Smooth roll

The roll is smooth, sudden. One heartbeat I'm pinned beneath him, the next the world tilts and I'm on top, my palms flat against his chest, his cock still buried inside me, the shift making me gasp. My hair falls around us in a dark curtain, and I can feel the slick mess of my thighs against his hips, the cum from earlier still cooling on my skin.

I look down at him. The muscular one, still catching his breath, his hands finding my hips on instinct, thumbs pressing into the soft skin above the bone. The lamplight catches the sheen of sweat on his chest, and I can feel the others watching from the edges of the room — the dark-haired one leaning against the sectional, the quiet one finally standing, the bachelor still sprawled on the couch with his beer forgotten.

I rock my hips slowly, experimentally, feeling him shift inside me at this new angle. The change is electric, deeper somehow, and I let out a low, shaky breath.

"Better view from up here," I murmur, looking down at him. My voice is wrecked, raw from the throat-fucking, but there's a smile curling my lips. "I can see all of you. All of this." I gesture vaguely at the room, at the mess, at the three other men still watching us. I roll my hips again, slower this time, deliberate. His hands tighten on my waist, and I feel him twitch inside me, still hard despite everything.

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