Where The Boys Aren't #14 - Part 1

Three women press close in the corner of the dive. One flicks her tongue over another's clit while fingers slide between wet folds below. Hands roam freely, thighs part wider, breaths quicken. The others watch, mouths parted, their own cunts slick. They lean in, kiss open-mouthed, spit stringing from lips to tongue. Each taste feeds the next, one mouth passing what she just drank onto the next set of lips. Music thumps low. Bodies move slower, lazier, now. Someone grips hair. Hips lift, grind, and chase more. Fingers stay buried deep. Tongues keep trading. Sweat gleams where necks meet shoulders and legs wrap tighter around them. Every breath is a half-whispered curse.