Chapter 199: Spin The Bottle - Part 6
ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER THE AGE OF 18.
A harsh, brittle silence followed Alya’s return to her spot. The only sounds were the eternal sigh of the ocean and the pop of the fire. The taste of Andre seemed to hang in the air itself, a phantom scent of salt and sex. Alya wouldn’t look at anyone, her gaze fixed on the dying embers at the fire’s edge, her jaw set.
Jim, jittery with pent-up energy and a naked, voyeuristic thrill, broke the quiet. “My turn, right? My turn.” He scrambled forward on his knees, his long, awkward body pale in the moonlight. His erection, impressive in length but thin, bobbed as he moved. He grabbed the bottle with eager, clumsy hands.
He spun it with too much force. The bottle whirled violently, a green blur that carved a trench in the sand before careening out of the circle and tapping against Nicola’s bare foot. She looked down at it, then up at Jim, a slow, calculating smile spreading across her lips. The neck pointed unequivocally at her.
“Looks like you’re up, genius,” Kofi chuckled, leaning back on his elbows, his eyes avid.
Jim’s mouth went slack, his gaze dropping from Nicola’s face to her full, naked breasts and the simple pair of black panties she still wore. He stared, unblinking, his porn-addict brain finally syncing with reality. “You… me?” he stammered.
Nicola stood with a dancer’s grace, the firelight painting golden curves on her skin. “Rules are rules,” she said, her voice a cool, amused ripple. She walked over and stood before him, looking down at his kneeling, naked form. “Stand up.”
Jim stumbled to his feet, his skinny frame towering over her but looking utterly powerless. Nicola’s eyes locked on his cock. “Not bad, kid,” she said, a clinical note in her tone. She didn’t touch him yet. Instead, she slowly sank to her own knees in the sand, bringing herself eye-level with his groin.
Jim shuddered, a full-body spasm of anticipation.
Nicola began with a taunting slowness that was its own kind of cruelty. She leaned in and pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to the very tip of his cock. Jim gasped. She kissed the side of the shaft, her lips warm and dry. She kissed his balls, taking each one gently into her mouth for a second, her tongue flicking out to taste him. Her blonde hair brushed against his thighs.
“Oh, fuck,” Jim whimpered, his hands clenching at his sides.
“Just relax,” Nicola murmured, her breath hot against him. Then she opened her mouth and took him in.
She was skilled, far more skilled than Jim had ever experienced in his frantic solo sessions. She used her tongue expertly, swirling around the head, sucking gently as she took him deeper. Her hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, guiding him, working him in tandem with her mouth.
Jim’s head lolled back, a string of incoherent curses and pleas falling from his lips. “Yeah, like that… oh god, Nicola…”
She took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accept his length. She’d learned from watching Alya; she knew the game. She began to bob her head, establishing a rhythm that was relentless and deep. Each time she went down, she took him a fraction further, until his tip was nudging the back of her throat.
Then she pushed past it.
She took his entire cock into her mouth and down her throat in one smooth, terrifyingly deep motion. Her nose pressed into his pubic bone. Jim cried out, a sound of sheer shock and ecstasy. Nicola gagged, a wet, harsh sound that vibrated through his entire body, but she held him there, her eyes watering.
She pulled back, gasping for air, a line of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening skin. “Fuck my throat,” she rasped, looking up at him with challenge in her teary eyes. “Do it.”
Jim didn’t need to be told twice. His hands, which had been fluttering helplessly, now tangled in her blonde hair. He gripped her head and began to fuck her face in earnest. It was clumsy, frantic, the movements of a boy who’d seen this a thousand times on screen but never felt it. He thrust into her mouth, his hips pistoning. Nicola let him, her hands braced on his bony hips, her throat working to accommodate each desperate slam.
“Take it, take it all you slut,” Jim panted, his voice breaking. He was lost, a slave to the sensation, fucking her throat with abandon. Gagging sounds filled the air, wet and rhythmic. Spit dripped from Nicola’s stretched lips, coating his balls.
It was over quickly. Jim’s movements became jerky, uncoordinated. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna cum!” he shouted, a warning and a plea.
Nicola didn’t pull away. She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and she opened her throat. He shoved in one last time, hilting himself, and let out a ragged cry as he came. She swallowed convulsively, her throat muscles working around him as he pumped his release deep into her.
When he finally pulled out, spent and trembling, a thick rope of white cum dribbled from the corner of her mouth. She caught it with her finger, looked at it, and then slowly, deliberately, sucked her finger clean. She got to her feet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Your turn to spin, lover,” she said to Jim, her voice hoarse but steady.
Jim just collapsed onto the sand, dazed and empty.
Nicola picked up the bottle. She didn’t sit. She held it aloft, her naked body a vision of powdery smoke and resolve. “For me,” she said, and spun.
The bottle danced, a whirl of green against the black and gold of the firelit sand. It slowed, seemed to hesitate between Kofi and Briv, then settled with a final click. It pointed at Briv.
Briv’s heart, which had been a cold, heavy stone in his chest since Alya’s submission, gave a sudden, hard thump. Nicola’s eyes found his across the circle. A sly smile touched her lips. She walked towards him, her hips swaying, the shadow of her body stretching long behind her.
“Your lucky night,” she said, stopping before him.
Briv stood up, his own underwear feeling flimsy, inadequate. He was painfully hard, a reaction born of jealousy, voyeurism, and raw need. Nicola turned her back to him. “The panties,” she said over her shoulder. “They’re your prize.”
His fingers trembled slightly as he hooked them into the sides of her black panties. He slid them down, over the full, perfect curves of her ass, down her thighs. She stepped out of them, kicking them aside. Now she was completely naked. The firelight played across the smooth skin of her back, the dip of her waist, the swell of her ass.
She turned to face him, completely unabashed. Then she lay back on the sand, propping herself on her elbows. She opened her legs for him, an unspoken command.
Briv looked at the triangle of dark blonde hair between her legs, glistening faintly in the firelight. He could feel every eye on him, but Alya’s stare was a physical brand on his skin. He lowered himself to his knees, the sand gritting under them, and placed his hands on the insides of her thighs. Her skin was warm, softer than he’d imagined.
He pushed her legs wider apart. The scent of her, musky and sweet, filled his nostrils. He leaned in, his competitive mind silencing itself, replaced by a raw, singular focus.
His tongue found her first in a slow, flat stroke from bottom to top. Nicola gasped, her elbows buckling so she lay flat on the sand. He tasted salt, a faint tang of sweat, and something uniquely her. He lapped at her, exploring the outer folds with a desperation to be good at this, to be better than anyone else had been for her tonight.
“Use your fingers too,” she murmured, her voice already thick. “Don’t just lick it, fucking eat it.”
He pushed two fingers inside her. She was slick and hot, clenching around him instantly. He curled them, searching, as his tongue found her clit. He focused there, sucking the little nub into his mouth, flicking it hard and fast with the tip of his tongue.
Nicola’s breath hitched. “Yeah, right there, you bastard,” she moaned, her hands tangling in his hair. She didn’t guide him, she held him there, pressed against her. He fucked her with his fingers, curling them upward, while his mouth worked relentlessly on her clit. The filthy, wet sounds were loud in the night air.
Her hips began to buck against his face, grinding into him. He could hear Kofi laughing low, could hear the shift of others in the sand watching. He didn’t care. He wanted to win this, to make her come apart. He sucked harder, his tongue a frantic piston.
“Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop,” she chanted, her thighs trembling against his ears. Her inner muscles pulsed around his fingers, rhythmically clenching. He felt her body tighten, a coil about to snap. He redoubled his efforts, his jaw aching, his own need a throbbing distraction in his underwear.
She came with a sharp, guttural cry, her back arching up off the sand. Her release flooded his fingers, and he drank it down, his tongue lapping at her through the convulsions until she shoved his head away, oversensitive and spent.
Briv sat back on his heels, wiping his wet mouth with the back of his hand. He was panting. Nicola lay sprawled and gleaming, a satisfied smirk on her lips. “Not bad, pretty boy,” she breathed.
She slowly sat up, then stood, offering him a hand. He took it and she pulled him up, her gaze lingering on the obvious bulge in his underwear. She gave it a casual, proprietary squeeze before turning away. “My spin again,” she announced to the circle, her voice regaining its steady composure.
The bottle was still warm from the fire’s proximity when she picked it up. She gave it a swift, decisive turn. It spun on the packed sand, a wobbling green axis in the dark. It slowed, teetered, and fell, pointing at the one person who had so far only watched, her intelligent eyes missing nothing.
=====
It pointed at Bianca.
A slow smile spread on Nicola’s face. Bianca simply nodded, her expression unreadable.
Before she could move, Kofi’s voice cut through the crackling silence. “Hold on,” he said, pushing himself up from where he lounged. “This is getting predictable. My turn.” He strode to the center, his athletic frame moving with a lazy arrogance, and plucked the bottle from the sand before Nicola could protest.
“That’s not the order,” Briv said, his voice tight.
“Order’s for suckers,” Kofi replied, not looking at him. His dreads caught the firelight as he crouched. He gave the bottle a short, hard flick with his thumb and forefinger. It spun with a low whir, a tight, controlled rotation that reflected the flames in fleeting glints. It slowed, wobbled for a single, suspenseful revolution, and stopped.
The neck aimed directly at Nicola.
She arched an eyebrow, her smirk returning, fuller now. “Looks like you interrupted yourself right into a corner.”
Kofi stood, his shadow falling over her. “Or right where I want to be.” He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. “You know what to do.”
Nicola rose to meet him, a glint of challenge in her eyes. She closed the distance between them, the sand whispering under her bare feet. She didn’t kneel. She placed her hands flat on his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath her palms, then slid them slowly down the defined ridges of his abdomen.
Her fingers found the button of his shorts. She popped it open with a deliberate click. The zipper’s pull was a low, rasping song in the quiet. She tugged it down, the sound coarse and intimate.
Kofi watched her, his breathing steady, a king awaiting tribute.
Nicola curled her fingers into the fabric at his hips. She pulled his shorts down in one smooth, sensual motion, letting them slide over his thighs and down his legs. He stepped out of them, kicking the garment aside. Now he stood in only his underwear, his formidable erection straining visibly against the dark cotton.
The firelight painted the hard lines of his torso in gold and shadow.
Nicola knelt then, not in submission, but as a artist before a canvas. She placed her hands on his calves, her touch firm. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his knee, a soft, dry kiss. She moved upward, her mouth a brand of heat along his skin. She kissed the inside of his thigh, just above the knee, her breath warm.
She kissed higher, along the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, her lips parting slightly. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the tension coiling in his muscles. Her mouth traveled upward, agonizingly slow, towards the desperate bulge tenting his underwear.
Kofi’s jaw tightened. A low grunt escaped him.
Nicola ignored the obvious. She kissed his hip bone, just above the waistband of his briefs. She nuzzled the fabric, her cheek brushing against the thick, hard length of him. She inhaled the scent of him—sweat, salt, pure male arousal.
With a teasing slowness, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his underwear, but she didn’t pull them down. She merely stretched the fabric slightly, exposing a sliver more of his skin, and pressed an open-mouthed kiss there. Her tongue flicked out, a quick, hot touch on his skin just beside his straining cock.
“Fucking tease,” Kofi breathed, his voice thick.
Nicola smiled against his skin. She finally turned her head, letting her lips ghost over the outline of his cock through the damp cotton. She kissed the swollen head through the fabric, feeling him twitch violently beneath her lips. She took the shape of him into her mouth, sucking gently through the material, a damp, hot pressure.
She released him with a soft, wet sound and looked up, her eyes gleaming with power. “Your turn to spin,” she said, her voice a husky promise laced with threat. She didn’t move from her knees.
Kofi stared down at her, his arrogance tempered by a fierce, newfound hunger. He reached for the bottle.
=====
He reached for the bottle.
His spin was a violent, dismissive flick. The bottle shot across the sand, skidding past the circle’s edge before wobbling to a stop, its neck aimed at Dariana. She didn’t flinch, just raised an eyebrow at Kofi from her spot on the log.
“Lazy spin,” she said, her voice cool. She stood, the firelight catching the sweat-slicked curve of her back above her panties. “But rules are rules. Off.” She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her bra, paused for a heartbeat of defiance, then unhooked it. She let it fall forward into her hands before dropping it onto the pile. Her small, firm breasts were now bare, the nipples tight in the night air. She sat back down without another word, crossing her arms.
The silence that followed was heavier, loaded. All that remained between them and total nudity were thin barriers of cotton and lycra. Alya stared into the fire, her arms wrapped around herself. Briv watched the rise and fall of her chest, the distant look in her eyes. The bottle sat between them all, a green glass judge.
“My turn,” Alya said suddenly, her voice raspy from earlier. She didn’t wait for agreement. She simply leaned forward, grabbed the bottle, and spun it with a sharp, brittle energy. It whirled, a frantic green orb against the dark sand.
It slowed, scraping over a shell. It teetered, pointing at Kofi, then Andre, before lazily drifting to a final stop. It pointed at Jim.
Jim’s eyes went wide. He was still sprawled on the sand where he’d collapsed after Nicola, his own nakedness forgotten. He scrambled to sit up, his limbs all angles and nervous energy.
Alya stood. Her movements were stiff, automatic. She walked over to where Jim sat and looked down at him, her expression unreadable. “Stand up,” she said, her tone flat.
Jim obeyed, scrambling to his feet. He towered over her, all skinny frame and jutting bones, but he seemed to shrink under her gaze.
“You know what to do,” she said, echoing the phrase that now haunted the night. She turned her back to him, presenting the tight curve of her ass in the black leggings.
Jim’s hands hovered near her hips, trembling. He swallowed hard. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her leggings, just above the swell of her ass. He pulled them down slowly, the fabric sliding over her skin with a soft whisper. He revealed a simple pair of black panties, stark against her tanned skin. He knelt, helping her step out of each leg, his movements awkward yet strangely gentle. He dropped the leggings aside.
Alya stood before him now in only her bra and panties. Jim remained on his knees behind her. The fire cast her shadow long and distorted. He leaned in, his lips barely touching the small of her back, just above the panty line.
He kissed her there, a whisper of contact. His lips traveled upward, planting soft, tentative kisses along her spine, tracing each vertebra through her skin. His mouth was dry, nervous. He reached the nape of her neck, beneath her hair, and placed a final kiss there. His hands, which had been clenching at his sides, came up to rest on her hips.
Then, with a sudden, sharp motion that made everyone jump, he brought his open palm down on the round curve of her ass.
The slap cracked through the night air, sharp and clear. Alya flinched, her whole body tensing. A faint red handprint bloomed on the pale skin of her left cheek, visible above the black fabric of her panties. Jim stared at his own hand as if it belonged to someone else.
Alya didn’t turn around. She didn’t make a sound. She simply stood there, absorbing the sting, the humiliation, the absurdity of it all. Briv felt his own face flush with a heat that had nothing to do with the fire. This was worse, somehow, than watching Andre use her mouth. This was casual, almost clinical, a violation without passion.
After a long moment, Alya stepped away from Jim’s frozen form. She walked back to her place, moving like a sleepwalker, and sat down. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The red mark on her skin glowed in the firelight.
Jim stayed kneeling, looking lost.