Sinn and I are back together, hungry for another belly button binge the moment we’re alone. I start with her, because I can’t resist the way her stomach rises and falls when she’s waiting for my mouth. I lift her shirt slowly, expose her navel, and trace circles around it until she’s whining for contact. My tongue dips into her belly hole first — warm, wet, sliding in and out while she shivers under me. I spit into her navel, filling it just enough to make everything slick, then push my finger inside, teasing deeper with soft thrusts. My tongue returns, sloppy and needy, lapping her belly button until spit pools and drips down her tummy. When she’s worked up and panting, we press our stomachs together, rubbing belly to belly, navel to navel, grinding our cores like we re trying to make them kiss. We hump our bellies against each other, skin warm, navels slick from spit, sliding and grinding in a messy delicious rhythm. Then Sinn gets impatient and flips the script. She pulls my top up
Kid Jamaica, Nick Manning, Rio Mariah, Princyany
