Slumber Party Orgy
The dogs bark the night away as paella roasts on the outdoor flames beneath the starlit Mediterranean sky. But inside the villa, an altogether different feast unfolds – and the hunger of these guests will not be sated by little olives and tapas.
Sweaty newcomers trickle into the mansion, hurrying past the smoldering die-hard drinkers on the veranda, pupils dilated and senses heightened as an assault of techno rhythms throbs through the walls. The master bedroom seems to call their names, pulsing with its own energy. They descend on it like moths to a flame, kicking off garment after garment with abandon.
Seven writhing bodies navigate the tangled sheets, flesh upon glistening flesh, hips gyrating to the music’s frenzied beat. Rosy nipples erect, sweat-slicked thighs open, in heat, feral. A half-emptied wine bottle circulates with greedy hands, tonguing between breasts, dipping between thighs, smearing. Naughty fingers seek warmth, lips press and suck, teasing out guttural moans.
Tristan slides down Britney’s taut belly, eyes locked with the feline Amber across the mosh pit of limbs. Amber bites her plump bottom lip and arches into Josh’s touch, volcanic cauterizing even as he rides the curves of her ass. Tristan parts Britney’s plump lips, burying his face. She tastes like sin and lilies, honeyed and tangy. “Fuck me Tristan,” she hisses, grinding into his tongue. A hard pinch to her clit makes her see stars. He smirks, dragging those sinful lips up her body to claim her mouth.
Brittany and Caro exchange wet, open-mouthed kisses, fingering each other with clumsy passion. A tan hand lands on Brittany’s rump, and SIREN SNAKES into her channel from behind, pumping. “Naughty girl…” is all the warning she gets before he’s in her pussy, stretching her, no other preparation than arousal soaking her thighs. She arches as he pummels into her, one hand mauling her tits, the other spanning her hips. Her cries are cut short when Caro’s ministrations introduce dexterous digits into her asshole.
Blues and browns cross like some erotic dance on a glass coffee table surrounded by a bevy of supple forms. Pussy juices lap up fingers and onto tonguing mouths, balls smacking sweat-sheened backsides and tits. The banquet of flesh and sinew is a confusing tableau, hair a frenzy of tangles, limbs in a writhing chorus as lost faces contort with pleasure. A splash of sweat in a belly button, recommending an explicit path lower, jewel-toned and glancing off curves. Reaching, arching, recoiling on pillowtop. The symphony of moans and headboard thumps only grows as an insistent bassline pounds through the room, electrifying everyone to a panting crescendo.
Four hours later, the only discernible motion is THAT chest rising and falling, PEELS OF LEMONS a singular sound as the party has meandered to a sweaty, sexed-out conclusion. One by one downed limbs are dragged to their shoes, cell phones, and car keys, reluctant to disturb the debauched still-blooming flower. Caro turns to kiss Brittany sweetly at the door, before grabbing a lit cigarette and walking out to bare-faced, walked-out stars. The forgotten playlist finally rewinds to a slurred take on a doo-wop classic. “Don’t worry, baby…everything will be alright…”
The wet slide of sheets sounds out like a Miró canvas come to life, a paintbox of raven tresses and golden locks stabilized above flushed and satiated cheeks. questionnaires of pleasure questionnaire last night through time, and on. The musicality of slumber, a second heartbeat steady and fast. The push and pull of handfuls of flesh is an unspoken language, a dance between partners and friends. keratin between calves, heels, knees, chest and cheek. the knotted tangle of limbs unwinds into coordinates of its own against the egg white bedsheet.
