As she kneels between her legs, Torrance wonders if Isis has ever held a gun.
The thought excites her and she finds herself grasping onto Isis's thighs tighter, pushing her tongue against her clit just a little more.
Later, when she reflects on it, she's not certain if it was the fear that drove her closer to the edge...
Or if it was the novelty.
Those barely-doused-in-cream-coffee thighs clenching under her pale (too pale by far) fingers while her whisper-thin blonde hair gets tangled with thick black crinkly hair. The scent of cocoa butter and woman drowning out her weak Gap perfume as Isis slowly rocked back and forth on Torrance's tongue -- those French tutoring sessions paying off, apparently.
Of course Rancho Carne preached diversity. Of course the Shipmans had made clear that all women were sisters, all men were brothers, all people were human. But the tall proud creature before her -- the goddess softly moaning through teeth biting against lips...
The exoticism overwhelmed her and when Isis came (hard, soft, it doesn't register when your head is nearly crushed between National Cheerleading Championship-winning thighs), it took all of Torrance's strength, resolve, and spirit to not begin cheering.
Despite how well RCH's pom-poms would look against glowing brown skin.