Playfully, she surges closer to Jeroen, as if swaying away from Orhan’s twining fingers. The bulk of him is magnificent: it’s the embrace of a tiger, only barely tamed. Jeroen laughs, and he bends down, takes her lips between his own. It’s hot and sweet, melted chocolate that could burn your tongue if you weren’t careful where it moved in your mouth. His tongue laces along her own, and her stomach turns with the heat of anticipation.
She’s realises she’s forgotten Orhan’s hand when it snakes straight under her dress, and his fingers find the crease where her leg starts below her hip, that line that leads down towards her cunt. She feels his chest murmur with a chuckle; he now must know she’s not wearing underwear. Jeroen’s tongue leaves her mouth, and Orhan’s lips move to her ear.
“Bad girl,” he whispers, and kisses her neck again. “And you know what happens to bad girls…”
“Yes…” The word comes out a pleased hiss.
“Well, you will have to wait for it.”
His fingers dip down the crease, going to the point where she feels him brush her pubic hair. But he slides back up the line, returning to circle her hip bone. His touch is steady and firm, not delicate as before. It’s as if he’s painting something there, leaving a trail of his own making. She sighs, her head falling against Jeroen’s chest. Jeroen’s hand up comes to cradle her head, and Orhan’s finger now slides down further, almost between her legs, linger just near her labia, near the folds of her cunt that are wet and wanting, but he still doesn’t touch it. Instead, he begins to rub up and down, a short, teasing distance.
Jeroen holds her there, at the mercy of Orhan’s finger.
Next: 52. Curls
Image found on flickr, by Jessie Jacobson, used under the Creative Commons License.