The Cheerleader

Dr. Kat Dior takes one look at cheerleader Kennedy Kressler and calls it a groin strain. No surgery needed, just some deep-tissue work. Kennedy sighs in relief until Kat climbs onto the table, oil bottle strapped to her hip like a six-shooter. She strips the girl out of that tiny cheer uniform, peels away the polka-dot panties, and finds the tight little mound between her thighs. Kennedy’s tiny tits bounce free, nipples already stiff. Kat peels off her own top, full, round breasts spilling out, stomach flat and tanned. She asks about Kennedy’s football-player boyfriend. Six months in and already boring. Kat’s fingers slide in from behind, slick and curious. Kennedy tries to say no, but the protest melts when Kat’s tongue finds her nipples, then travels south. That tongue works magic on her clit, wet and wicked. Kennedy moans she shouldn’t, but nobody’s watching, and the heat feels too good. She gives in, burying her face between Kat’s legs, licking hungrily while her own orgasm rips through her in long, shuddering waves.