6. The Shower After the Mass
You close the door behind you. The room still smells of cum and cold smoke, but already you peel off the torn stockings, the lace glued to your skin, heavy with dried semen. Your heels click against the tiles as you step into the shower.
When the water bursts out, hot, scalding, it hits your body like a rain of purification. It runs down your face, washing away the streaks of dried cum, diluting the mascara that had blackened your cheeks. Your lips still hold the salty taste of dozens of loads, but little by little the water rinses, soothes.
You run your hands over your belly, your thighs, your ass still tender, marked by the night. Your fingers brush your hole — swollen, sore, but vibrating with lingering pleasure. You close your eyes. The water becomes caress. Your bare breasts stiffen under the jet, your nipples hard, still begging for attention.
And slowly, alone, you touch yourself. Not like in the middle of screams and cocks, but like a fragile girl waking up. Your fingers slide between your legs, stroke your sex, play with the cum still leaking out of you, washed away by the water. You moan, a soft girly whimper echoing off the tiles.
You climax one last time, in silence, alone, standing there, the water muffling your cry. Your own semen joins that of the others, spiraling down the drain like a final offering.
Then you breathe. Long, deep. You lean against the wall, the water streaming over your reddened, calmed skin. You smile, tired but happy. In this moment of solitude, you are no longer the priestess of orgies, nor the living host: you are simply yourself, a secret girl who washes, who caresses, who is reborn. 🌸💫💖
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