A new song starts, a quicker, more rolling beat, and Orhan’s hands drift further down, now emphatically on her hips, fingers splaying, digging in. The line of politeness has now been crossed, and sex can be the only intent. She smiles, and in time with the music, turns in her centre spot, and slides her arms around Orhan’s neck, resting her wrists over each other. It brings his smiling face closer, so their noses are nearly touching. Her breasts meet his chest, her nipples pushing against the material, eager to rub against his muscles, and behind her, Jeroen closes the gap, and now nothing could pass between the three of them, not even air.
She’s never been good at just moving her hips, but she tries, gently gyrating them. The two men pressing against her mean she’s restricted, but it creates a tender friction. Orhan moves in counterpoint with her, and she can feel his jeans rubbing through her dress. Not on her clit, but on the pubic bone, which almost serves as a shield over her clit. She senses it, not quite ready, not quite there to be excited and teased. Close though; the stirring in her stomach is quickening as she continues to dance almost solely with her hips.
Then, from behind, Jeroen slips his hands upwards, and they sit under her breasts. She bites her lip, holding in a sigh. Orhan smirks, and winks at Jeroen over her shoulder, upwards to accommodate his height.
“You move very… nicely,” Jeroen says, his voice low, so much that she more feels his words than hears them. She is about to respond, when he glides the edge of his large thumbs along the underside of her breasts.
And swiftly, she wishes that she was naked, and her clit begins to hum.
Next: 48. Wait…
Image found on flickr, by Pat Pilon, used under the Creative Commons License.