“Your body’s tensing,” Jeroen says. “I can feel you, you’re almost there. I want to see it in your eyes when it happens.”
She can barely hear him, but his lips make the words clear, even in under the light and shadows of the floor. She nods into his hold, her chin on his fingers. Orhan’s hand is writhing under her dress, and she stills, waiting for it to arrive.
Everyone will see it. See her. See her convulse and spasm and moan. Or will they just take her for a dancer lost in the music?
But when she comes, she doesn’t care about that, or anything else. All she feels is the energy, directed along the restricted lines of her body. It starts almost at the top of her head, in the tips of her nails digging into Jeroen, before the burst from her clit singes her nerves from the centre out.
Her knees first buckle, then tremble. She’d fall if not held up by the two men. Orhan’s hand keeps stroking her, keeps the orgasm going. It’s longer than the last. Her chest heaves, the only part of her body that can brace her from the impact of it. She forces her lips together so she won’t scream, but she can’t shut her eyes. She can’t meet Jeroen’s: she senses them staring at her, but she couldn’t see them anyway if she tried, for her vision runs, a collision of light and scorching pleasure. The music is drowned out as the blood beats in her ears. She is pure light, sound and motion.
When it’s over, she shivers. Orhan kisses her neck, a startling balm on her skin. His fingers on her cunt are still moving, but she only has to brush his hand for him to cease.
Next: 57. Roll
Image found on flickr, by Stephen Dann, used under the Creative Commons License.