In her ear, Orhan purrs, the smug cat, “You liked that.”
She can only nod. Her body is still shaking as his hand leaves her cunt, and scoops under her thighs.
“Good. And now, it is our turn.”
And in front of her, Jeroen’s mouth turns wicked, and he kisses her, tongue filling her mouth. When he pulls back, he braces her, holding her still for Orhan.
Orhan presses into her so her dress rises at the back, and his jeans rub on her bare arse. His hands glide up from her thighs, along her cheeks, and part them, so his cock rests as much as it can between them. He drops his forehead to her shoulder, and he groans. It is like he’s concentrating, focusing his all on achieving climax. She wonders if he wants it over quickly, or if his cock is just wanting to burst.
He starts to roll into her, an undulating wave. At first its smooth, but it grows She thinks of the word used for this action: dry hump. To her it sounds crass, belittling, and now, inaccurate. Her wetness runs on the inside of her dress, and though she can feel Orhan’s cock clothed in the thick material rubbing on her, burning as he speeds up, sweat from his forehead drips onto her skin, runs down the front of her chest and under her dress, and his hot breath mists her shoulder.
Sex will never be dry. It is always wet, and sticky, full of the fluids that make someone human.
Then, Orhan comes. Three abrupt jerks into her body. That moment of stiffening embodies not just his cock, but every limb, every muscle. His body is, for a single moment, still as a statue.
Until he pants, gasps and grabs her hips for support as he shudders the last of it.
Next: 58. Lift
Image found on flickr, by Andy B, used under the Creative Commons License.