I met three ladies at the bar last night and took them back to my place for group masturbation and it was one of the most intensely erotic and honest nights of my life.
The air was thick with anticipation the second we stepped through my door. The usual awkward shuffle of "who makes the first move" was completely absent. There was a shared, unspoken understanding in the way we looked at each other, a mutual agreement to shed the pretense of a standard hookup. We moved into the living room, and without a word, it began.
Clothes became a forgotten obstacle, shed carelessly onto the floor. The dim light from a single lamp cast long, soft shadows across our bodies, highlighting the curves and lines we normally keep so carefully hidden. At first, we were separate islands of pleasure on my large sectional sofa. The sound was a symphony of soft sighs, sharp intakes of breath, and the wet, rhythmic sounds of self-discovery. There was no performance, only pure, voyeuristic and exhibitionistic bliss.
Then, the boundaries blurred. Her hand, which had been resting next to her on the cushion, slowly drifted until her fingers were interlaced with mine. Her pace began to match mine, our combined movements creating a new, shared rhythm. From across the way, one of the other women watched us, her own hand moving faster, her eyes dark with hunger as she took in the sight. The third woman let out a soft moan, and that seemed to break the last dam.
It became a game of sensation and sight. We shifted positions, moving closer, creating a tangled mess of limbs on the floor. Hands explored, but not with the goal of bringing someone else to orgasm. Instead, it was about feeling the tension in a thigh as it tightened, tracing the sweat on a back, or gently cupping a breast to feel the weight of it in your palm as its owner brought herself closer to the edge. We were a circle of pleasure, each the star of our own show but feeding off the energy of the others.
The climax wasn't a single event, but a series of waves that rolled through the group. One woman's shuddering cry would trigger another's, and then another. My own release was so powerful it was almost painful, my body arching as the pleasure washed over me, amplified by the sight and sounds of the three beautiful women lost in their own ecstasy beside me.
Afterward, we didn't speak for a long time. We just lay there, a heap of sweaty, satisfied bodies, breathing in the same musky, sex-filled air. It was a profound kind of intimacy, built not on words or promises, but on the raw, unvarnished truth of watching another person at their most vulnerable and sharing your own vulnerability in return. We eventually cleaned up, got dressed, and they left with nothing more than deep, knowing smiles and a soft, shared kiss at the door. There were no numbers exchanged. It didn't feel like there needed to be. It was a single, perfect moment that belonged only to that night.
The air was thick with anticipation the second we stepped through my door. The usual awkward shuffle of "who makes the first move" was completely absent. There was a shared, unspoken understanding in the way we looked at each other, a mutual agreement to shed the pretense of a standard hookup. We moved into the living room, and without a word, it began.
Clothes became a forgotten obstacle, shed carelessly onto the floor. The dim light from a single lamp cast long, soft shadows across our bodies, highlighting the curves and lines we normally keep so carefully hidden. At first, we were separate islands of pleasure on my large sectional sofa. The sound was a symphony of soft sighs, sharp intakes of breath, and the wet, rhythmic sounds of self-discovery. There was no performance, only pure, voyeuristic and exhibitionistic bliss.
Then, the boundaries blurred. Her hand, which had been resting next to her on the cushion, slowly drifted until her fingers were interlaced with mine. Her pace began to match mine, our combined movements creating a new, shared rhythm. From across the way, one of the other women watched us, her own hand moving faster, her eyes dark with hunger as she took in the sight. The third woman let out a soft moan, and that seemed to break the last dam.
It became a game of sensation and sight. We shifted positions, moving closer, creating a tangled mess of limbs on the floor. Hands explored, but not with the goal of bringing someone else to orgasm. Instead, it was about feeling the tension in a thigh as it tightened, tracing the sweat on a back, or gently cupping a breast to feel the weight of it in your palm as its owner brought herself closer to the edge. We were a circle of pleasure, each the star of our own show but feeding off the energy of the others.
The climax wasn't a single event, but a series of waves that rolled through the group. One woman's shuddering cry would trigger another's, and then another. My own release was so powerful it was almost painful, my body arching as the pleasure washed over me, amplified by the sight and sounds of the three beautiful women lost in their own ecstasy beside me.
Afterward, we didn't speak for a long time. We just lay there, a heap of sweaty, satisfied bodies, breathing in the same musky, sex-filled air. It was a profound kind of intimacy, built not on words or promises, but on the raw, unvarnished truth of watching another person at their most vulnerable and sharing your own vulnerability in return. We eventually cleaned up, got dressed, and they left with nothing more than deep, knowing smiles and a soft, shared kiss at the door. There were no numbers exchanged. It didn't feel like there needed to be. It was a single, perfect moment that belonged only to that night.
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Joi
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