The room was silent except for the soft, uneven rustling of fabric as their bodies shifted against each other. When their lips met, it was clumsy—too fast, too eager. He reached blindly for the lock, the cold key slipping slightly in his sweaty fingers. It was a small, square-headed key with faded black dots, and he kept missing the slot entirely. Each failed jab made the metal edge of the key scrape against the door, leaving thin, messy scratches on the worn surface—a mix of brushed steel and splintered wood. The screech of metal on metal was sharp and irritating, but neither of them stopped.
Wet sounds filled the narrow doorway—mouths moving with a mix of warmth and moisture that echoed faintly. It wasn't graceful. Their noses kept bumping, their teeth occasionally clicking by accident. His forehead knocked into hers as he leaned in too far, and she let out a breathy laugh.
Their eyes were barely open, blurry and close—too close—trying to focus but failing. They were tangled up, pressed together in the cramped space between the door and the hallway, too distracted to care about precision or balance.
Their mouths moved with increasing urgency, tongues sliding and curling against each other in a messy rhythm. It wasn't polished—just raw, hungry. The wet sounds between them grew louder, echoing faintly in the hallway as they stayed locked together. Every shift of their lips was impatient and searching—pressing, pulling, tilting—like they were trying to draw everything out of each other through nothing but movement and heat.
Finally, he managed to jam the key into the lock. The shape didn't match smoothly—it was a slightly bent piece of metal with a chipped corner—but somehow it fit this time. He twisted it hard, three sharp turns to the right. His hand moved fast, almost automatic, as if it wasn't part of him anymore—just a tool completing a task while the rest of his body stayed tangled with hers.
The door gave a sharp groaning sound as they dashed inside. Their movement was so swift that she didn't even realize her head got banged on the door. Upon entering, the dim light infused more energy into them; it was so supreme to the extent that they could see in the darkness.
Their steps matched in rhythm, almost mechanical, like they were being pulled forward by the same invisible string stretched tightly across the floor. Each movement was slow but deliberate, driven more by instinct than thought.
As they made their way deeper into the room, the sound of their breathing and the slick, quiet wetness of their mouths only grew louder—so loud it felt like a hidden mic had been placed right between their chests, amplifying everything. The scarf—or whatever thin fabric that was draped over her head and down to her waist—kept getting caught and twisted as they moved, sliding across her back and shoulders with each turn of her body. It clung to them, adding another layer of friction between them.
Their clothes were still on, but barely. The heat radiating between their bodies made it easy to imagine what little separation remained. One more tug, one more slip, and their skin would be fully pressed together.
"Mmm… mmm…"
Soft moans slipped from their mouths as the wet sounds paused for just a second. The room, heavy with heat and movement, seemed to react. The curtains swayed, catching a sudden draft as they moved past, like their steps stirred the air itself. Then—bam—something crashed to the floor. A small glass item, maybe from a nearby shelf, knocked over by a stray elbow or the swing of a hip. It shattered instantly. But it didn't stop there. More followed. A cascade of clattering objects—bottles, trinkets, maybe even a lamp—hit the floor, one after another, sending sharp sounds echoing off the walls.
They didn't stop moving. The clutter around them was just noise, barely registering over the thudding pulse in their ears and the urgency between them. She landed on the couch hard—not gently laid, but tossed with urgency, the kind that ignored finesse. Her back hit the cushions with a soft thud, and she barely had time to catch her breath before he was over her. Her eyes widened, locked onto his—staring, stunned, almost like someone witnessing something surreal for the first time.
There was a sudden rip—the sharp, unmistakable sound of fabric tearing—as he grabbed the edge of her gown near her waist. The material gave way quickly, splitting like a mere sheet of paper. The once full-length gown that covered her from head to toe now hung in shredded pieces around her sides. But she didn't flinch. There was no fear, no resistance. In fact, she smiled—eyes still wide, but now softened with something close to joy. Her head jerked back, chin lifting suddenly, as if an invisible hand had pulled it upward. It was raw and ungraceful, her body arching with a force that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than just muscle.
"Ah… ah… ah…"
Sounds spilled out of her in shaky bursts, her body trembling with each wave of sensation pulsing through her. She couldn't hold it back—the way her legs twitched, the way her back arched slightly off the couch. He thrashed his head in between her thighs; the heat of his breath alone made her shiver. As his tongue found her, slow at first, then more deliberate, her fingers gripped the fabric beneath her. The taste, the scent—it overwhelmed him, sharp and sweet all at once, like dipping a finger into honey in a beehive.
Each flick of his tongue drew a stronger reaction. Her moans grew louder, raw, and unrestrained, mixing with the rhythm of their breathing. The room felt alive—the curtains stirred with every shift, like they too responded to the rising energy. As his mouth continued its focused motion, his hands slid up, cupping her breasts firmly.
She gasped again, but not from pain. His grip was rough, but the pleasure surged through her so powerfully that all she felt were waves—crashing, rolling, rising. Her body wasn't resisting; it was meeting every touch with need.