The sisters collapsed onto the floor in a lazy sprawl, their slick bodies still glistening in the steam.
Still panting, he staggered to his feet, hoping to get his circulation moving—but his cock had other plans. Somehow, tasting their juices had made him hard again. His erection pointed stiffly at the girls, and when he glanced down, his eyes widened.
The waifu tattoos were still there.
After all that wet saliva, intense sucking, licking, and being buried in pussy juice, the stick-on tattoos still hadn't come off? Unbelievable.
The inked faces stared up at him, bold and mocking, as if laughing at his drained state.
The sisters collapsed onto the floor in a weary sprawl, their slick bodies glistening in the steam.
Chad blinked, realising—unbelievably—that tasting their juices had made his boner spring back to life. He staggered to his feet to get his circulation going, but his cock pointed stiffly at them like it had its own ideas.
He glanced down, eyes widening. Both waifu tattoos were still clinging defiantly to his shaft.
Vee and Bibi followed his gaze, their faces flushed, eyes heavy with exhaustion.
"No round three, Chaddy," Vee mumbled, her voice faint and worn out. "Squirting that hard drained us... women need a break after that."
Bibi let out a long breath, her fuller curves slumping against the tiles. "We're spent. Gotta rest."
The two leaned back, catching their breath—their usual fire dulled by sheer, blissful fatigue.
So it's perfectly fine for them to ride me mercilessly and suck me dry right after I climaxed—no time to recover, no break—grinding on my cock while it's still twitching, dragging out every last drop until it's sore, screaming, and completely overstimulated, pushing it past its limit... but now that they've squirted, suddenly it's over?
What about equal rights?
He wanted his revenge and to make the girls pay by humping them both.
He looked at the two sisters. They seemed utterly blissed out, their ahegao faces flushed and wild, as if lost in some delicious, overwhelming pleasure.
There was something hypnotic about the way the liquid flowed from between their legs—the streams crossing and mingling in a way that made his pulse quicken and a strange heat spread through him.
Crossing streams was supposed to be dangerous—or so he'd heard. Maybe it was from Ghostbusters or one of those ghost movies—he couldn't remember. Either way, the warning had never made much sense. Normally, when guys crossed streams, it just meant an awkward moment at the urinals.
Why is he feeling angry?
Then it suddenly hit him: he'd never actually finished inside a woman's vagina before. Not once.
Sure, his dick had been in plenty of mouths, and he'd slid in and out of vaginas before—but when it came to actually finishing inside, he always fell short.
He'd blasted his load over boobs, into mouths—everywhere—but never inside. Somehow, he never came inside their pussies.
That thought twisted inside him like a knot. Did that mean he was technically still a virgin?
If so, he figured maybe he should lose that virginity to his waifu pillow instead. But, well… she didn't exactly have a vagina. So, no cigar.
He looked at the sisters—his face tattoo still stamped across their right boobs—and was struck by how much they were sweating. Way more than any athlete, wrestler, swimmer, or even the POG players, parkour runners, or Yu-Gi-Oh! duellists at Brightwater Academy. He'd never seen girls this soaked before—like, fully drenched in sweat. It was kind of impressive... and weirdly hot.
Then his eyes drifted back to the tattoos. The black ink around his eyes smudged a little, and some of the shading had shifted. It straight-up looked like he'd been punched—his face now bruised and blotchy, like someone had clocked him in the eye. A very sweaty, very boob-shaped black eye.
These tattoos had him seriously worried—what if the mafia—the same mafia that owned this very house—found out he'd just had sex with both of the sisters? What if they walked in right now, beat the crap out of him, and made him look like the booby tattoos?
He looked at the two sisters and stammered, "N-no round three... I… I can't handle it. I mean… My cock can't take another round. I-I gotta go... I need to check on my waifu…"
Chad glanced at the sisters, stammering, "N-no round three… I… I can't handle it. My cock can't take another round. I-I gotta go… I need to check on my waifu…" His voice quavered, his raw shaft throbbed, and the waifu tattoos pulsed like a grim echo of his agony.
"You can leave," Vee panted, her voice faint, barely catching her breath. "We're… satisfied." Her perky frame slumped, drained of energy.
Bibi nodded weakly, her full curves sagging with fatigue. "Clothes… by the valet stand… near the entrance," she gasped, struggling to speak. "Watch… the puddle on the floor…"
Both sisters pointed feebly at the liquid pooled between their legs, their juices still dripping.
"Don't… slip and hurt yourself," Bibi wheezed, her exhausted breaths barely audible in the steamy haze.
"No worries, Super Chad to the rescue!" Chad declared, his voice cracking with strain, his shaft throbbing painfully.
Kneeling, he rubbed the slick puddle into the ceramic tiles as if it were a carpet stain, but it only splashed wider, smearing in chaotic streaks. Grunting, he kicked at the mess. On top of that, it stuck to his feet, making his attempts to scatter it useless. "Ugh... no good," he muttered.
Vee slumped on the floor, too drained to move. "Leave it… I'll call the cleaner later… She's got special tools for this kind of mess."
Bibi, head drooping, rasped like a tired announcer, "Chad zero, puddle one."
He carefully made his way to the valet stand, the slick juices clinging to his feet, turning the polished floor into a slippery trap. Twice he nearly lost his footing, arms flailing for balance as he shuffled forward. His eyes flicked over the neatly folded clothes resting on the valet stand—everything he took off earlier, perfectly arranged and waiting.
He faced the sisters, wincing as he pulled on his boxers, the rough fabric stinging his sore cock like a plaster pressed onto a fresh cut or raw graze.
Vee, slumped and breathless, rasped, "Bye, Karla," her limp hand flopping in a wild, uncoordinated wave.
Bibi, equally drained, wheezed, "Bye, big pee-pee," throwing her arm into an exaggerated arc—like she was waving off a cruise ship.
"Don't leave us too long, big, huge cock," Vee murmured.
"Cum back soooon," Bibi sang faintly.
The mini skirt mafia girls gave his dick a dramatic farewell wave—like it was heading off on some noble quest.
He frowned. Did they just call his dick 'Karla'...? What was that about?
As he pulled on the rest of his clothes—quietly hoping they wouldn't say goodbye to his butt next—his eyes landed on a bright yellow T-shirt with pink lettering, folded neatly at the top of the valet stand.
He picked it up, gave it a quick sniff, then turned to the girls.
"I don't think this is mine..."
Vee, slumped and breathless, panted, "Oh, that's just a special gift from us… It grants you access to any room in this house. You're free to go wherever… without getting into trouble or getting whacked." Her voice was faint, her body sagging with fatigue.
Bibi, drained, nodded weakly. "Use it wisely," she wheezed, her heavy curves slumping as she struggled to catch her breath in the steamy haze.
A free T-shirt? Nice, Chad thought, a faint grin tugging at his exhausted face as he slipped it on and turned toward the exit, the faint scent of vanilla clinging to the fabric. The soft cotton hung loosely over his sweaty frame. Tilting his head, he squinted down to read the upside-down text stretched across the front:
"I just had my dick sucked by the Mini Skirt Mafia sisters."
His jaw dropped at the bold, shameless declaration—how was this even real?
They really wanted him to walk around in this, like it was some kind of badge of honour.
Chad's eyes widened, his face flushing crimson with a mix of shock and embarrassment. That shirt... it didn't just hint—it shouted. It proudly announced his intimate encounter with the sisters, like a badge of honour meant to broadcast his so-called achievement to anyone who happened to glance his way.
But he couldn't even tell if it was supposed to be a badge of honour for him… or for them. It felt more like a label—like he was stamped, filed under 'mission complete'—and they wanted the whole world to see that the sisters had conquered—his cock.
"What were the family members—and the other residents of the home—going to think when he walked around with this on his T-shirt? Just like their father... or one of the other mafia members?"
Sure, it gave him access to every corner of the house—made slipping out easier, no questions asked, no suspicious looks.
But he wasn't about to take a casual tour of the place. Not after what he'd already seen in some of the rooms.
Chad's brain hurt.
It had reminded him of those T-shirts you got from Disneyland—the ones that said,
"I went to Disneyland, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt."
But the one he'd put on was way cruder—more bold.
Still, the vibe had been... oddly familiar.
Maybe they had handed out a different T-shirt if you'd shagged Donald Duck round the back of the teapot ride—who really knows?
The Mini Skirt Mafia sisters, too drained from their ferocious sex to do more than prop themselves up slightly, gasped for air.
Vee, barely lifting her head, croaked, "Thanks for the experience..."
Bibi, struggling to sit up, wheezed slowly, "And… thanks for ALL the cash the mafia's about to rake in from you."
As she spoke those ominous, creepy words, Chad felt like he was about to crap himself. And no, it wasn't from any spicy food, ice cream, or pizza he'd eaten.