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Part 2: Everything gets sort of loosey-goosey.
As I suck Mr. Titgrabber’s cock, I feel a pair of thumbs pulling apart my asscheeks. I try not to react; I don’t want to break the spell with Mr. Titgrabber.
Then I hear someone hack, and I hear them spit. I feel a feeling of cool slickness trickling down the crack of my ass, over my anus. I feel a thumb circling it, tracing a smear of spit over the ridged muscle. The slippery rubbing feels good, like a tiny massage.
The circling thumb disappears and is shortly replaced by what is unmistakably the pressing head of a penis.
I try to nod my approval. They never tell you that nodding and pumping look the same when you have a cock in your mouth. I grunt instead, gurgling in my throat before I feel the pressing dickhead push itself inside me. I don’t know if anyone even knows I tried to say “yes.”
I freeze up and gulp down a yelp. The pain of entry is uncomfortable. But it’s not bad–I don’t think it’s bad.
I didn’t have time to relax myself. No time to clamp down and release, to ease the insertion. I wish he’d thought of the lube.
But I’ve been turned on for hours. Everything gets sort of loosey-goosey when I’ve got a day-long horn going. I think my ass is okay with this.
Aside from the haphazard entry, he seems to know what he’s doing. He tipped his cock in at the head, rather than shoving it right in. Pro knowledge for a college boy. He sits still, his dickhead vicegripped in my asshole. He seems to be waiting for me to relax.
As I resume my oral attention to Mr. Titgrabber, I idly speculate that Mr. Anal has had experience at this sort of thing. Maybe not all of it with women.
My head fills with not-implausible fantasies of boys watching porn together, jerking off together, daring each other to make out, fucking on the DL. Frequent cocks in asses. The thought soothes me.
Mr. Anal’s cock is small. I’m grateful. But I also realize that it’s Trent’s friend, the one who was jerking off. It’s definitely not Mr. Bigcock.
He must be satisfied with how relaxed I feel. He starts pushing slowly. The pressure inside my rectum feels incredible.I feel his hip bones make contact. He’s in up to the hilt, just short of poking uncomfortable things.
The dull pain in my anus is melding amorphously with pleasure. My ass stops registering the difference.
The smell of latex and bodyhair blooms in my face with every move I make on Mr. Titgrabber’s cock. His dickhead strokes the back of my tongue, threatening my gag center. My throat sicks up reservoirs of thick spit.
Mr. Anal fucks my ass in slow, shallow strokes. I smell the pleasant, slightly sour smell of anal sex.
My pussy is sopping hot. My inner walls agitate themselves, impatient to be touched. By someone. Something. Anything.
At the moment, completely unattended.
But every Medieval structure has its unfinished cupola.
Spit dribbles from my chin, some of it on my neck, some of it soaking into Mr. Titgrabber’s ballhair, some of it dripping on the floor. My dangling tits sway beneath me.
I hear a groan from behind. I think Mr. Anal just finished. His pumping slows.
He extracts himself with a squishy, farty sound. He slides out, my asshole wringing the loose end of the condom as it passes through.
I’m grateful. Not for the fart–even I find that slightly embarrassing. But I think Mr. Anal’s timely withdrawal saved me from a dry latex burn. I feel the wind on my winking asshole, which, honestly, feels pretty good.
The condom plops to the floor out of the corner of my eye. It’s filled with cum and freckled in shit. A strong aroma of latex, saliva, and ass hits my nose.
Mr. Titgrabber and I are getting somewhere when Mr. Nipple Toucher approaches, hands gloved and lubed. He kneels down and starts patting my vulva from behind. The wet slapping sensation pours through my appreciative genitals.
With his other hand, Mr. Nipple Toucher reaches under me and takes my hooded clit between his knuckles–cold touch of fresh lube and nitrile. It sends a shiver up my spine.
It’s hard to focus on sucking cock when a big, strapping lad has two-handed command of your pussy. Really hard.
But I do try.
I feel Escort bayan something enter my vagina. Mr. Nipple Toucher isn’t waiting around for permission and he doesn’t try to warm me up first. He puts two, maybe three fingers up there, curled towards my bladder from the inside, just about hitting me in the right spot to make me piss myself.
I’m dimly aware of Mr. Backstroker joining us, wrapping me in a loose hug. His hands immediately find my nipples. He’s much rougher than my previous nipple touchers. But my horniness has given my sensitive nipples a powerful tolerance.
Amid all the fingers, I feel breath on my back–Mr. Backstroker, positioned over me with his loose, tit-grabbing hug. I feel him kiss me between my shoulder blades. It seems sweet, until I feel him lick wetly. Then he spits on me outright.
His rapid breathing cools the spit, raising goosebumps from my arms down to my ass. My nipples are hard as rocks in his hands.
Mr. Nipple Toucher has my pussy definitively pre-orgasmic. It’s different from earlier, when Mr. Titgrabber was jilling me off–warmer, duller, not as urgent. It aches persistently, throbbing as it gets bigger.
I’m pretty sure I’m about to piss myself. I try to focus on Mr. Titgrabber. Dragging my lips and tongue up and down his cock, bringing my gag reflex to the brink and back.
But god damn, I am going to piss.
At some point, someone cut the music and our doorway audience is now shoulder to shoulder. I wonder briefly if I look good.
Then I come. I’ve been riding the edge for so long, it almost takes me by surprise.
It isn’t fast and it isn’t hard. It’s more like slow waves. Gentle yet intense, the waves tense my buttcheeks and my legs. For a second, I choke on Mr. Titgrabber’s cock. I cough thick, gummy spit all over it.
And I feel a release. Sticky and warm on my inner thighs, too viscous for piss. The soft sizzle of liquid dribbling on coarse carpet. The orgasm hums through me with a dull intensity. It seems like forever before it subsides.
More clapping, more cheering.
Mr. Nipple Toucher laughs, pleased with his handiwork. I catch something on his breath.
Vodka. Bastard.
I’m not sure if I’ve pissed, squirted, or both. It’s hard to know when you’ve never done it before.
I feel mortified and suddenly very exposed–I still have a cock in my mouth, on the verge of ejaculation. A whole partyful of people have their eyes on my every roll, stretch mark, and strand of bodyhair.
And I just… relieved myself, in front of them.
Well-trained mental muscles spring into action. They eroticize the humiliation and the exhibition, as they have with so many things before. My horny brain feasts upon them. I feel bold again.
The mortification passes quickly. Mr. Titgrabber’s still in front of me. And his cock is still in my mouth.
I must have giggled, because Mr. Backstroker giggles back. He still holds my dangling tits in his warm hands. Mr. Nipple Toucher is reclining on an elbow, as if he’s the one who just came.
I almost feel sorry for Mr. Titgrabber. I feel like I’ve had him on the edge for a long time, but everyone else keeps interrupting and grabbing all the attention. I glance at his eyes. He doesn’t seem too upset about it.
Mr. Backstroker releases my tits and retreats to watch while I suck Mr. Titgrabber’s cock.
It doesn’t take long before Mr. Titgrabber grunts, piglike, and the reservoir tip of his condom plumps with semen. I hold him steady, a little shaky myself, but solemn in my duty to shepherd him through.
He shoots rope after rope, his cock is convulsing with each emission. For a moment, I worry that the latex will burst and drown me in cum.
Then the convulsions subside and his body instantly relaxes.
I hold his cock in my mouth until it feels just a little chubby, then I let him go. For a second, a spider’s web of stringy spit connects us.
He slumps down and sits next to Mr. Nicecock–my first two meals of the night. Mr. Titgrabber has forgotten his pants; the condom droops loosely from his limp dong.
Some moments seem to hang in the air, letting you bask in them. On elbows and knees, I marinate in a combination of afterglow, Bayan escort pallid fluorescent light, and a dozen gazes.
There must have been some silent communication that I wasn’t privy to. Mr. Nipple Toucher and Mr. Backstroker haul me by my arms to my feet. They have me standing, full frontal to our doorway audience. They spill into the room from outside, staring uninhibitedly, drinking in the sight of me.
They run their eyes over me. My body hair, every roll, every stretch mark–every detail of my naked body, stippled with spit and lube.
Mr. Nipple Toucher and Mr. Backstroker let their free hands roam. Stroking, poking, prodding my body for the amusement of all. They pinch my nipples, slap the undersides of my tits, spread my labia. Mr. Backstroker takes extended enjoyment in rubbing and squeezing the soft pouch of fat above my pubis.
They turn me around. One of them bends me over, the other makes a show of my asshole and labia. Expert cooperation.
I hear them murmuring, a voyeuristic commentary both complimentary and demeaning, much of it profane.
The boys have me propped up there for what feels like forever.
Out of the corner of my eye, Mr. Anal is sitting on the floor, jerking off again. Somehow, it feels even more gross than before.
Fine. I’ll let him have this one.
They drag me over to the bed. It’s a small mattress on the floor, draped askew in a single white bedsheet.
They lay my limp, dick-drunk body out like jewels on a satin pillow, tits up.
I stare straight up. I feel like it’s part of the deal–to them, I’m catatonic. I see nothing that doesn’t loom into my eyeline. Just the ceiling, streaked with elongated shadows.
I hear rustling sounds, pants hitting carpet, the crinkling of condom wrappers. The liquid fart of the lube bottle, nearly empty.
Hands pull my legs apart. I spread my knees obligingly. I give the hallway the gynecological view.
The stale air of the room stirs in my pubic hair. Drying dampness chills my inner thighs.
Mr. Backstroker and Mr. Nipple Toucher appear to either side of me. I see their faces first, then their cocks, hanging overhead.
Mr. Backstroker’s cock is positively dainty. He has sparse blond pubic hair and a little cock that bulges in the middle. The dickhead points upwards, like something out of a sex toy catalog.
Mr. Nipple Toucher has a thick cock. It’s maybe just a little shorter than Mr. Bigcock’s. He has dark, stubby pubic hair, like it was shaved at some point and hasn’t had quite enough time to grow back.
From the edges of my vision, the boys surround us. They observe like medical students in a viewing gallery. They’ve left a gap in the circle so as not to obstruct the hallway.
They’re commenting. Even though I can see them, their voices are strangely disembodied. The space I inhabit is somewhere between euphoria and intoxication.
“Look at those pussy lips.”
“Bro, you like that hairy asshole?”
“I see what you’re thinking.”
“Some tits look better lying down.”
“Yeah, I like her hairy asshole, I fucked her right in her hairy asshole.”
That last one would be Mr. Anal, somewhere behind my head. The fap-fap-fap sound follows him like a shadow.
I take Mr. Backstroker and Mr. Nipple Toucher’s cocks, one in each hand. They’re greasy with lube. My fingers glide as I masturbate them in perfect symmetry.
I’ve been jerking them for a minute or less when Mr. Backstroker’s bite-size cock suddenly hardens under the latex. He comes quickly, squirting just a few ropes before the convulsions slow. He groans and pulls away as if burned by a hot stove. Latex slithers from my fingers.
Sensitive guy.
I sit up. (I’m in great shape. All visual evidence to the contrary.) I bring myself eye to eye with Mr. Nipple Toucher’s penis, now my sole focus. I sight down it like a sharpshooter as I work in short strokes near the head.
I leave my legs open and my knees up, for the theater of it.
I curl my fingers around the base of Mr. Nipple Toucher’s cock–remember the base grip trick?–and I put my lips and tongue around the head.
I give him a quick look. For a second, we lock eyes. He stares with rapt Escort attention as my head bobs up and down, my mouth gliding on a cushion of spit. He likes to watch.
I wonder what he sees. A naked, flabby brunette, eyes glazed triple-thick. But I wonder what he’s really seeing.
In my history of lifelong sluttery, I’ve fucked practically everybody in every way. People see things very differently when they watch.
I give him a little subsonic hum, just for a second, before averting my eyes back to his mid-section.
Cocks feel bigger when you’ve dealt with a few of them in a row. Jaw muscles. Don’t fail me now.
He reaches out, as if to tap me on the head.
Some penis-havers don’t come from blowjobs. Some of them don’t come from anything but their own hand. Maybe Mr. Nipple Toucher is one of them.
Sure enough, he grips me by the hair–none too gently–and pulls me off his cock. He starts masturbating with his other hand, the condom making rhythmic crinkling noises inside his mighty fist.
Then he yanks the condom off and throws it on the floor. He tilts me back, my tits up, exposing my throat, like a vampire’s lunch.
He didn’t ask.
But then, I tell myself, nobody asked, and that’s what you counted on.
I ask myself, in the fraction of a second as cum starts leaping from his deathgripped cock, if this is okay with me.
And I decide, as I feel hot semen hit my jaw: yes. It is.
Cum splashes my face near my slobbery mouth. Another warm jet on my neck, my earlobe, my hair. Another between my breasts.
He tilts my head roughly forward to look at his beet-red glans. It dribbles pearly white cum on his hand and on the sheet.
He leans in and wipes it on my nipple. It tingles, then shivers. He moves, as if to connect the dots, and wipes it on the other nipple as well. A string of semen stretches from nipple to nipple, but doesn’t quite make it.
One last drab of cum clings to his reddened pisshole. He mashes it against my cheek like a signature.
Dazed, I lie down on my back, grateful to be relieved of the effort of holding myself up.
Sideways, I watch Mr. Nipple Toucher wander off. Through the white noise in my head, I hear him ask if anyone knows where some tissue is.
He passes by Mr. Bigcock–my tall, big-dicked meal of a man, who stares at me. His pants are back on, doing nothing to hide his massive erection.
He drops his pants. His dickhead catches the waistband before springing free.
My head is swimming. At some point, he puts a condom on. Whatever was going through his head last time, he appears to have had time to rethink. I thank any god who will listen.
Do you know how to cure shyness? Horny. Horny is the cure for shyness. I’m a customer and a fan.
He grips my ankles and turns me side-on to the hall, on my back, legs apart. I slide easily over the single thread count sheet.
He kneels on the bed between my legs. His cock protrudes over me. I imagine it eclipsing me in its shadow.
Here’s the thing about being fucked on your back by someone on top of you: it’s intimate. I avert my eyes, making it illicit. I go limp.
I focus on the dull murmur of voices I can’t make out, their chorus of jokes and snide comments. I listen to them distracting themselves from the vulnerability of communal sexual experience.
Mr. Bigcock raises half my body by the ankles. My ass is in the air. My crotch is level with his.
Through the cocktail of latex, fucked ass, and ever-present stale boyfunk, I catch a strong whiff of my vagina.
The scent has notes of fresh sun and breeze through spring trees haha I’m just kidding it smells like sweat and old books.
The smell lights up my hippocampus, bringing up memories in millisecond flashes.
In this moment, the one that locks in is the memory of the first pussy I ever ate: Tanya Krawczyk, freshman year.
I love the way pussy smells.
As visions of Tanya’s pale, plump body dance through my head, Mr. Bigcock props my legs up against his chest. He holds them for leverage. I feel like I’m clamped into hard, industrial machinery.
Then he enters me.
He slides easily through my vaginal opening on a cushion of greasy girlcum. His girth fills me right up. As big as he is, my pussy has more than enough give to accept him.
His dickhead pokes my cervix. I jerk, hissing inwardly through my teeth. He pulls back a little. I estimate he’s maybe halfway in.
TO BE CONTINUED
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