Holiday memories

My week in Ischia smells of saltwater, olive oil and the salty slick between the girls’ legs. Every afternoon the sun found them stretched naked on the terrace, knees apart, oil gleaming along their inner thighs. I spent entire hours with my tongue buried in wet cunt, lazy circles that left them shuddering, fists tangled in my hair. One moaned in Italian when I sucked her clit; another kept pushing my face lower until my tongue flicked her tight little asshole and came back shiny. The breeze cooled the spit and come drying on my chin while speedboats hummed past far below. Later, when the light turned gold, we’d rinse off in the sea, salt stinging everywhere it touched, already planning which bed to ruin next.