Backstage from Ischia

Italy this week meant one thing for me: duty pressed into pleasure. Meetings turned into something slicker. I spent the afternoon with Cayenne and Jane, bodies naked on white linen, knees parting on the wide bed. Jane’s mouth found Cayenne’s breast first, tongue circling, pulling a low sound from her throat. I watched, cock already heavy, then moved in behind Cayenne, hands sliding around her hips. My fingers parted her and found her soaked; I pushed two in, felt her clench, heard her breath catch. Jane reached down, stroked me in quick, greedy pulls until I rolled on the condom and pushed into Cayenne’s cunt. Slow at first. Then deeper. Jane knelt beside us, legs open, fingers working her own clit as she watched my hips drive. She leaned in, kissed me, then leaned farther to lick where Cayenne and I joined. Every thrust made Cayenne whimper; Jane moaned into her taste. I pulled out, eased Cayenne onto her back, and Jane climbed on top, grinding their cunts together while I took Jane from behind, my palm flat on the small of her back, pace steady, relentless. Sweat slicked everything. We switched—Cayenne riding me while Jane sat on my face, hips rolling, her juice on my tongue. They kissed above me, fingers laced, bodies shaking through their first shared orgasm. I came minutes later, buried in Cayenne, Jane’s mouth on my neck, all of us breathing hard, salt on our lips, linen sticking to skin.