You can just choose your favorite pink hole

Two options, both glistening, both waiting — you press your fingertip against the first and feel the soft give of warm flesh beneath you.

She arches without being touched, a small involuntary roll of her hips that makes the choice feel urgent, personal, almost unfair to have to make.

One runs deeper, pulls tighter, holds you longer. The other flutters with every exhale she takes. You study the difference the way you'd choose a ripe fruit — by instinct, by hunger, by exactly what your hands already know they want.