Backstage for April 2011

Three of them already tangled on the king bed, legs twined, breaths sharpening. One girl slides her tongue across another’s swollen clit while a third pushes two fingers inside her, slow and deep, wrist twisting until the slick muscle flutters. The fourth kneels behind, bare tits rubbing her friend’s shoulders as she reaches down and pinches both stiff nipples, tugging in rhythm with each stroke. Across the room two more girls have turned the chaise into their own theater. One is on all fours, face buried between parted thighs, licking wide and flat, nose wet, while the last girl stands at the edge and grinds her bare mound against a raised knee, clit catching fabric, hips snapping. No lace panties survive the night; they sit crumpled on the floor along with silk pajama shorts still warm from skin. A single lamp casts the only light, turning sweat into highlights across curved spines and the soft crease beneath a lifted thigh. Every lick carries the sweet, unmistakable taste of pussy that’s been teased for hours. Moans thicken the air, punctuated by the slap of wet fingers against folds. They keep the noise low, laugh low, fuck just loud enough that anyone listening would know exactly what’s happening without hearing a single word.