She's looking for her clothes.

The guys are talking to each other, laughing, pajama bottoms on, drinks in their hands, ready to be guys, the last few hours already a permanent and pleasant memory that can always be reinforced with videotape.

But it's still with her. They're off on the next thing, and she's still back there. I can see it in her face, in her disheveled, still high, thoroughly fucked, completely bewildered expression as she looks around the room trying to find her pants, her blouse, her thong, something to hold her hair up.

It all got lost in the last hour, when he was on top of her, her legs barely wrapped around the massive torso that obviously attracted her so much in the first place, his giant body rising up and then driving back down into her, his shadow cast large on the candle-lit wall by the glare of the light from the camera, her body too exhausted to cry out, but her mind still wanting more, hooked on the pleasure of countless orgasms and the secret thrill of being used.

God did he use her. It was incredible to watch. He'd position her, fuck her until she came screaming, carry her to another part of the room like a rag doll, their host following behind with the camera, give her a minute to recover, reposition her, and fuck her again. I couldn't see all of it; there were places in the room where the visibility through the windows was poor, and at times, frustratingly, all I could see was the guy with the camera, or their wildly bucking shadows, but I could hear her wailing with pleasure through the open window, loud enough I could have heard her even if the windows had been closed.

It hadn't been that way at first, when she'd seemed more in charge, though still out of control, kneeling over him on the couch, back to me, her blouse pushed up, her thong pushed to the side to accommodate his cock as she slid up and down to the just-restarted, blaring dance music, her breasts in his face, his hands on her hips, their host with the camera seated beside them, his wife not five minutes out the door with a hastily packed overnight bag and the rest of the party guests in tow.

I'm not quite sure what happened before that. The party had seemed calm, but worth watching, enough to distract me from my walk and draw me to the open window - just a little dancing and not much drinking, but the guys had taken their shirts off. Something in her must have snapped at the sight of his chest, because all of a sudden the music stopped, and people were putting their shirts back on, rushing to get their coats, making hurried goodbyes, while the host/husband who had been wandering around filming his guests doing typical party stuff trained his camera on the big guy and the tall, vaguely Eastern-looking woman who had her head pressed up against the big guy's chest, nibbling on his nipples and swaying to the music. They'd stood that way for a minute, framed in the window, when the host's wife, her coat on and her bag over her shoulder, gathered the couple and her husband in a hug, kissed each in turn, said "have fun guys" and disappeared into the night leaving them alone with the music, the couch, and the video camera.