We decide to spare the house: bathroom occupied, bladders full. One minute on the terrace, November air sharp enough to dry anything. My friend and I drag the slave by his collar and drop him flat on the fake-grass mat. Supine, wrists tied wide, ankles spread, black briefs yanked to mid-thigh. The plastic blades scratch his back; hes already shivering. Sniff, we order. I lower first: ass on his nose, pussy sealing his mouth. His tongue darts, frantic. My friend straddles his chest and unleashes: a hot golden jet that hits his sternum, streams over nipples, pools in his navel, then spills straight onto his cock and balls. He breathes me in deeper while his shaft stiffens under our warm rain. Switch. She plants herself on his face; her scent floods him. I aim: a steady ribbon that starts on his pecs, washes every ridge, finishes soaking his cock until it glistens and twitches. Two more quick rounds, four targeted showers, every drop landing on chest and cock. The mat gleams like a puddle of tea; he reeks of us from ribs to thighs. Perfect, I say, tugging his ear. We step inside, door locked, heat on full. He stays sprawled on the fake lawn, chest and cock steaming in the cold, piss dripping slow. Wind dries the streaks into shiny trails. And hes grinning, the idiot. Tomorrow the bathroom will be occupied again.
