The Party goes on

Frieda propped herself up on her elbows. Looked past Steve, past the bed, past the television and the minibar and the drawn curtains, and found Celine still frozen against the door frame with her hand inside her underwear.

“Come on,” Frieda said. “What happens at these events stays at these events.” She gestured with one cum-streaked hand. “I see you need it. I see you want it. Take off that dress and lay here.”

Celine’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

“You think I didn’t notice you touching yourself?” Frieda’s voice was gentle now, coaxing, the same tone she used when she talked a skittish mother into hosting an Amway party. “It’s fine. More than fine. But if you’re going to come, come on the bed with us.”

Steve had turned around. He was still on his knees, still half-dressed, still holding his cock, softening now but still impressive, still thick, still glistening with Frieda’s wetness. His eyes moved over Celine’s body like he was already undressing her.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Celine’s fingers found the hem of her dress.

The silk slid up her thighs, over her hips, over her stomach. She lifted it over her head and let it drop to the carpet. Her underwear followed - a simple cotton thing, practical for travel, now soaked through and utterly pointless. She unhooked her bra and just let it fall.

Naked. In a hotel room. In front of her best friend and a man she’d met twice.

Steve’s cock twitched.

“She’s beautiful,” he said. Quiet. To Frieda, not to Celine. As if they were appraising something together. “You didn’t tell me she was beautiful.”

“I told you she was.” Frieda was still stretched out on the bed, still covered in his release, making no move to clean herself. “You just didn’t believe me.”

Celine walked to the bed. Her legs carried her like they belonged to someone else, someone braver, someone who didn’t have a husband and a four-year-old daughter and a mortgage and a life that made sense. She stopped at the edge of the mattress and looked down at Frieda’s body - the soft belly, the heavy breasts, the slickness between her thighs.

Frieda reached up and took her hand.

“Lay down,” she said. “Right here. On your back.”

Celine obeyed.

The sheets were warm where Frieda’s body had heated them. The pillow smelled like Frieda’s shampoo, something coconut, something tropical. Celine stared at the ceiling and felt her heart batter against her ribs and then Frieda’s mouth was on her inner thigh.

A gasp tore out of her throat.

“Shh.” Frieda’s breath ghosted over her skin. “Just let me. Just let me taste you.”

The first stroke of Frieda’s tongue parted her folds. The second found her clitoris. By the third Celine’s hips were lifting off the mattress, her hands fisting in the sheets, her mouth open in a silent scream that wouldn’t make sound because there was no air left in her lungs.

“You’re so wet,” Frieda murmured against her flesh. “So delicious. Steve, come here. Feel.”

The bed shifted under his weight. He’d shed his clothes somewhere - when, Celine didn’t know, didn’t care, couldn’t focus on anything except Frieda’s tongue circling her clit in lazy figure-eights. But she saw him. Saw his body. The broad shoulders. The chest hair graying at the edges. The cock, fully hard again, curving up toward his belly. Thick. Veined. Remarkable.

Frieda’s fingers pressed inside Celine, two of them, curling up to find the spot that made her vision blur. “Oh,” Celine heard herself say. “Oh, that’s ...”

“Good?” Frieda withdrew her fingers, replaced them with her tongue for one long luxurious lick, then pulled back. “Steve. Now.”

Frieda’s hand wrapped around his shaft and guided him.

The head of his cock nudged against Celine’s entrance and she made a sound she had never made before - a half-sob, a plea, a prayer. Her hands found Frieda’s shoulders. Gripped. Held on.

He pushed inside in one stroke.

Celine came instantly.

Not a build. Not a gradual climb. An explosion. Her body seized around him, muscles convulsing, inner walls clamping down on the thickness of him, and the orgasm rolled through her like a wave she couldn’t crest, couldn’t escape, couldn’t do anything but ride. She screamed. She knew she screamed. The sound bounced off the mirrors and the windows and the closed door and came back to her distorted, unrecognizable.

“That’s it,” Frieda whispered. Her hands were on Celine’s breasts now, thumbs circling her nipples. “That’s it, let it out. He’s good, isn’t he? He’s so good.”

Steve hadn’t moved. He was buried to the hilt, motionless, letting her contractions pull at him. His jaw was tight. His hands were planted on either side of her shoulders. He looked down at her with an expression she couldn’t read - something between concentration and awe.

“More,” Celine heard herself say. “Please. More.”

He moved.

The first thrust dragged a second orgasm out of her before the first had fully subsided. It was impossible - she’d never had two so close together, never had them overlap like this, never felt her body turn traitor and give itself over so completely to sensation. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Her nails raked down his back. She heard herself babbling, words without meaning, sounds without language.

Frieda had shifted. She was behind Steve now, her hands on his ass, her mouth on his testicles. She licked them, sucked them, rolled her tongue over the tight skin while Steve drove into Celine with a rhythm that made the headboard slam against the wall.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Some neighbor would complain. Celine didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Her world had narrowed to the thickness inside her, the fullness, the stretch, the way his pubic bone ground against her clit with every stroke.

“Look at her,” Frieda said, her voice muffled, her mouth still working at his balls. “Look at her face, Steve. She’s gone. She’s completely gone.”

He looked. Met Celine’s eyes again. And something in his expression shifted - a crack in the professional veneer, a flash of genuine heat.

“Turn over,” he said.

She did. On her hands and knees, like Frieda had been, like she’d watched through the doorway a lifetime ago. Steve’s hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pushing her chest down to the mattress, tilting her hips up. The new angle made her gasp even before he entered her - the exposure, the vulnerability, the knowledge that Frieda could see everything, could see where they joined, could see the slickness dripping down Celine’s thighs.

He entered her again. Deeper this time. Different.

“Yes,” Celine moaned. “Yes, yes, yes ... ”

Her orgasm built differently from this position. Slower. More intense. She could feel it accumulating somewhere deep, somewhere behind her pubic bone, somewhere she couldn’t name but could feel swelling like a balloon being inflated inside her pelvis. His thrusts were steady, rhythmic, each one pushing the pressure higher.

Frieda crawled up beside her. Celine could see her face, flushed, eyes bright, lips wet. “You’re doing so well,” Frieda murmured. “He’s going to make you come again, isn’t he? I can tell. I can see it in your face.”

“I can’t ... I can’t come again, it’s too much ...”

“You can. You will. Let it happen.”

Steve’s hand slid around her hip and found her clit. Two fingers, pressing exactly where she needed, exactly the right pressure, exactly the right rhythm. The combination, his cock inside her, his fingers on her clit, Frieda’s voice in her ear, shoved her over the edge.

The orgasm was different. Deeper. It came from that place behind her pubic bone and radiated outward, through her belly, down her legs, up her spine. Her vision tunneled. Her hearing dimmed. She was aware of screaming again, aware of her body convulsing, aware of Steve’s groan as her inner muscles rippled around him.

“I’m going to cum ...” His voice was strained. “Where ... ?”

“Inside,” Celine gasped. “Inside, please, I want to feel it.”

His hips slammed against her once, twice, three times, and then he was coming, pouring himself into her, hot and pulsing and endless. She felt every jet, every spasm of his cock, every drop of his release flooding into her body.

He stayed inside her for a long moment. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to her spine.

Then Frieda tugged at his arm. “My turn again. You promised.”

He pulled out and Celine collapsed onto the mattress, boneless, empty, dripping. She watched through half-closed eyes as Frieda guided Steve onto his back and straddled him, sinking down onto his cock without preamble, throwing her head back and moaning at the ceiling.

The night blurred after that.

Positions changed. Partners shifted. Celine lost count of her orgasms ... five? six? Each one bleeding into the next until she wasn’t sure where her body ended and the others began. At one point Frieda was riding Steve and Celine was sitting on his face, his tongue working her clit with a precision that made her sob, and Frieda’s mouth was on her breast, sucking, licking, biting just hard enough to leave a mark.

Frieda came with a scream that rattled the windows. Celine felt the contractions ripple through her friend’s body, felt them transmitted through the bed frame, through the air, through whatever strange connection had formed between them in the last hour.

And then, impossibly, Steve was still hard.

He pressed Celine onto her back again, spread her legs, and entered her without asking. She was so wet now that he slid in effortlessly, so sensitized that every stroke felt magnified ten times. He came inside her again. Two floods of heat that left her belly feeling full and her inner thighs slick and her mind somewhere far away from the hotel room, somewhere quiet, somewhere where she could process what was happening to her body.

Around two in the morning they slept.

Steve was still there when Celine’s eyes closed - sprawled between them, one arm under Frieda’s head, one hand resting on Celine’s hip. The air conditioning hummed its steady hum. The sheets were a disaster. The room smelled of sex.

---

Celine woke to silence and daylight knifing through a gap in the curtains.

Steve was gone.

The space where he’d slept was cool to the touch, had been empty for hours. His clothes, his shoes, his phone charger, all vanished. No note. No text. Just absence.

Frieda lay on her side of the bed - sprawled on her back, one arm flung over her eyes. Her thighs were parted. Between them, dried white streaks traced the path of what had leaked from her body during sleep.

Celine stared at it. At the evidence. At the proof that the night had been real.

Her body ached. Not a bad ache. A deep satisfied soreness that radiated from her center, from her thighs, from the muscles in her lower back that had been pushed into positions they hadn’t known existed. She sat up slowly, wincing at the tenderness between her legs, and swung her feet to the floor.

The bathroom mirror showed her a stranger.

Her hair was a catastrophe, matted at the back, snarled in tangles, the blond darkened to something closer to brown with sweat and hotel water and whatever substances had been transferred during the night. Her lips were swollen. Her neck bore a faint red mark that she didn’t remember receiving. And her eyes, her eyes looked different. Wider. Hungrier. Or maybe just more honest.

The shower water was hot enough to sting.

She stood under the spray with her hands braced against the tile, letting the heat beat against her shoulders, her spine, the backs of her thighs. The water ran cloudy at first, then clear. She watched it spiral down the drain and thought about John-Paul. About Annie. About the life she’d left behind on Friday morning and would return to on Sunday afternoon.