Maggie's Shared Shower

Memory of her housemate's death was still fresh. Maggie pushed it slightly aside, humming the Neil Young music from the funeral as she fondled herself, grasped her round Dominican ass, caressed her muscular runner's thighs, washed her mid-back-length black hair over and over.

She was a bit tipsy, in an elevated, aroused realm that blocked out the rest of the world--"the world" being the loud music of her other two housemates, two guys who had recently been fighting over a mutual love interest from law school, but who'd made truce by mutual sorrow of their friend's passing. Steam billowed out from under the door and carried with it the woman-scent of lavender and nettle, names unknown to the men in their rooms, whose simple brains simple labeled it "not-me" and "soft, curved hip." Their cocks increased in volume at the first recognition of feminine steam, and their stereos nearly muted, and then their collective heart raced at the first audible moan that echoed off the tiled bathroom and into their boyish heads. "

That was a sound she didn't mean to mean to let go of

," John thought. Michael, on the other hand, didn't think, but had already quietly walked up to the edge of the door to listen intently in. He was solid as a gargoyle outside the bathroom, dim within, and his heightened awareness was driven by an animal instinct that increased his hearing twofold. He was transfixed in this precarious, peeping-tom position.

He heard the intermittent waves of showerhead water hitting the shower mat. That was the sound of someone trying to find their sweet spot with a sexy stream--just the right pressure, just the right distance, just right on the clitoral hood (the bridge between this body and another world). Another moan, a gasp that seemed to listen to the previous gasp. The quiet clearing of her throat. Now a moan that no longer cared, the kind that didn't give a fuck who could hear, because the pleasure was too good

not

to share with those within the proper radius.

Now John and Michael were by the same door, both tolerating the other's presence for the sake of the self-interest of each--another feature of animalism, the bucks that stop bucking for the sake of mutual benefit. For a split-second, amid Maggie's almost mournful lust sounds, the guys glanced at each other and nodded to what they were about to do. John slowly turn the handle of the door, almost trembling as he continued to hear the jetty of water that was so steadily bringing Maggie to her high, moist plateaus (with men in suits and purple pricks bulging from their uniforms begging to be sucked--for what she imagined more and more was the look of male orgasm, the eyes-rolled-back ecstasy as they coated her body in that protein paint called cum). In her fantasies, her men begged for a silken cave to cushion their aching pillars. They needed a hiding place for their vulnerable power, and she welcomed them all into her shelter.

Thus it was that John had successfully opened the door without her hearing, and the two men had unthinkingly dropped their pants and underwear, Michael still in his work shirt. Now they could hear the force of the massaging water on her body; now they could hear her wet snatch making way for a vigorously pumped toy; now they could smell not only the womanly scent of fruity shampoos and soaps but also the pungent, tangy scent of welcoming pussy. The guys approached the edge of the bathtub, where only the navy-blue shower curtain separated their intrusion from her unwitting invitation. Michael peeled back to view, and John joined from the other side of the curtain, their cocks now casually toying in their hands as they watched her sitting in the middle of the large shower tub taking in a pink jelly dildo with a suction base attached to the tub. Of course, by now, Maggie was mutually tolerating

their

presence, never letting on that she fully knew what they were up to, never turning around to face them. She too was absorbed in the pleasure of their pleasurable grunts, going slower and slower on the 7-inch silicone dick. She dropped the shower head and put it aside to concentrate with both hands on her thighs and clit, her hungry lips, even her toes (she loved to self-suck them while she laid back and rubbed herself, making amazing sensation flavors shoot through her spine). John grabbed a small bottle of jojoba oil and poured an excess into his hand, then handed the bottle to Michael, who did the same.

With neither man visible to her, one hand reached around the curtain and smeared her right breast; another hand reached around the other side and smeared her other breast with the thick jojoba. She let out a cry of shock and pleasure as the oiled hands grabbed her 34c tits and furiously rubbed the oil into her whole torso, mapping the contours of her hips, ass, tummy, the tuft-temple of pubis, dodging the radiantly spicy warmth of her well-readied vagina. The hands lifted and dropped her ripe, nipple-hard tits, gorgeously foreign with those large brown silver dollars. Now she rode her jellied dick with the sexual glory of knowing that these boys were worshipping her. They oiled their veiny pricks and stroked smooth and long, and they stepped into the shower, each cock pressed against a respective cheek. They pushed her against the shower wall, her tits cold against the tile, and resisted the urge to fuck her wildy from behind. Instead, they continued as they were, stroking their lengths as her ass pushed back into them begging to get filled from behind--asshole or cunt, either guy, either hole. Just fill.

All three of them were nearing climax, and so Michael moved in front of Maggie, who, never looking up once, gobbled up his cock as soon as it was in sight; John rammed into her moist tunnel, burying his inches until nothing was left, then teasingly withdrawing to leave only the thick tip at the entranceway.

"Tug my hair, Johnny!" she begged. "Please take the reins and fuck me like a pony!" At these words John thudded her ass so that it was as a cascade of flesh, pure liquid bouncing off his hips. The slap of flesh and water made everyone even more animal. Michael requested that he and John switch so that he could have a taste of her pie. He moaned as his dick dipped easily into her hungry twat, and then he too fucked her silly. The men took turns fucking her like this, and Maggie flatteringly obliged. As John pumped her, her hand hummed left and right over her clit as woman cum dribbled down her thigh and onto his precumming cock, mixing white with white in their desperate fucking.

"I'm cumming!" screamed Michael. "Mmmm! Shoot it down my fucking throat, Mike. Gimme that lava-white cream!" Maggie desperately yelled as she let up on his cock. His first stream shot into her forehead and hair, but she dipped down deeply on his head to ensure that no other wave would leave her mouth. Now a stream of cum was showering the back of her throat. John gave no vocal indication that he was cumming, but she could tell by his desperate last pumps that he was about to make a sticky deposit. A rope of semen gooed her cervix and creamed the walls of her hungry, slick trap of a cunt, sputtering in an endless wave of warmth. Her walls gripped desperately on John's pole, convulsing with endless clenches of simultaneous orgasm, shuddering as she had to hold onto Michael and the edge of the bath to maintain balance. She pulled him out, tapped him on her cheek.

Maggie sat both men down in the spacious shower and began licking up their cum, scooping cream from her pussy and trailing it about her hard nips. She sucked their oversensitive dicks to bring them to hard life again. She straddled John and Michael's laps, waving her labia over their soft manhoods as if she were being eaten out. Finally, blood came back to them, and their rides were ready for reverse cowgirl and ready to spank and jiggle her plump ass in sexual awe. Before Maggie rode her boys, the three of them looked at each other, smiling a strange combination of embarrassment, lust, and compassion. The redness in their eyes was noticeable. She dipped down to kiss their foreheads, then hopped aboard her first ride.

As she straddled Michael's hard prick, his hands groping her cum-smeared tits, she quoted her favorite philosopher in a subdued tone: "Was that life? Well then--once more!" Her hips bucked as she pushed herself off Michael's broad chest, his hands guiding her brown buttocks that slapped on his hairy thighs. She took her thick ass cheeks and spread them, lustfully eyeing John and telling him to get the Vaseline. Both of them were to enter her; both of them to fill her up.