“You, Mr. Early Bird,” she said, assuming the confident V.P.of-marketing tone that served her so well at the office. “Eat my pussy.”
To facilitate her command, she hiked the negligee up over her thighs and spread her legs wide.
Someone whistled.
“Aw, man, I love wet pussy,” sighed another.
“Yeah, nice pink twat. You’re a lucky man, even if you have to wear a raincoat.”
“I thought the winner was the one who held out.” That was the youngster.
“We all win,” Sam assured him. “You’ll see.”
Mr. Early Bird was now scooting up between her legs. He had a broad frame and Miranda had to stretch her legs wider to accommodate him. The high slits of the negligee tore farther up toward her waist. She moaned, exhilarated by the sound of heedless destruction, the proof of her descent into pure wantonness.
The man grabbed her heels and placed them on his shoulders. The heat of his body oozed through the soles of her feet, melting her calf and thigh muscles. He began to lick. The latex grew warm. Miranda had come to enjoy this slightly muffled sensation, as if he were pleasuring her through thick cotton panties.
She whimpered and clutched at the sheet.
“What does she want the rest of us to do?” the young man fretted.
“Figuring that out is part of the fun.” Sam laughed.
“She wants us to get her very, very messy,” explained the jocular guy.
“I’ve never seen a real woman who enjoys a money shot like she does,” agreed the smooth voice.
“Yeah, this one’s really into it,” said Brooklyn. “Sometimes she shoots her own puddle on the bed as if she’s taking notes from us.”
Miranda let out a soft “Oh,” half in shame—the man was right that she left quite a mess herself—and half in delirium from the overwhelming bounty of attention. So many men were gazing at her, wanting her. Even through the blindfold, she could feel their glowing eyes stroke her skin. Their rude, nasty comments aroused her like perfectly calibrated spankings on her most secret flesh. Nor could she find fault with the agile tongue working her clit through the latex. If she let herself go, she could easily come soon, but she was still too blank, too clean.
“Hey, Early Bird. Stop.” The warmth between her thighs receded with a disappointed smack of lips. “Now, whoever jerks off on me before I count to ten takes his place.”
Someone snorted a protest, but soon enough the air was alive with new sounds: determined panting, soft moans and the clicking cricketlike song of hands yanking swollen dicks.
Miranda counted out the numbers, her voice unsteady. One…Two….
At eight, her left hip was pelted with hot rain. This was immediately followed by a copious eruption that sprayed across the hollow of her rib cage and another shower on her arm and shoulder.
Her body jerked, as if enduring a series of rapid blows.
Fingers plucked another dental dam from her side. “My turn, sweetheart.”
“Can I come on her again?” asked the young man.
“Oh, to be twenty-one again,” Brooklyn teased.
“Go ahead,” Sam said. “She likes it. The more jizz, the better.”
The second man was crawling up on the bed now. He tilted her thighs up so that her feet dangled in the air. Stretching the dam tight over her vulva, he went right to work, nipping her clit gently through the thin barrier.
Her belly began to throb, a pulsing nova in her groin. She couldn’t hold back much longer. This next part was tricky, but they hadn’t let her down yet.
“Come on me,” she barked, “Shoot your wad in the next two minutes or you have to take your aching balls back home with you.”
“Bossy bitch, isn’t she?”
“Better get to work,” Sam said cheerfully. “I’ve got my stop-watch on.”
A new voice to Miranda’s right gave a grunt, as if he’d been punched. With a growling “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he glazed her right side with spurts of hot cream.
“Watch out, you got me.”
“Sorry, man, sorry.”
Brooklyn, at her left shoulder, let out a high-pitched yelp and ejaculated over her chest, knocking against the bed rhythmically with each spasm.
“Excuse me, if I may, I’ve got a present for the lady.” The smooth, moneyed voice spoke with uncharacteristic urgency. Within moments new arcs of jism joined the growing deposit on her chest.
“That’s seven,” Miranda said. “Who’s left?”
“I am.”
She should have known it would be Sam. Naturally a good host would make sure his guests’ needs were satisfied before he claimed his own.
“Come on the pearls. Shoot all over them,” she ordered.