I push the door open and the picture is instant: our sissy perched in front of the mirror, lips parted, admiring herself with dreamy eyes instead of doing what she was born for. The lipstick trembles in her hand the second she meets our stares in the reflection. She doesnt speak. She already knows. My Mistress friend shuts the door with a dull thud. In two strides we grab the latex ponytail tails of her mask, yank her from the chair, and drop her flat on the cold floor. Her breathing shortens; her eyes lock on the clear funnel in my hand. I slowly stroke my swollen belly, then my friend does the same. She understands exactly whats coming. To make it harder, we decide she doesnt swallow right away. First we fill the funnel with thick, deliberate spitsone slow glob after anotheruntil the tube holds a trembling column of warm, stringy saliva. Then the real fun begins. I go first. A strong, golden stream shoots up fast, nearly overflowing the rim. The funnel cant hold everything I have to give. Drink. She gulps frantically, throat convulsing, tears welling as the liquid floods her mouth and slides down. The second its empty, I start again. Now my friend takes over; her jet mixes with the last drops of mine, creating a hot, salty, slightly foamy cocktail. Perfect blend. She swallows and swallows, but a thin trickle finally escapes the corner of her lips and hits the floor. Mistake. We seize the ponytail tails, flip her face-down, and press her cheek into the little puddle she just made. Her tongue scrapes the marble, chasing every drop of our piss and spit while we keep her pinned. When the floor gleams again, we stand. We leave her lying there, soaked in our scent, mask dripping, breath ragged. Keep admiring yourself, slut, I say, pulling the door shut. But from the floor. We walk out laughing. Lesson over.
