LUDOVICA LUXURY -OUR SIGNATURE -hd
The afternoon is lazy and muggy. My friend and I decide to break in our novice human toilet. We make him lie naked on the floor, the cold tiles under his back reminding him right away where he belongs.
We start slow, no rush. My friend squats over his face first. She releases a warm, slow, heavy stream straight into his mouth. He opens wide, swallows in rhythm, eyes half closed in pleasure. Not a drop escapes; he gulps with obvious gratitude.
Then her body tenses slightly. A wet, deep sound, and the mess comes without warning: yellowish, soft, almost creamy. My friend does not stand up. She stays crouched and feeds it to him directly. She lets the first dense, warm portions drop right onto his open tongue, then pushes gently to release more, controlling the flow.
She fills his mouth little by little. One lump after another coats his palate, swells his cheeks, and starts oozing from the corners of his lips. The sweet acrid smell floods the air in seconds.
His eyes snap wide in pure terror, mouth already full and unable to close. He gurgles loudly, trembles uncontrollably under her, tries to hold it, but after barely two minutes he breaks. He spits it all out in a disgusting gush, yellowish splatters running down his chin, neck, and chest.
My friend rises slowly, a calm cruel smile on her face. She bends toward the floor, picks up a small piece of the spat out mess with two fingers, still warm and sticky, and locks eyes with him. Without a word she brings it to his lips. He hesitates for a split second, but she presses it against his mouth, made him open again.
She feeds it to him deliberately, sliding the fragment inside with her index finger until she feels it settle on his tongue. He coughs, swallows with difficulty, tears streaking his face, but he gets it down. The taste makes him shudder, yet his cock throbs harder against his stomach.
The moment he finishes swallowing, my friend does not waste time. With fingers still filthy she gathers the rest of the leftover mess from his chest and the floor, that warm, dense remainder, and starts smearing it slowly over him.
First across his chest, wide deliberate strokes covering his pecs and sternum in a glossy, sticky layer. Then lower: she takes more and spreads it straight onto his cock and balls, wrapping his erect shaft in the soft cream, sliding her hand up and down slowly while he moans quietly. Every pass makes him dirtier, more marked, more hers.
Only after coating him thoroughly does she start writing. Still using her fingers, still using that same yellowish paste she just smeared on him, she traces her name first across his chest, elegant, deep letters that sink into the mush and leave permanent grooves.
Then, without pausing, she adds my name right beside hers. Every stroke is slow and precise. Her fingers glide over his heaving chest, pressing hard to make it cling to his skin, turning his torso into a permanent brand of ownership. Two names, handwritten by her, declaring exactly who this ruined body belongs to.
He breathes short and ragged, eyes fixed on the ceiling, chest trembling under our signatures.
My friend steps back a moment, looks down at him with a satisfied smile, then orders him firmly: jerk off with what is on you. Use what we smeared on your cock.
He obeys instantly. His right hand, already coated in the thick cream, grips his shaft and starts sliding up and down. Faster and faster, the wet obscene sound fills the room.
I stay close, watching with a smile as he pumps furiously, smearing his fingers, cock, balls, splattering a little everywhere with each stroke.
When he comes it is explosive: white spurts mixing into the filth on his chest, stomach, and hands.
We leave him there, lying in the puddle, humiliated, marked, and still shaking.
A debut human toilet, already completely ours.
Tomorrow he will be back.
And next time he will have to keep everything inside much longer.
