Orhan tugs at her curls a few more times, and the lets go, laying his hand over her mound, and makes a shushing noise in her eyes, a long, drawn out sound, a wind whistling through the mountains. The music around them changes, and she feels jostled. She looks around briefly, and sees the dance floor has swelled, if that were possible, since they came onto it.
More people, she realises, not having thought it before, to see her come undone. She’s never done that before, so publicly, and she wonders how it will feel when it happens.
Then she giggles to herself. She’s assuming Orhan can make it happen for her. Maybe he won’t—
Her thoughts on that swing when his moves his hand down, splaying fingers, to cup her cunt so his nails can trace the folds of her labia.
He moves them like he’s peeling her, pushing her lips aside like the slow stripping of a bed, and pulling them back, nail dancing along, sometimes pinching softly. She hadn’t truly appreciated his nails before, the flat of them on her skin a simple distraction. But now, her teeth sink into her lip to stop from moaning. No one could possibly hear her over the music, but they’d see her eyes and mouth, her straining face.
What feels like his middle finger splashes at the centre of her cunt, the opening, where all of her cum is gathering. His touch releases it, and she tries to press her legs together to stop it running, but his hand keeps her legs just enough apart so she drips, and cannot stop it. Her inner thigh is wet, sticky like honey, and she finds herself trying to bury her face in Jeroen’s chest, cat like, wanting to hide herself and brace the oncoming storm.
Next: 54. Throat
Image found on flickr, by Elina Linina, used under the Creative Commons License.