moved.
Suddenly, their teammates surrounded them. All innocent girly hugs.
Posies, medallions, photographs and then time to hit the showers.
Sloane was all lather and fondle as the water streamed over her nipples and channelled through her puffy shaved V.
God Blair was hot. She fingered her slash wishing it was her fingers inside Blair's exposed folds.
In the adjacent shower cubicle, Blair, the slutty tramp was rimming her own starfish, her tongue sweeping her lips, thinking heaven must be the opportunity to spit into a gaped, gawked Sloane and then dip her tongue tip in her teammates tushy.
Exiting the cubicles, both with towels drying marshmallow buoyant titties, minds on another girl, more than towels tanged as limbs crisscrossed.
The heat from the court touch found its full expression. More likely, wet spaces between two sets of thighs, where dirty thoughts found execution through frantic, frenetic fingerwork, which now hit another desired body.
Fuck waiting for a signal or words. Approval was simple. Touch.
Touch connecting everywhere in an instance. Mouths locking. Fingers sliding into leaking, seeping, trickling excited pussies. Breasts bunting, bumping, knocking; and crashing into one another with a swaying, jiggle, joggle; that only girl on girl can appreciate and luxuriate in.
Their kiss was messy, all teeth and tongues, but neither of them cared. The gym faded because here was action, as Sloane's hands tangled in Blair's hair, pulling her closer, deeper.
Blair moaned into her mouth, her hips rolling forward instinctively, and Sloane could feel the hard press of her nipples.
All that existed was the way Blair's mouth burned against hers, the way her own pulse roared in her ears. They broke apart only when they had to breathe, chests heaving, lips glistening.
Blair's dark eyes were dark with want, her fingers still clutching at Sloane's arse.
"Locker bench," she panted. "Now."
They didn't bother with subtlety. Sloane grabbed Blair's hand and dragged her toward the wooden bench.
Sloane's hands sliding down to cup Blair's ass, pulling her flush against her. The heat between them was unbearable, the friction of their bodies; subtle soft skin, sliding on skin was almost enough to make her come right there.
Well, Sloane, nearly more so, as Blair's finger rimmed her balloon knot.
Blair broke the kiss. Guiding her teammate on to the bench, legs open.
In an instance she slotted her own pussy into a smooching embrace with Sloane's spread girly flaps. Mussy, crinkly, crumpled labia, and ridge lines of delight and puffy folds of bliss combined in a slick dazzle of carnal, buffeting sliding.
Exquisite, wet on wet, girly pussy touch. Double softness, double tingles, the twin ooze of tacky, viscous fem-dew.
Once again, their chests met with a sizzle, Blair's breasts pressing against Sloane's, their nipples hard and aching.
Pussies joined, boobs collaborating and tongues twirling around each other. The girly treble. Delight at every opening.
Yes, they each poked a wet finger, in the others butt hole. Nothing left unexplored.
"Fuck," Sloane gasped, her head falling back as Blair's fingers found her clit while their tacky pussies kept snogging and their excited flaps tangled across, over and inside one another, "Jesus, Blair— Oohh! You bitch! Oohh!"
Blair smirked, her thumb circling the sensitive bud with maddening precision.
"You like that, baby?" she murmured, her lips nibbling Sloane's ear.
"You like it when I touch your cute love bud?"
Sloane whimpered, her hips bucking against Blair's hand.
"Yes—god, yes—"
The fixating pleasure of tribbing is impossible to break. Done right, it instigates its own plan for apex release.
The wetness liberates, the convergence scales, the union of sensitivity releases any boundaries.The grind demands grinding, both ways. The push, the stick, the slick on slick, the insane delight of combined juicy, juicy sliding.
Exposed clit finding its mate, an uncovered erect bead. Explosion, detonation, and the pinnacle of intense shards of pleasure, pink pea to pinker jellybean. There is ultimate fem-touch.
Sloane dribbles spit down between their paired legs. Blair added to the mix. Suddenly they both contributed volleys of spit, to their conjoined fem-valleys.
Sodden pussies, squelching in a suck, suck, sucky harmony of bliss.
"Fuck, Blair—fuck, I'm gonna come—" Sloane gasped, her fingers tightening in Blair's hair.
"You bitch, I'm right there with you! Ooohh! Ooh! Fuck! Arragh!"
And Sloane a millisecond behind, "Orrghh!"
Satiated. Glutted to release. Lower lips tacked in mutual fem-glue.
Both inside that moment when girls don't give a fuck about any sort of balls.