Shop floor

Your body still quivers from the double onslaught, ass throbbing around the strap-on she hasn't pulled out yet, face sticky with ropes of drying cum that drip down your chin onto your heaving chest. You nod eagerly at her whisper, voice a breathy squeak. 'The shop floor, Mommy... show everyone what a sloppy bimbo slut I am.'

She chuckles low, twisting the harness to grind deeper one last time before yanking free with a wet squelch, your hole clenching on nothing, leaking lube and your own juices down your thighs. She hauls you up by the arm, your legs wobbling like a newborn foal's, and shoves a wad of tissues at you – not to clean up, but to stuff into your mini-skirt pocket. 'Leave it on, Sindi. Let them see how used you are.' The door to the booth swings open, spilling harsh fluorescent light into the dim space, and she drags you out by the hand, your tube top askew, one nipple peeking out like a ripe berry.

The shop floor of Pleasure Palace buzzes with late-night energy, shelves crammed with dildos in every size, vibrators humming in demo modes, racks of lingerie that barely qualify as clothing. A handful of patrons mill about: a couple browsing harnesses, a lone guy in his forties fingering through bottles of lube, and a group of three college-aged dudes laughing over a display of cock rings. Heads turn as you stumble into view, your makeup smeared, lips swollen and glossy with residue, skirt hiked up enough to flash the curve of your ass.

Your wife parades you like a trophy, one arm looped possessively around your waist, her fingers dipping under the hem of your skirt to tease your slick folds in front of everyone. 'Look what I brought, folks,' she announces, voice carrying over the low hum of the store's speakers playing muffled moans. 'My bimbo hubby turned slut for the night. Who's up for a closer inspection?' The college guys freeze, eyes widening as they take in your transformed curves, those fake D-cups straining the thin fabric, hips swaying involuntarily with each step, your clit twitching visibly under the sheer material.

The lone guy steps forward first, bold as brass, his hand shooting out to cup one of your tits through the top, thumb flicking the exposed nipple until it hardens into a peak. 'Damn, these feel real,' he mutters, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp and arch into his palm. Your wife nods approval, pushing you toward him. 'Go on, Sindi, show him how grateful you are.' You drop to your knees right there on the scuffed linoleum, the cold tile biting into your skin, and fumble with his zipper. His cock springs free, average length but thick, veined, already half-hard from the show. You wrap your lips around the head, tongue swirling to clean off the bead of pre-cum, sucking with hollowed cheeks as he groans and threads fingers through your bleach-blonde hair.

The couple watches, the woman biting her lip as her partner slips a hand into her jeans, and one of the college boys pulls out his phone to record, the flash catching the drool pooling at the corners of your mouth. Your wife kneels behind you, hiking your skirt up to expose your ass fully, and spreads your cheeks wide. 'See this? Freshly fucked and ready for round two.' She spits directly onto your puckered entrance, working two fingers in to scissor you open, the squelching sounds obscene over your slurping.

The guy in your mouth thrusts shallowly, feeding you inches while muttering about what a perfect cocksucker you are, and soon the college trio circles closer. One drops his pants, stroking his longer, curved dick inches from your face, waiting his turn. Your wife adds a third finger to your ass, stretching you burningly, then pulls them out to slap your hole lightly, making it wink. 'Who wants to fill her up next? She's got two holes begging for it.' The woman from the couple steps up, shedding her top to reveal perky B-cups pierced with bars, and straddles your back like a saddle, grinding her denim-clad pussy against your spine while reaching down to tweak your swinging breasts.

Cum hits the back of your throat first, the lone guy's load, thinner than the glory hole strangers but just as hot, spilling over as you swallow greedily, coughing up the excess onto his balls. He pulls out, smearing the mess across your cheek, and the curved college cock replaces him immediately, fucking deeper, gagging you with its angle. Behind, your wife guides the second college guy, the stockiest one, to your ass, his blunt head nudging your rim before he pushes in slow, inch by inch, until his hips meet your cheeks with a smack. The stretch burns deliciously, fuller than the strap-on, and you moan around the dick in your mouth, vibrations making the boy buck.

The woman on your back leans forward, capturing your wife's mouth in a hungry kiss over your head, their tongues tangling as hands roam, hers on your wife's ass, yours wife's slipping into the woman's jeans to finger her roughly. The third college guy kneels beside you, jerking off furiously, his free hand pinching your clit until tears prick your eyes from the overload. Bodies press in, the air thick with sweat and musk, the store's mirrors reflecting the gangbang from every angle: your bimbo form impaled front and back, tits bouncing with each dual thrust, face a ruin of spit and semen.

They rotate you like a spit-roast, the stocky guy pulling out to let the third take his place in your ass, slimmer but faster, pistoning like a jackhammer, while the woman dismounts to shove her soaked panties into your hand, making you sniff them as you suck. Your wife orchestrates it all, whispering filth in your ear between kisses with strangers, her strap-on back on and teasing your pussy now, threatening to make it a true airtight seal. Orgasms rip through you in waves, pussy clenching on air, ass milking cock after cock until cum leaks from both ends, pooling beneath you.

As the group tires, panting and spent, your wife hauls you up again, your body a limp ragdoll smeared in fluids, skirt ruined, top torn. 'What next, my perfect whore?