From Bedroom to Bathroom

Mami’s fingers drifted lower, tracing the line of his hip bone with a slow, possessive touch.

“Now,” she murmured, voice thick with promise, “time to get you clean, Papi. A proper bath. We’re going to wash every inch of you ourselves.”

The younger girlfriend (still curled against his side, warm skin flushed from sleep) lifted her head and grinned, dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “Sí, bebé. You just lie back and let us take care of you. We’ll do all the work.” She pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone, then another just below it, already shifting to slide out of bed. “Come on, lazy king. Your queens are going to spoil you.”

Mami was already moving, the silk robe slipping off her shoulders and pooling on the floor as she stood. She didn’t bother covering herself; instead, she reached for Peter’s hand, tugging gently. “Up, mi amor. The master bath has that big tub… plenty of room for three.”

Peter let them pull him upright, legs shaky, head still spinning. The younger one slipped behind him, pressing her naked body against his back, arms wrapping around his waist as she nipped at his shoulder. “We’ll start with your hair,” she whispered, lips brushing his ear. “I love washing your hair. Then your chest… your back… everywhere.”

Together they guided him across the bedroom, past the dresser where the breakfast tray still sat (remote hidden safely beneath it, forgotten for now), and into the sunlit en-suite. The air was already steamy; Mami must have started the water while he was half-dozing. The huge soaking tub was filling slowly, fragrant with something floral and warm. Candles flickered on the counter (when had she lit those?).

Mami tested the water with one manicured finger, then turned back to them with a slow, sultry smile. “Perfect temperature. In you go, Papi.”

They didn’t let him do a thing. The younger one eased him down into the deep, steaming water first, then climbed in after him, settling between his legs so he was cradled against her chest. Mami followed, kneeling in front of him, the water lapping at her heavy breasts as she reached for a soft sea sponge and a bottle of scented body wash.

“Close your eyes,” Mami said softly, pouring gel into the sponge until it foamed thick and creamy. “Just feel us.”

And then they began, but not with sponges or washcloths.

Mami smiled that slow, wicked smile, squeezed a generous ribbon of creamy body wash across the tops of her heavy breasts, and rubbed her palms together until thick lather coated her sun-kissed skin. The younger girlfriend followed suit, pouring the gel straight down her cleavage and working it into a rich foam that clung to every curve.

“Hands behind your head, Papi,” Mami ordered softly. “Let us do the work.”

Peter obeyed without thinking, sinking back against the younger one’s chest as she cradled him from behind. Mami leaned forward first, pressing her slick, soapy breasts against his shoulders. She moved in slow, deliberate circles, the soft weight of her sliding over his collarbones, down his chest, the lather spreading warm and silky across his skin. Every time she leaned in, her hardened nipples dragged across his flesh, sending sparks straight to his groin.

The younger one wasn’t idle. She shifted forward, wrapping her arms under his and arching her back so her own firm, foamy breasts pressed flush against his upper back. She rocked gently, washing him with her body, her lips brushing his ear as she hummed that same low Spanish melody. Their gold jewellery clinked softly in the steam.

Mami’s hands finally joined in, but only to guide her breasts lower—over the ridges of his new abs, tracing every line—until she was practically kneeling between his thighs. She looked up at him through wet lashes, then deliberately pressed her slick cleavage around his now-throbbing erection.

Peter groaned, hips jerking involuntarily.

“Shh, tranquilo, bebé,” she purred, and began a slow, deliberate glide—up and down, up and down—using the warm, slippery valley of her breasts to stroke him. The lather made everything impossibly smooth, impossibly filthy. Behind him, the younger one reached around, cupping his balls gently, rolling them in her soapy palms while she nipped at his neck.

They took turns like that: Mami enveloping him completely in her heavier, softer breasts, squeezing them together around his length until he saw stars; then the younger one sliding forward, pressing her pert, foam-covered chest against him from the front while Mami took over from behind, grinding her own slick body against his back and teasing his balls with slippery fingers.

Every time he got close (hips twitching, breath ragged), they slowed, cooing at him in Spanish, kissing his jaw, his throat, his parted lips, until he was trembling on the edge.

Only when the water started to cool did they finally let him tip over. Mami leaned in, took him deep between her breasts one last time, and held him there while the younger one stroked him from root to tip with both lather-slick hands. Peter came with a broken gasp, pulsing hard between Mami’s warm, soft curves, his release mixing with the foam and swirling away into the water.

They held him through it, murmuring praise—“Así, mi rey… tan perfecto… todo para nosotras…”—kissing his temples, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, until the last shudder left his body.

Only then did they rinse him gently with the copper pitcher, warm water cascading over all three of them like a blessing.

The younger one wrapped her arms around him from behind again, resting her chin on his shoulder, breasts still pressed to his back.

“See, Papi?” she whispered, voice husky with satisfaction. “This is your life now. We bathe you. We feed you. We love you.”

Mami cupped his face, kissed him slow and deep, tasting of mint, sex, and utter devotion.

“And tonight,” she promised against his lips, “we do it all again.”