Under Orhan’s fingers, her clit is a tiny pulse of pleasure. His touch is so precise that it hits the tender under hood of it, a light bouncing motion at first. She sighs each time, and it sounds more like panting, so quick and rapid. Each touch both heightens her awareness of her body and makes the whole room blurry. All of the pleasure is buzzing at the base of her skull, wanting to break out, wanting release, wanting to be unleashed into the room and let everything about her go and escape from her body.
Her clit, she’s aware, is less like a tiny ball and more like a thick needle. It seems Orhan knows this very well, for now, he rolls it a little, but mostly, he rubs down its short length, coaxing it, making it harder and yet more tender. And like a needle on thread, the sensations shoot through her, binding her nerves at the same time as fraying them. In her shoes, her toes point and flex, and she wants to fucking scream.
At her jaw and throat, Jeroen chuckles.
Her hands fall further down Jeroen’s back, sliding to his arse. She digs her nails in, feeling them firm, something to stop her from falling over. She wants to get some purchase on their bodies, beyond just holding them to keep herself up right. She wants to grab more than buttocks. But to move, to adjust so she can do that, would mean leaving the humming, burring space where all the particles of her skin are alight; the slightest shift now would break the rise crescendo within her.
She’s almost there when Jeroen frames his thumb and forefinger around her chin and forces her to look up at him.
Next: 56. Energy
Image found on flickr, by Antonio Fidalgo, used under the Creative Commons License.