Sex in the city

I chose the city centre so my lovers never have far to travel. We all live within a few minutes’ walk, and that makes afternoons easy. When one of us wakes up with that restless throb, she just sends a single message and the rest of us slip on a coat and arrive already wet. Today the message is barely sent before three keys scrape the same lock. The apartment fills with perfume and low laughter, then the laughter fades as we start to undress one another. Coats and dresses drop to the hall floor. Bras hit the back of a chair. I feel fingers curl around my waist, pulling me forward until skin meets skin. One mouth finds my collarbone while another teases lower, teeth grazing the edge of lace. We don’t bother moving to the bedroom; the carpet is soft and the sunlight warm. Hands spread thighs, tongues press, and the air fills with the wet sounds of mouths working slick folds. Fingers slide in, two at once from different angles, and I moan as my body takes them both. Someone’s lips find my clit and sucks, steady and slow, until my hips jerk. The afternoon disappears in the rhythm of wet tongues and urgent hands, bodies twisting and pressing, chasing every last shiver of pleasure before the sun drops behind the rooftops.