Carnival babes

Carnival season. Masks cling to the faces of two women who have me pressed against the wall of some rented room above the street. Their dresses hang open at the neck. Buttons undone in a rush, fabric slipping down to bare their shoulders. One leans in, breath hot on my ear. The other traces my cock through my pants, slow, like she's savoring the weight of it. I want the masks gone. I want everything gone. Her fingers hook into my waistband and pull. The fabric catches for a second, then drops. Cool air meets hot skin. She wraps her hand around me, thumb circling the head. The other woman kisses my chest, teeth grazing. My hips jerk forward, sliding against that tight fist. They both watch. Eyes bright behind the sequins. One kneels. The other keeps my mouth busy, tongue tasting mine like it's the last night of the year. The mouth on me opens, takes me deep. Wet heat. Tight. She doesn't stop until I hit the back of her throat. A low sound escapes her, half moan, half laugh. I reach down to pull her mask off, but the strap catches her hair and she shoves my hand away. Not yet. She sucks harder. The other woman's hand guides my fingers under her dress. No underwear. Just smooth skin and wet heat. I sink two fingers in. She squeezes around them, hips rolling. On the street below, drums pound and voices rise, while above, three bodies work against each other with the kind of hunger carnival demands.