LUDOVICA LUXURY -HUGE GOLDEN SHOWER 2

LUDOVICA LUXURY -HUGE GOLDEN SHOWER 2

My friend and I have been sitting on the couch for hours, sunk into the soft cushions, the room’s air growing heavy as time drags on. Outside, it’s dark, a lazy calm wrapping around us as we chat idly, legs crossed, feet dangling slightly. At our feet, on the rough rug, lies a slave, naked, his pale skin bare with nothing to cover it, his thin body stretched out like a silent offering. He’s been with us all day, still, a shadow awaiting our whims, and we’ve barely noticed him, lost in our chatter and lounging. After so long sitting, the urge creeps in, a slow but persistent need. Our full bladders nag at us, but the bathroom’s far—across the house, too many rooms to cross for a day this relaxed. We lock eyes, a sly grin slipping out without a word. “Why get up?” her look seems to say, and I nod, already amused by the idea forming. “Come here,” I tell him, voice calm but firm, pointing to the floor beneath us. He crawls across the rug, his naked body moving slowly until he lies flat on his back, head near the couch’s edge, eyes down, avoiding ours. I stand first, with a lazy motion, positioning myself over him, legs apart as I slide my panties aside with two fingers. My friend watches, one eyebrow raised, a smirk curling her lips, muttering, “You start,” with a soft chuckle. Then I let go: a warm, steady stream rains down on his bare chest, runs over his stomach, soaks his thighs, his skin prickling under the flow. The sharp, sour smell rises fast, cutting through the stale air, but we don’t care—it’s our game, our laziness winning out. When I’m done, I sit back, adjusting myself casually, and she rises. “My turn,” she says, stepping over him with the same ease. Her stream hits his face, wets his sparse hair, drips down his neck and shoulders, making him squint as rivulets pool on the rug below. She laughs quietly as she goes, and I join in, our amusement growing as we turn him into our human latrine. We cover him like this, taking turns, his naked skin now a patchwork of wet streaks, glistening faintly in the dim lamplight. “Stay there,” I order when we’re done, voice sharp, settling back on the couch. He doesn’t budge, lying soaked, the piss drying slowly on his skin, forming a sticky film that starts to reek—a harsh, acrid stench filling the room. We glance at him now and then, his discomfort pulling a smile from us, his drenched nudity a trophy of our idleness. We stay put, lazy queens, chatting softly, as the smell grows overpowering, pleased we didn’t move an inch.