Five Million Eight Hundred Thirteen Thousand Six Hundred Nine

Then she tickled—light, fluttering strokes over Lena’s pussy, the nylon a thin barrier, amplifying every touch. Sasha’s plum nails dug into Lena’s hips—guiding her, hard and fast, while Lena’s red claws raked Sasha’s thighs, leaving marks through the fishnets. She wiggled her fingers, still getting used to them, the weight, the shine, a little thrill sparking every time they clicked—*tap-tap*—against her thigh. Her nails were lethal—inch-and-a-half stilettos, painted a deep, glossy plum, sharp and wicked, glinting as she flexed them, a smirk curling her lips. She grabbed Lena’s hands, lifting them, inspecting those cherry-red claws. Lena stood by the bed, shy even after two months, tugging at the hem of her outfit. She slid the heel off, gripping it, and teased the pointed tip along Lena’s pussy—through the pantyhose, circling her clit. Her nails were the star—fresh from the salon, an inch long, almond-shaped, painted a glossy cherry red that popped against her pale skin.