Golden girls

The suite drips with money but still feels hollow. Marble floors, velvet everything, yet the place yawns. So we pack it wall-to-wall with noise, skin, and breath. There’s a wet, ragged chorus of gasps somewhere behind the couch, sheets dragging across skin as bodies find each other in pairs and piles. Tongues drag, lips shine slick, someone’s got a mouthful of someone else and their knees are trembling. Hands grip hips hard enough to leave red trails; nails rake down soft stomachs before curling into wet heat. One girl’s flat on her back, heels digging into the sofa cushions, back bowed so high her shoulder-blades never touch the velvet. The roommate perched above her rocks down slow, thighs quaking, cunt glistening every time she pulls up before dropping again with a messy slap of skin on skin. Spit runs down chins and collects between breasts. Every exhale sounds loud because nobody’s trying to stay quiet—moans roll through the room like steam. Hair sticks to sweaty temples, lips look swollen from too much friction, and fingers keep slipping because there’s too much slick and no one cares enough to wipe them clean. The bed frame creaks under the weight of another tangle, two mouths latched to the same pair of tits while a third hand works slow circles between spread thighs. Breath catches, breaks, catches again; someone laughs into another girl’s neck before sucking hard enough to leave marks. They move as if the suite itself might vanish if they stop moving.