The first thing that struck me was the cavernous sense of vacancy I felt at the sudden absence of male flesh all around, and in, me. Never before was I so aware of how the very purpose of the vagina is to be filled by a cock. It may be that my other orifices (ass and mouth) are not, strictly speaking, designed for that purpose; but the ease with which a cock can slip into them had given me the feeling--during the three or more hours of this incredible session--that my whole body had no other reason for existence than to accommodate the male organ. And now, I felt strangely empty and incomplete.
As I peered up bleary-eyed to see who it was that had uttered those words--so gentle but so authoritative--that had put an end to what can only be called a good old-fashioned gangbang, I saw a figure looming over me who seemed not so much human as... godlike.
Gazing down at me with an expression filled with both tenderness and alarm was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen in my life. He was a light-skinned Black man, and he was fully clothed; but that didn't prevent him from exhibiting his impressive height (just above six feet tall), his broad, muscular shoulders, and the velvety skin of his arms and legs. But it was his face--Omigod, the face! If there ever was such a thing as a Black Adonis, this was it. The features were exquisitely shaped as if by a master sculptor: they were even and regular, with just a hint of flaring nostrils; his lips were so achingly seductive that I instantly yearned to place my own on them, or have his fasten themselves to every part of my body.
"Who are you?" I whispered--it was all I could manage.
"My name is Julius, ma'am," he replied in his resonant baritone. "Julius Wethers."
That named evoked a dim memory in me. Although I didn't have the slightest interest in sports at our college, I'd heard this man being talked about quite a bit. He was a "wide receiver" (I gather that means he catches balls thrown by the quarterback), and apparently one of the best in our state--perhaps one of the best in the whole country.
He bent down and cast a glance over my body, drenched in sweat and come. It was odd that I didn't feel at all embarrassed at his intense gaze at my nudity. Maybe it was because of all the other guys who'd seen me naked--and done something about it. Or it may be that, even at that early stage, I sensed in him something of a savior. I wasn't sure I needed saving; but if I did, he was the one to do it.
"Ma'am," he said in a tone of mingled apology and disapproval, "you're kind of messy."
"Thank you," I said as tartly as I could. What the hell was I to do about it? He had some ideas.
"Maybe you should get in the shower to wash off all the..." He didn't need to specify.
"That sounds like a good idea, except that I don't think I can walk that far." The bathroom was across the landing, about twenty feet away. But my legs felt like spaghetti: if I took a single step, I'd probably fall on my face.
He understood my difficulty--and, in a single motion, stood up and scooped me up in his arms. I was, proverbially, light as a feather to him. No doubt he could bench-press 400 pounds, or something like that. He expressed a bit of distaste in holding me under the back and legs: some of the come on me had already dried and left long white streaks that were flaking off. Other male bodily fluids were still wet. The aroma of sex on my body was overwhelming.
He carried me to the bathroom and turned on the shower. In seconds it was pretty hot, as I could see steam billowing from the bathtub.
"Can you stand up?" he said.
"I don't think so," I said.
"There's a little bar over there."
He was referring to a towel bar on the inner wall of the bathtub. As he placed me in the tub, I clutched at the bar with both arms, hooking them into it so I could remain more or less upright. My back was to him, so I couldn't see what he was doing. In fact, he was doing nothing, just letting the hot water cascade over me and wash away some of the gunk on my body.
It felt good, but I sensed that it wouldn't be enough.
"Julius," I said shyly, "I think I'd like to be lathered up. With soap. You're going to have to do that--and that means you'll probably have to get into the shower with me."
My unspoken comment was:
You'll have to get naked to do that.
Since I was hanging on to that towel bar, my face almost pressed up against the wall, I could only hear what Julius was doing. But it was clear to me that he was in fact getting undressed. Within a minute, I sensed that he had joined me in the bathtub, and then he began using his hands--not a washcloth--to wash the accumulated grime and sweat and semen off of me with soap from a dispenser. He did my shoulders and my back, and then he bent down to pay attention to my thighs, calves, and feet.
Then he did something odd.
He parted the cheeks of my bottom and devoted a lot of time to clearing out whatever remnants of male discharge still remained in my anus. I felt him use his long fingers to open up that cavity to let the thick fluid drip out of me; and, just to make sure I was entirely clean, he actually inserted two fingers into the aperture and, with a kind of twirling motion, expelled some final bits of his teammates' emissions and let them get washed away by the continual spray of the shower.
He got to his feet and said, in that gentle but commanding voice of his, "Okay, ma'am, maybe you should turn around now."
I did so very carefully, still clinging to the towel bar but now exposing my front to him. He was inches away from me, and when I saw him I nearly fainted. My knees buckled, and if I hadn't been holding on to that bar for dear life, I'm sure I would have slid to the floor of the bathtub.
If, while clothed, Julius already gave the impression of being an imposing physical specimen, naked he looked like nothing short of a deity. That bronzed complexion, broad shoulders, impressive musculature on his chest, stomach, and thighs, and the strong calves and feet showed him to be a giant among men.
But it was that large and expanding phallus jutting out of his abdomen that inevitably drew my eyes to it, the way a snake hypnotizes a mouse it is about to devour.
When erect (and it was close to that now), it must have measured about ten inches. I'm not sure it was the largest cock I'd ever seen, but it was quite a bit larger than any of the twenty-five male organs that had invaded my body that night.
He looked down at it himself with a kind of embarrassed regret, as if he needed to apologize both for its size and for the mere fact that it was getting hard. The last thing in the world he wanted to do, it seems, was to imitate his teammates and poke me with that monstrous thing.
As if to distract his and my attention, he at once began washing my front. I suppose he could be excused for paying such close attention to my breasts, taking each of them with both hands and lathering them up as if he himself was generating an ongoing emission just as his friends had done. My breasts are pretty large (36D), so I wasn't surprised that he sometimes licked his lips as he caressed them with his big hands and made sure they were spotless.
