“Good,” Jeroen says. “And now—”
He cuts himself off as he lifts her off her feet. Orhan’s hands still on her hips, helping Jeroen, though he barely needs it, his grip across her back is firm. But Orhan’s hands reach under her thighs, and he holds her legs so she is not quite straddling Jeroen, but almost flush with him. She hooks her hands around his neck, grabbing his back.
He bucks against her. She moans, her head titling to one side. For the first time, she sees people watching them, a couple who stand like a pair of goldfish, gaping round mouths not closing, bubbles of bewilderment and shock emerging from their mouths. She can only smile, feeling her mouth indulgent, and swing her head back to Jeroen.
The inside of her dress is growing stickier, but then, Jeroen tugs it out from between them so her cunt is right on his body, right on his jeans. She moans again.
Jeroen continues to pound against her. The two men are strong: she’s a rag doll in his arms, floppy as Jeroen rolls against her, her wet and tender cunt rubbing on the length of his denim-covered cock. Her clit starts to tingle again, starling her to a cry. She lunges forward, sinking her teeth onto Jeroen’s shoulder, her cheek brushing his jaw. He will come before she can again, she knows, and doesn’t care, the murmuring between her legs is worth the knowledge that he will come because of her.
When it happens, she knows from the way he locks his jaw, the way she can feel his teeth grind under her cheek, the way his fingers clench that bit too tight. He squeezes her chest, leaving her momentarily breathless, and his judders on the spot, hissing ‘yessss’ between his teeth.
Next: 59. Hasty Exit
Image found on flickr, by Brandon Fick, used under the Creative Commons License.