The music starts again. A happy yell from the crowd. It takes mere seconds for the dancing to commence again, and for her to pull them back to her, her hips pressing to Orhan’s, her arse against Jeroen.
And now, their hard-ons press into her. Jeroen’s sits perfectly where her arse cheeks meet, and Orhan’s nudges her hip bone, swelling on the line of it.
“Naughty boys,” she says. They all laugh.
She runs her hands up Orhan’s back, bracing his shoulder blades. She draws him back a fraction, so she can see more of him, more of his chest.
She is rewarded for that: Orhan’s collar is open, revealing his clavicle. The smooth ridge of bone beneath skin begs to be traced, and she bends her head, and does so with her tongue. She can taste the salt of his sweat, smell the spiciness of his aftershave, the musky maleness of him. Orhan’s movement stutters, but only for a moment; he adapts to her careful tongue and from behind her lashes she can – and it so pleases her – see his lips quirking and twitching.
Jereon’s face falls against her shoulder. With the bulk of him bending over her, it is like being drawn into a cloak, being covered. His face turns, and suddenly, his teeth sink into the side of her neck, lower down, closer to her shoulder. She gasps, pulling up from Orhan’s chest. It allows him to kiss her, on her cheek beneath her ear.
Then he finds her ear, and with a slow, delicate bite, nibbles at her ear lobe. She quivers, and when his tongue flicks out to lick as well as bite, desire swells in her chest, and seeps around her body.
“Oh God…” she whispers.
Her cunt once more begins to drip.
Next: 50. Hem
Image found on flickr, by Miranda Granche, used under the Creative Commons License.