Tag: serial

Throat

A Night in a Year: 54. Throat

Her neck is only arched back for a moment, before Jeroen swoops down on her exposed neck like a vampire,, but instead of bites, he licks and kisses. The way he brushes her with his tongue leaves her fully aware of it as a muscle, its elasticity and strength along her skin and pressing into her nerves, insistent and slippery, beautiful.

She feels her mouth open, and forces it closed again. She tries to bring her neck back down, to leave her less open, but she only gets a little back, when Jeroen kisses her below the ear, and rains kisses down the muscle in her neck. It is so intimate, that spot, she turns her head away. He seems to understand, so instead, his teeth nip along the hard line of her jaw, and his fingers play at her the base of her throat. It forces her neck back, turns her face into the lights above them.

Blue, green, red, yellow, they flash with the music, such contrast to the burgeoning in her body, the swell that Orhan’s fingers and nails, and Jeroen’s teeth and lips, are engendering. Orhan’s strokes her like her cunt lips are the strings of a harp; the pleasure is soft but precise, and sometimes, rings through her.

The music takes a stronger beat, but she isn’t moving. The two men are doing that for her, swaying her in time to the electronic sound, all the while, both lulling her, and keeping her sharply aware of herself. Of the edge that she is teetering on.

Until Orhan’s hand sweeps upwards – such a short distance, but he still sweeps – and his fingertips find her clit. Sharp pleasure sears through her. She’d stagger if not held upright by two bodies, and a cry catches in her throat.


Next: 55. Needle

Image found on flickr, by pumpkinmook, used under the Creative Commons License.

Folds

A Night in a Year: 53. Folds

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.

Curls

A Night in a Year: 52. Curls

When Orhan’s finger is joined by a second, and he press his hard cock against her arse, she grins at the warm, tender feeling of being encapsulated by the two men. But when those fingers leave her skin, and slide into her pubic hair, mere millimetres above her clit, she quivers, her fingers digging into Jeroen’s back.

“Please,” she says as the two fingers roll through the curls. “Please touch me.”

“But I am. I’m touching some very interesting parts of you.” Orhan gives the hair a gentle tug, and releases, and it sends a delicious jolt through her. No one has ever done that before. It’s a feeling of pleasure edging delicately to pain, like the long edge of a broken pane of glass, sharp if touched the wrong way.

He keeps tugging, different parts of the curls. She can almost see in her mind’s eye the rise of the skin beneath the follicles as they are raised, held, and released, in the mere seconds it takes for him to do so. By the time he’s traversed her whole mound, it’s tingling, and she is so slippery between her legs that she tries to keep them closed, not to let her cum run down her thighs. She’s wriggling in Jeroen’s arms, but he isn’t letting her go, and Orhan’s keeping her other hip firmly in place.

“I’m going to keep you right here until he’s done,” Jeroen says to the top of her head.

“You’re so mean…” she breathes.

He chuckles, and kisses her temple. “More fun with three.”

“You’re having fun?”

He briefly tips her chin back with two fingers, so she meets his eyes, and he says, darkly;

“I’m going to enjoy watching you lose it on the dance floor, in front of everyone.”

It is a delicious payback.


Next: 53. Folds

Image found on flickr, by Edward Wilson, used under the Creative Commons License.

Crease

A Night in a Year: 51. Crease

Playfully, she surges closer to Jeroen, as if swaying away from Orhan’s twining fingers. The bulk of him is magnificent: it’s the embrace of a tiger, only barely tamed. Jeroen laughs, and he bends down, takes her lips between his own. It’s hot and sweet, melted chocolate that could burn your tongue if you weren’t careful where it moved in your mouth. His tongue laces along her own, and her stomach turns with the heat of anticipation.

She’s realises she’s forgotten Orhan’s hand when it snakes straight under her dress, and his fingers find the crease where her leg starts below her hip, that line that leads down towards her cunt. She feels his chest murmur with a chuckle; he now must know she’s not wearing underwear. Jeroen’s tongue leaves her mouth, and Orhan’s lips move to her ear.

“Bad girl,” he whispers, and kisses her neck again. “And you know what happens to bad girls…”

“Yes…” The word comes out a pleased hiss.

“Well, you will have to wait for it.”

His fingers dip down the crease, going to the point where she feels him brush her pubic hair. But he slides back up the line, returning to circle her hip bone. His touch is steady and firm, not delicate as before. It’s as if he’s painting something there, leaving a trail of his own making. She sighs, her head falling against Jeroen’s chest. Jeroen’s hand up comes to cradle her head, and Orhan’s finger now slides down further, almost between her legs, linger just near her labia, near the folds of her cunt that are wet and wanting, but he still doesn’t touch it. Instead, he begins to rub up and down, a short, teasing distance.

Jeroen holds her there, at the mercy of Orhan’s finger.


Next: 52. Curls

Image found on flickr, by Jessie Jacobson, used under the Creative Commons License.

Hem

A Night in a Year: 50. Hem

They continue to bite and nuzzle her, soft yet unrelenting. She wants to lift out of her heels, lurch forward with the humming under her skin, the growing bubbles in her stomach. She clutches harder to Orhan, and she gasps in time with the music. Both men are still moving with the beat, while she stands perfectly still, only her head jerking a little as the sensations shift around in her as the bites and licks change speed or tempo.

When they both lift away, as if practiced for timing, her whole body is tingling. She sees Orhan’s smirk, feels Jeroen’s grip brace briefly, and all she can do is sigh, and feel her body almost sag between them.

They won’t let her do that on the dance floor. Instead, they turn her around, so she’s once more facing Jeroen.

Jerone’s hand come under her arms to brace her shoulders. “Let’s dance,” he says.
She nods, still unable to speak, and moves with him. Behind her, Orhan moves not as fast, but casually, stepping once for each of their two. He let’s go of a hip, and she wonders where his hand’s gone until she feels a tug at the skirt of her dress. She glances down her shoulder, and sees his fingers tracing the hem, curling up the underside, seeking out the space between material and skin. She grins, and briefly catches the glint in Orhan’s eye over her shoulder, and then lets him get on with it.

When the flat of his nails brushes her thigh, it is almost imperceptible. The smoothness of it, unlike the velvet softness of skin, is cool like glass. It would be almost comforting, but for being so delicate, it promises and teases, as if Orhan might decide another course for the evening.


Next: 51. Crease

Image found on flickr, by Devon D’Ewart, used under the Creative Commons License.