We're too sexy for our clothes

If you know your art, you'd know this was Art. People Art, off the street, gutty Art, priestess level voodoo, bewitchment. Body slamming shivers when their cocks touched; chest against chest, heart beating staccato rhythms tremoring straight to their balls, nipples, lips --- and cock.

I didn't mean to watch them. But who would turn away? Watching two gods of flesh, perfect bodied and -- in heat? Who could turn away. Oh, they were meant to fuck. Their fucking was serpentine and shimmering with a passionate heat from their skin, coiling and gliding: cock on cock. Who would turn away?

I watched them closely but unseen, I think. Yet close enough or they so hot, it was a haze. I think they liked that I was watching them. I think they began a private show for me. Had they looked at me, they would have seen my body imitating theirs. Gyrations and groaning twitches, from balls to the knob of my cock.

My hand would not let me turn away. The mechanics of it drove it like a runaway -- erotic bliss, maybe; the nirvana of orgasm, whatever it takes kind of power. I could not turn away; I watched them. They watched me, but more slyly. If they were faking any of it, it fooled me. Every moment was motion; an obscene threesome; voyeur and exhibitionists in congress. It was last vacation. Awhile now. I still jack off remembering it.