Beyonce Knows Best

"I'm gonna cum...I'm gonna cum.....oohhh..ooohhh..OOOHHHHHHH... OOHHHHHHHHFFFUUUCCCCKKK...YEEEESSSSSFFUUUCCKKKKKK," Beyonce's voice rose from a gutteral moan into a full blown scream as she came, rising over the thumping bass of the music on TV but not loud enough thankfully to penetrate the thick walls of the family room and stir the Secret Service agents from their post.

Having pushed Beyonce past a sexual boundary the twenty-something pop diva never comprehended, Michelle slowly leaned back and admired her work, studying every tick and movement the woman below made with her drunken and bleary eyes.

"Oh my.....ahhh.....ahhh....wow..that was ..the..most.....incredible...," Beyonce's voice faded in and out. "...Where... did..you... learn...?"

Michelle ignored Beyonce's stab at a question for the moment, savoring the sight of the woman's quivering thighs as she slowly pulled her four fingers free from Beyonce's swollen pussy. Tracing those greasy fingertips tenderly around the entire expanse of Beyonce's vulva, she watched millions of tiny aftershocks explode through the singer's lovely frame.

"Thirsty?" Michelle coyly asked. "Here..you can finish off the rest of my champagne."

Handing Beyonce the Cristal remaining in her glass, Michelle watched proudly as Beyonce downed a few sips before laying her head back down like an exhausted and disoriented child.

"On our first trip to the Middle East...one of the wives of an Egyptian delegate offered to show me a few new tricks while our Husbands were in a meeting," Mrs. Obama went back and answered Beyonce's previous question. "I'm glad you enjoyed it as much as I did."

"Wow.....," Beyonce shuddered once more, her tits swaying majestically across her chest with each famished breath.

Taking once more sip of champagne, Beyonce nearly handed it back to Michelle before the fragment of a much more delicious idea crept into her head. Trading the glass from her right hand to her left, Beyonce eased her head up from the sofa and pressed her right palm against the center of the First Lady's chest.

"Now you lay back," she told Mrs. Obama, and within a few seconds, Michelle's head was resting on the opposite armrest.

Shifting her weight forward, Beyonce once again nearly blacked out from the dearth of blood flowing to her brain. Settling herself as she eased closer to Michelle, Beyonce pressed her hands between Mrs. Obama's thighs, playfully nudging them apart as she braced her right knee on the floor. Her own pussy still pulsing from the workout Michelle had just given it, Beyonce pushed the hem of the First Lady's New Year's gown all the way up to her waist then leaned in for a closer look.

Grazing her fingers over the simmering warmth, Beyonce wasted little time jabbing her fingers inside Michelle's midnight blue panties before sliding them down her thighs. Watching the drunk woman below rut her behind off the cushions to help in the endeavor, it wasn't long before Beyonce had the First Lady's musky scented underwear resting in her hands.

Inhaling the intense arousal Michelle had seeped over the previous few minutes, Beyonce rubbed Mrs. Obama's panties into the soupy mire of her own sex, coating the silky lace in both women's combined juices before laying them on the armrest beside the First Lady's head.

Unlike Beyonce, who'd Brazilian waxed her pubic area two days earlier, Michelle had a small tuft of dark black hair dotting the top, essentially acting as a beacon leading to the ripe and glistening folds of her now puffed labia.

Immediately smothering her right hand down over Michelle's pussy, Beyonce slithered her fingers through the feathery folds until Mrs. Obama's juices were bubbling between her softly slicing digits.

"Uhh..Uhhh.....UHHH..UUHHHH," Michelle groaned, rocking her head back and forth against the armrest just as Beyonce had only minutes earlier.

Easing forward, Beyonce rolled the tip of her tongue up the inside of Mrs. Obama's left thigh until it grazed over the entrance to the First Lady's sizzling slit. A stark tremor bristled through Michelle's nervous system the instant Beyonce's lips pressed down into her tangy fissure. Within seconds, the same mouth that had sang dozens of Top 10 hits had fastened itself tight around the molten glow of Michelle Obama's aching vagina.

It would have been as easy as pie to kneel there at the foot of the sofa and eat the First Lady to completion, but given the gravity of what Michelle had done to her, Beyonce wanted to come up with something special of her own.

Whimpering noticeably when Beyonce pulled backwards for a moment, Michelle watched as her friend reached for the unfinished glass of Cristal sitting beside her. Assuming Beyonce was simply wetting her whistle for what she was about to do, Mrs. Obama literally yelped when her lover poured a good bit of the champagne straight down on Michelle's exposed belly. In less than a second, a fizzing river was rushing over the First Lady's already sopping cunt before pooling on the cushions of the expensive sofa below her crotch.

Holding her pose for a few seconds to brazenly admire her work, Beyonce sat the glass down on the floor before leaning her face back between Michelle's thighs. Caressing her mouth down on the very spot she spilled the liquod just below Mrs. Obama's belly button, Beyonce progressively slurped her lips downward, following the trail of Cristal until her mouth was once again glued to the First Lady's champagne laced vagina.

Slicing her tongue between the slick and still fizzing folds, Beyonce heartily ingested the combination of Cristal and Michelle's sweet juices for the next ten minutes or so, eagerly pushing the First Lady up to release several times just before pulling her back. Sensing what her friend was trying to do, Michelle passionately buried her fingers in Beyonce's hair, knowing her orgasm, when it finally came, would be well worth the wait.

Keeping one hand braced on the back of Beyonce's head, Michelle eventually used the other to roll the straps of her evening gown down, along with her strapless bra until her breasts flopped free across her chest. Using her long, manicured nails to tweak and twist at her grape sized nipples, Michelle slouched into the corner of the sofa, wrapped her calves around each of Beyonce's shoulders and allowed the hungry woman to feed from the trough of her drenched womanhood.

Darting her tongue across every nook and cranny of Michelle's vaginal face until it bloomed like a flower before her eyes, Beyonce patted both hands tenderly down on the flarred labia before clamping her lips around the First Lady's aroused clit.

"WWHHHHOOOOAAAA," she heard Mrs. Obama howl from above, followed quickly by a low and rolling guttural moan when Beyonce began massaging the billions of nerve endings of her clitoris with her tongue and front teeth.

Looking up from her perch to see Michelle's head dance around as if it has suddenly been filled with helium, Beyonce gave her a sly wink before jabbing her index and middle fingers into Michelle's spasming womb. Scouring the digits up inside her, it wasn't long before Michelle's backside lurched up from the sofa.

"SSHHHHHIIIITTTTTTTTT... MUUTHHHERRRFUUUCCCKKKKK... OHHHGAAAWWWDDDDYESSS... DONT STOP!!!" Beyonce heard the First Lady cry several times.

Knowing she'd found Mrs. Obama's G-spot, Beyonce proceeded to swipe the tips of her fingers across that precious real estate several more times until a visceral flow of vaginal froth was cascading down over her plunging hand.

The growing empowerment Beyonce felt from Michelle's reaction coursed through her veins as she simultaneously rolled the First Lady's clit and sadistically pressed her internal trigger. Her own pussy flaring with life as she pillaged Mrs. Obama's cunt, chills radiated down Beyonce's spine as Michelle slunk deeper down on the sofa.

"Stick your whole hand inside me," Michelle finally begged in a voice more primal than human, knowing she could cum from what Beyonce was already doing but desperate for her friend to push her all the way to sexual oblivion.

"Just like that woman did in Egypt?" Beyonce peeled her mouth away and asked.

"Yes," Mrs. Obama hissed. "Fist me before I die!"

Frozen for the moment as she contemplated Michelle's desperate plea, Beyonce's crotch vibrated with life, a clear reminder of how bone jarringly good it felt having the exact same thing done to her only minutes earlier. Steadying herself on her knees, Beyonce finally decided to plunge fist first over the edge of decency.

Adding her ring finger and pinky to the two already shoved inside Mrs. Obama's swampslick quim, Beyonce looked on in wonder as the First Lady's velvet vaginal grip accepted her cautious onslaught.

"Now twist it and make it into a fist," Michelle looked straight down and urged, the drunkness heavy in her eyes only moments earlier now replaced by a base and blinding glare of want.

Slowly rotating her hand inside Michelle until she could see the bottom of her palm, Beyonce carefully tried clenching her fingers together. Given the cramped constraints, Beyonce struggled to make a fist into a ball, but with each passing second of trying she could see the metamorphosis taking place throughout Mrs. Obama's body. Beyonce fought to keep her elbow steady seeing the way the First Lady's eyeballs bulged, and her already aroused nipples plumped even more as she finally made a complete fist with her submerged right hand.

Forced even closer to the edge of the sofa when the heels of Michelle's intertwined legs pressed hard into her shoulder blades, Beyonce thought for a moment of asking if what she was doing was hurting Mrs. Obama, but when she saw the look of unmitigated determination in the older woman's frighteningly focused gaze, she knew her only choice was to carry on.

The lurid secretions of Michelle's gouged pussy dripping freely down the inside of her right arm, Beyonce rocked all the way forward and planted a kiss on the center of the First Lady's smooth and quivering belly. Taking one last deep breath, Beyonce steadied her wrist before jabbing her closed fist upwards into Michelle Obama's seemingly elastic womb.

Miraculously, Beyonce watched as her buried hand disappeared into the catacombs of the writhing woman's pelvic cave.

"JJEEZZZUUZZZZZZ...CCHHRRRIIIISSSSTTTTT," the air rumbled with a diesel whine from Michelle's lungs as she locked her ankles in a death grip around her lover's back.

Michelle's pussy distended nearly beyond recognition around her wrist, Beyonce felt her own cunt dripping with angst as she proceeded with such an improbable act. Pawing at the rabid burn between her own thighs with her free hand, Beyonce continued to twist and turn her right fist upwards until Mrs. Obama was bucking uncontrollably below.

"What if The First Lady of the United States has a fucking seizure right here on the sofa....or bursts down the damn seams....how the Hell am I going to explain THAT to the Secret Service guys outside?" the last bastion of Beyonce's rationale thought chided, committing the entire unreal image before her to eternal memory.

The longer the unnatural coupling carried on however, the more Beyonce began to feel at ease. Keeping a laser sharp eye on Michelle's every move, Beyonce could see a strange and eerie transformation of calm taking over. Mrs. Obama's breath slowed as she accepted the invading presence, and it wasn't long after Michelle situated herself just right that Beyonce simply had to hold her closed fist in place so the First Lady could literally rock her crotch up and down just like a gigantic cock was pile-driving her from below.

"Dear God," Beyonce mouthed over and over seeing Mrs. Obama's inebriated body move in such glorious and perfect rhythm under such brutal conditions.

Rubbing her own clit in slow, churning circles with her left hand as she continued with her primal chore with her right, every so often Beyonce would slide her left hand forward to rub Michelle's clitoris, causing the First Lady's already laboring vaginal muscles to quake each time she did.

"MMMMMMMMMMMMMM........UUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH," Mrs. Obama bellowed incessantly, the only reference for Beyonce being the sound a woman might make during childbirth.

Through it all, Michelle kept her thighs spread for Beyonce to do what she had to do.

Continually having to remind herself that all of this was real, Beyonce repeatedly shook the haze of disbelief from her eyes before resuming her carnal task. Five minutes in, the smooth mocha skin of her entire forearm was saturated in Michelle's glistening vaginal sheen.

Before she even realized it, Beyonce leaned forward and placed her long and angular tongue on the inside of her right elbow. Swirling it upwards as if licking a melting ice cream cone, Beyonce lapped the drizzling arousal seeping from Michelle's impaled sex until she closed her lips directly over the inflamed nub of the First Lady's clit.

Looking down through her dazed and dreamy eyes, Michelle's entire world exploded in neon brilliance the instant Beyonce simultaneously suckled her lips around her clit and pushed her vagina to it's very limits with her embedded fist.

"WWWUUUUAAAHHHH...WWUUAAAHHHHHH...WWUUAAHHHHHHHHHH," the First Lady cried out, her head snapping to the right so she could muffle her screams in the leather cushion of the sofa before they filtered down every cavernous hall of the White House.

Feeling Michelle's vaginal grip flex and fire as if her hand had been snared by a starving boa constrictor, Beyonce anxiously frigged her own cunt to completion with her free hand until her languid juices were dripping down her thighs to the shag carpet below.

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It took several minutes for the drunk and exhausted women to disengage, and by the time Beyonce had pulled her throbbing right hand free from Mrs. Obama's mangled quim, the two women could barely keep their eyes open.

Nothing really could be said as they passed the remaining sips of the Cristal back and forth, and just as she sat her empty glass down, the blackness of sleep overtook her. Half naked and spent herself, Beyonce followed suit, the two women spending the rest of New Year's morning cuddled up and snuggling in front of the blaring big screen TV.

THE END