Are you licking my little butt during Oktoberfest? ?

She's perched on the edge of a wooden bench, dirndl hiked up past her hips, the brass buttons catching the amber glow of string lights overhead. The crowd roars somewhere behind you, beer steins clinking, but your focus narrows to the pale curve in front of you.

You grip her thighs, her skin cool against your palms before your mouth finds warmth. She bites her lip to muffle the sound, fingers twisting into your hair, her small frame trembling with each deliberate press of your tongue.

The brass band plays louder. Nobody notices. She rocks back against you, breathless, whispering something in German you don't need translated.