…Hot Wired #2

CLOTHING OPTIONAL” If she was going to auction herself off like a slightly used showroom model, she might as well do it seductively…and naked at Julie and Dave’s house.

***

“Are we late?” Sharon whispered, fumbling with the straps of her sandals as she and Sean lingered at the front door. The muffled bass guitar from inside pulsed through the wood like a second heartbeat. “Daddy played the guitar Mama was a disco queen.” “We’re fashionably late,” Sean said. “Which, in Julie and Dave’s world, probably means we missed the ceremonial burning of bras and the sacrificial offering of boxer briefs.” Sean’s knuckles hovered halfway to the door when it swung open on its own, revealing Julie holding a half-empty martini glass with an olive, wearing nothing but a smile on her waxed pussy. “You’re just in time for the wager,” she announced, her grin widening as she took in Sharon’s white-knuckled grip on Sean’s arm. “Dave bet twenty bucks nobody would show up wearing actual socks. Pay up, “you.”

In the Living Room the furniture had been moved aside. “Rules are simple,” Julie said, nodding toward the coat rack by the stairs, which sagged under the weight of abandoned jeans and lace. “Drop your dignity there. Keep your drinks here.” She tapped the side of her head. “And your inhibitions, just think of it as another dance.” The living room air smelled like spilled gin and warm skin, the kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat. Sean’s fingers brushed the small of Sharon’s back, whispering, “It’s showtime!” Sean’s fingers lingered at the hem of Sharon’s blouse, his thumb brushing against the bare strip of skin above her waistband.

Sharon’s blouse hit the floor with a whisper of fabric, followed by the soft clink of Sean’s belt buckle unfastening. The air against her bare skin was warmer than expected, charged with the kind of electricity that made the fine hairs on her arms stand at attention. Around them, the party unfolded like a living painting—bodies in motion, laughter bubbling up between sips of liquor, and everywhere, the brush of skin against skin. It was impossible not to notice the swollen cocks. They bobbed in the dim light as men moved, hard from anticipation, fully erect from attention, all of them unapologetically on display. One guy by the makeshift bar, his thick shaft curving slightly to the left, idly stroked himself while debating the merits of bourbon versus rye with a woman whose nipples were so taut they looked like they could cut glass. Sharon’s pulse jumped when she realized she was staring, but then Julie sidled up, pressing a chilled glass into her hand. “First rule of Dave’s parties,” Julie murmured, her breath warm against Sharon’s ear. “Nobody pretends they’re not looking.”

The martini glass trembled slightly in Sharon’s grip as she took her first proper look around the room now that her own clothes lay abandoned near the coat rack. Bodies moved in lazy orbits around the living room, some pressed close, others swaying to the music with drinks in hand. And everywhere, the undeniable presence of thick, flushed cocks bobbing against thighs or standing proudly at attention. A blond guy by the stereo adjusted himself absently while chatting with a redhead whose breasts swayed as she laughed, neither pretending they weren’t acutely aware of each other’s bodies.

Sharon’s breath caught when the blond guy by the stereo turned, not subtly at all, to let the redhead’s fingers trail down his stomach. His cock twitched under her touch, already glistening at the tip, and Sharon realized with a jolt that she’d been holding her own drink halfway to her lips, frozen mid-sip. The ice had melted. Sean’s chuckle vibrated against her bare shoulder as he leaned in. “See something you like?” His hand slid down her spine, slow and proprietary, but his voice was light, teasing. “Or just appreciating the… architecture?”

3 martinis later

“Jesus, you weren’t kidding about the dress code.” Sean exhaled sharply as Julie’s fingers dug into the carpet her back arching like a drawn bowstring against the floor. The party hummed around them, naked bodies moving in the periphery, but the only thing that mattered right then was the hot, slick pressure of her ass around him, the way her breath hitched when he shifted his weight just so. Julie laughed, a breathless, uneven sound muffled against the floor. “Told you,” she gasped, rocking back onto him with deliberate slowness as Sean’s cock plunged in maximum overdrive into her well lubed pucker. Screaming so loud that all the couples surrounded them. “Fuck me deep with your mongoose and ride my crooked pony, Sean!”

The air smelled like spilled vodka and sweat, the kind of thick, sticky atmosphere that clung to skin. Sean braced himself on one hand, the other tangling in Julie’s hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against the dizzying sensation of her body tightening around him. She whimpered, high and desperate, nails scraping against the carpet fibers as he fucked her harder, deeper. Someone nearby wolf-whistled; Julie flipped them off without missing a beat, her voice cracking around a moan. “Harder, Christ, Sean, don’t you fucking stop, “

In a corner by the liquor bar, Sharon was choiring, with her throat on an anonymous transexual’s little fleaflicker penis. Halfway enebrated with gin and swallowing cum without introductions. But who was counting. Then he said, “Pardon me, but do you have any Grey Poupon?

She hadn’t seen Julie or Sean for moments now, but she could hear them. Everybody could. Julie’s moans were escalating into something raw and ragged, punctuated by the wet slap of skin, the creak of the floorboards beneath them. Sean’s breath came in sharp bursts, his rhythm fracturing as Julie clenched around him, her body trembling. “Gonna, ” she managed, before her voice dissolved into a broken cry, her hips jerking erratically. He didn’t need the warning; he could feel it, the way her muscles fluttered, the way her fingers clawed at nothing.