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Amel Larrieux’s “For Real” plays and the room goes blurry around me as my orgasm builds and builds, tightening and coiling in my belly. I squeeze my eyes shut. Curl my fingers into tight fists. Grind my teeth. Oh God, I can’t take much more of this. I am stretched tight over her fingers. My ass bucks. My pussy clenches. Unclenches.
It aches.
It throbs.
I need dick.
Marcel’s dick.
I need to be fucked.
Want to be fucked.
Marcel fucking me; and fucking her, alternately, filling me, and filling her, with his cream.
Everything I am heats and burns, starting at the balls of my feet, then roaring upward. My ass. My pussy. My clit. My belly. My breasts. My skin.
Embroiled in desire.
I am floating. Dangling over the edge of delirium.
Marcel groans. The rapid slap-slap of his dick sliding in and out of the palm of his hand, up and down his shaft, he grunts and stands; dips at the knees.
“I’m about to bust this nut. Aaah, shit, motherfuck…I’m ready to get up in that pussy, yo…”
Then in one swift move, I am on my back and Nairobia is turned around to straddle my head. She murmurs in Dutch, “Maken graag mijn kut. Voeden mijn poesje je tong. Make love to my cunt. Feed my pussy your tongue.”
She lowers her heat against my lips. My fingers spread her wet lips, and I open my mouth and feast, greedily tonguing her.
She spasms around my tongue and fingers, causing me to gasp.
Marcel is hovering over us. His balls swinging back and forth as he brings himself to the edge. “Yeah, baby…eat that pussy…”
He reaches over and slaps Nairobia’s ass.
She moans loudly, then fucks into my mouth and sucks on my clit, her fingers fucking into my dewy slit.
My eyes glaze.
I am coming.
She is coming.
Marcel is coming.
Delirious with pleasure, I drink in Nairobia’s steamy juices; sucking and sucking and sucking, feeding my need; swallowing her in.
Every last drop…
TWENTY-EIGHT
Marcel
I’m sitting behind the keyboards at the studio—eyeing one of the engineers as he maneuvers a few levers up and down the expensive equipment with his headphones over his ears, rhythmically nodding his head to a beat—when my cell rings.
I glance at Carlos through the glass as he plays the piano in the booth. It’s a little after midnight. We’ve been here for the past four hours working on the tracks to his new album, Seduction. And so far the shit is sounding sexy as fuck.
“What’s good, baby?
