The bell dings. The elevator door slides open. Two voluptuous seniors from LSU—one dark, the other pale—step out and stroll past the registration desk. The hotel clerk glances up and raises his chin. His narrow eyes follow the boom-da-boom as the two girls swan past the vending machines and side-step an overfilled luggage cart, parked sideways across the corridor.

Ignoring the glares from bystanders, they push through the gilded doors to the Marriott’s Grand Ballroom uninvited. Inside, the throbbing sounds of the DJ’s bass are pounding through the dance floor. Their generous DD breasts complement each deliberate footstep as they flash their card keys to a thirty-something doorman, who motions them on, boom-da-boom.

Ashley Martin’s flight is already booked for a European tour—only 48 hours away—as she embraces the ambiance in daring party attire: black fishnet stockings with diamond patterns stretching across her smooth, porcelain thighs, and black knee-high boots with four-inch heels. Her bleached-blonde hair—highlighted yesterday—is a tiger’s riot raging around her high cheekbones.

Laura Citron—the party aficionado—wears a leopard-print halter top and a tight, white mini-skirt that accentuates her smooth, nude legs. Taller and tan, Laura is known back at LSU as that crazy brunette chick who always pushes boundaries at parties, disappearing drunk, and then reappearing bare-assed naked to showcase her latest karate skills.

She’s the one girlfriend that Ashley always counts on to organize their wayward weekend plans. After all, it was Laura's wild idea that two sexy seniors—home in Fort Worth for spring break— could waltz into an alumni party uninvited, party all night, get Ashley laid before her European departure, and crash in private rooms. And it was Laura who planned the card key strategy after a Tinder date last summer with an ex-member of the security staff.

Beneath the sparkling disco ball, Ashley and Laura employ stripper-style dance moves, flaunting their DD breasts, and presenting their finest come-fuck-me-now-faces, which attracts a large circle of slam-dunk Casanovas who strain to hear their playful banter:

"Girl, you look like a goddess! Those fishnets are killer!" Laura shouts above the throbbing bass, twirling Ashley around on the floor and slapping her backside with a friendly girlfriend slap.

"Thanks! I think I’m ready for a magic carpet ride tonight," Ashley winks, her New Orleans upper-class mannerisms drawing the lure of two well-dressed men, slumped low in their seats at a nearby table with eyes trained on the two mysterious girls. Ashley makes eye contact, shifts on her four-inch heels, her bracelets catching the disco light, an elegant touch to her gypsy-like veneer.

Both girls cup manicured hands below their DD breasts and shake their exposed shoulders, daring all the horny guys within a twenty-foot radius to keep pace with their sexy antics. And as Ashley baits her hunting trap, she kicks off her cumbersome high-heeled boots, sets them aside, and continues to dance barefoot in her black fishnets, feeling the energy pulse through her pale, flat feet as her stockings glide along the smooth granite floor.  

James and Trey, two older men in slacks and shiny loafers, approach Ashley and Laura with Sambuca shots, their eager eyes glued to Ashley’s apple-round ass, her witch-hazel eyes, and her clean, doughy-white cleavage. James, the taller one, takes up the rear, the two men working in tandem. Trey, the better dancer, tries to lead as the two men sway to her Bohemian style.

James leans in, his warm lips grazing the side of Ashley’s neck: "You're hotter than gran’s gumbo!" he whispers, brushing a hand along her back and resting his palm along her bubble-round ass.

"I might let you in later," Ashley winks, her voice playful, a confident smile—whiter than mom’s white sheets—blooming across her face. And when she mentions her room with a small kitchenette, James and Trey exchange glances, their lips puckered to avert a grin.

Ashley notices their glances and takes a step back to create more distance for dramatic effect: "It's Room Two-Three-Seven," she shouts, cupping her hands around her mouth. "That is if you're interested," she winks again, her eyes polished.

Laura leans in, whispers something in Ashley’s ear, and disappears into the elevator with a tall, long-haired, rocker-looking dude. Ashley continues to dance with James and Trey, feeling the power of being pursued. She swaps ass-bumps, jiggles her tits, and suggests that neither of them could handle her, a clear invitation to both men. But for a brief second, she hears her stepmom’s jagged voice: “Trashy! Disgusting! Whore!”

The hotel corridor is a hollow maze as Ashley staggers toward her room at 1:47 AM, her clunky high-heeled boots dangling from her fingertips, the carpet rough against her stocking-covered feet. The door to Room Two-Three-Seven clicks behind her.

She peels away the black lingerie top from her hot, sticky skin. Her denim skirt follows, then her black fishnets, bra, and panties, each item dropping in a crumpled trail toward the king-sized bed, where she sinks into the cool sheets, her blonde hair in shambles and fanning across the pillow.

The triple knock shocks her awake. "Shit," she whispers, bolting upright in the bed—tits jostling. Her bare, manicured feet hit the floor, stooping to scoop up the fishnets, then working her fingers to tug them over her still-damp thighs.

A few quick snaps of her denim skirt. The lingerie top falls over her head—inside out—with her nipples visible through the sheer fabric.

Through the chained lock: James's grin, Trey's sweat-soaked shirt, and ice cubes clinking in a stolen glass. The chain slides free.

"Look what we brought," James says, lifting his glass.

In the low light of the kitchenette, Trey's shadow stretches across the ceramic tile as he excuses himself to the bathroom. James's mouth tastes like whiskey and reefer, his right hand searching below the black lingerie top, drawing slow circles until Ashley’s nipples peak. His breath blows hot against her neck as his left hand slides below her skirt, below the elastic waistband of her fishnets, feeling the satin smoothness of her naked porcelain skin for the very first time. No panties.

The bathroom door clicks open. James's hands reach around Ashley's waist. He clutches the hem of her lingerie top and lifts it clear to her neck in a single sweep. He positions his palms to support both breasts and presents them to Trey like offerings.

"Jesus," Trey whispers, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "Those are perfect!"

"Ain't these the prettiest titties you've ever seen?" James jokes.

Ashley, emboldened now by James's comment, steps to the center of the kitchenette and slides her manicured hands along her hips, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her denim skirt, unsnapping the metal snaps. She stares at James with her witch-hazel eyes as she shimmies the skirt over her hips with a slow, Egyptian twist, letting it fall in a limp heap at her feet. The black fishnets hug her thighs and calves, the diamond patterns highlighting every smooth curve as she steps out of the skirt and takes confident steps toward the king-size bed. She pauses by her purse to reapply her lip gloss, turns on the bedside lamp, and flashes James an approving white smile. 

The sheer interwoven patterns of her fishnet stockings fail to conceal the thick patch of dark hair, a sharp contrast against her pale skin. James moves ahead of her, sprawls on his back on the bed—hands locked behind his head—and watches with hungry eyes as Ashley applies her lip gloss, turns, and moves toward the bed.

She climbs on next to him, kneels between his parted legs, her black fishnets sinking into the white sheets, and smiles at the tented bulge straining against his zipper. "Looks like you've been waiting for this all night," she whispers, and nibbles her lower lip.

She unzips his fly, fingers deft and practiced, and tugs his gray slacks down only enough to free the full mast of his cock. James groans as she squeezes her hand around the base, thumb swirling at the tip, her other hand braced against his inner thigh.

Ashley leans in and brushes her cheek over the circumcised head, teasing him with feather-light flicks of her tongue. She trails around the tip in slow, lazy circles across the sensitive ridges, heat rising in her cheeks as she gauges his reaction with every twitch and groan.

"You like that?" she teases, her lips grazing the shaft as she speaks, her breath a warm cascade of water against his exposed skin. James can only nod, his hands gripping the sheets, knuckles pale, eyes closed.

Trey, standing at the foot of the bed, observes the scene with open astonishment and barely-contained arousal, his metal belt buckle hitting the floor. He begins to stroke himself over his boxers, anticipation rising as he watches Ashley claim James's cock with her glossy pink lips and manicured fingers. Ashley glances back at Trey, catching his eye, and gives him an assuring wink as she takes James deeper into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing with the sucking motion.

James's hips push up, his breath coming in short bursts. Ashley grins around his cock, relishing the feel of power, of being the center of attention.

She slides back, letting the shaft slip from her mouth with a wet pop. "Your turn!" she commands, tilting her head toward Trey, who grins back, dropping his boxers down to his ankles. He's already hard and leaking from the tip, and Ashley responds with a soft giggle.

She shifts her weight, rolls onto her back, and pulls Trey down for a forceful, urgent kiss, but she keeps her lips closed—stops short of swapping any tongue. Trey's hands are busy beneath her lingerie top, squeezing her breasts and smoothing his palm over her rosebud peaks, her stingy tongue a minor detail.  

James, confident now of Ashley's desire to fuck them both, yanks her lingerie top up to her neck, exposing her large areolas to the cool air-conditioned air and Trey's hungry hands. The two men exchange a glance, and they both begin kissing the landscape of her body—James from her lips, with no tongue swap, and Trey nuzzling at her stomach and hips, moving down to her feet, taking her stocking-swaddled toes into his mouth, and wishing for a moment that the stockings were gone. 

Ashley writhes between them, her entire body electrified, rolls to her side, and throws a leg over to straddle James. She lifts her heart-shaped ass, hooks a thumb into the web of her fishnets, and yanks a ragged hole in the crotch, exposing the dark tangles of pubic hair below. James wastes no time, lining himself up for entry, rubbing the head of his cock along her wet slit, teasing her until she tosses her head back, her bleached-blonde hair trailing down her back.

And while James is moaning like a little girl, Trey steps out of his boxers, which are still tangled around his ankles, and climbs into bed to join the action. Ashley struggles to expand the hole in her fishnets a bit more, making it even larger, then leans forward on her knees and slowly guides James's cock to home base.

"I want both of you inside of me," she begs through hot breath, eyes closed, her ass gliding up and down, taking more of James’s cock with every wave of her slow movement. She wonders what Barbara would think of her now, what Catholic criticisms she would hurl: “Total slut!”

Trey climbs into bed and positions his cock behind Ashley's undulating ass, surveys the soft undersides of her stockinged feet, her toes curved against the white sheets, and James’s shaft appearing and disappearing. He spits on his cock, rips the ragged hole in her stockings a bit more, and begins to insert the tip—little by little—into her asshole. He watches her freckled shoulder blades fold together as she curves like a cat to accommodate both cocks, and he applies more saliva as needed.

Ashley makes a tiger’s face, squeezes her lashes tight, her hips rolling with a slow, practiced rhythm as Trey smacks her backside with a loud slut-smack—loud enough for any passersby to hear—and pushes his cock deeper.  He strains against her anal muscles until his cock is entirely inside of her. "Such a good whore . . . goddamn, you’re tight . . . fuck!"

"Christ, your pussy is hot," James mumbles through strained breath from below, “and wet!” He grips the soft saddles of Ashley's hips and thrusts his torso upward against her steady, well-rehearsed movements. He can feel Trey's shaft above, moving against his own, but in the opposite direction.

"Keep it slow like that," Ashley whispers, her lashes closed, her instructions calm as though fucking two guys at once was her morning coffee routine, her breasts rocking like water balloons with each deliberate movement, and her nipples rosebud peaks.

Trey finishes fast, his body straining as he grips Ashley's hips with bruising intensity, his own hips hammering hard and fast against her backside. He explodes, slops out of her ass, and rolls off the bed, leaving a smeared brown stain on the bleached-white sheets.

And as Trey washes up in the bathroom, James repositions Ashley onto her back, grabs the hem of her lingerie top, peels it over her head, and tosses it to the floor. He yanks her fishnets down to her hips, over her praline thighs, knees, and past the tips of her glossy-painted toes, seeing her wholly barefoot and naked for the very first time.

He pushes her porcelain-white legs into a V-shape. Yet, he pauses to admire her vintage naked form—her dark tangles, her jasmine tattoo—before climbing aboard and shoving his cock into her pussy again. He drives into her hard and steady as her butter-white legs clamp around his torso, and her ankles lock behind his back.

Trey returns from the bathroom, his cock semi-hard again, and props a foot against the mattress to watch Ashley's toes make white-knuckled fists, her burgundy-enameled toenails gleaming under the bright bedside lamp. James continues the assault on Ashley’s pussy, his ass working overtime as his balls slap against her naked porcelain skin. He makes one hail-Mary push before pulling out with a guttural groan and jacking his hot cum across her hairy bush.

Spent, James falls to his side on the mattress, rolling over the brown smudge as he struggles to catch his breath. Trey leans over the bed, and while masturbating, he takes Ashley's naked, manicured toes into his mouth, and swirls his tongue between the soft spaces of flesh, tasting the salt and the left-behind traces of nylon from the fishnets.

"I like that," she whispers. "Finger me some more," comes her gargled request.

The room smells like sex and alcohol as Trey sinks into the mattress again, leans up on his elbow beside Ashley, and combs his calloused fingers through her dark tangles, finds her sweet spot, and slides three fingers into her cum-slickened slit. He works on her G-spot, but her body is lifeless. Eyes closed. Asleep.

Trey kneels beside her, continues masturbating, and cums again, but less this time. He shakes and squeezes the last few fragments of his hot seed across Ashley’s bare, manicured feet, and smears it like lotion over her ankles and between her smooth, burgundy-enameled toes.  

James and Trey scramble for their clothes, both men dressing like bandits fleeing a crime scene. Ashley is sprawled across the jumbled sheets with one arm resting over her forehead, toenails gleaming, cum glistening—the tortured fishnets surrendered on the floor—and a satisfied smile playing on her lips as both men slip out the door of Room Two-Three-Seven without a single goodbye.

In the morning, as she's packing for Europe, Ashley can feel the soreness in her ass. Her hair has crusted patches, and her feet are sticky. But James and Trey are only a memory, another notch on her bedpost of fame. She calls Laura, “We did everything! I fucked them both! And my ass is SO! . . . FUCKING! . . . SORE! . . . Let's have lunch!”