Three Scenes from an Orgy

1.

“Shoes go here.” I’m still radiating cold from the outdoors, standing there in my heavy winter coat and boots. The guy who’s come down to answer the door, though, is completely naked. He’s got a shaved head and a chest full of fur, and stands there with his hands on his hips. The fact he’s got a juicy erection bobbing between his legs leaves him completely unabashed.

I haven’t even gotten my hat or gloves off, but it’s obvious he’s expecting me to hurry it up. I unzip my boots on the sides and kick them off.

He’s heading up the stairs now, his bare feet making a soft noise in the carpet. He tugs me by the sleeve into a bedroom. It’s large. Living-room sized, really. There’s a sofa and a TV occupying one corner, a computer desk in another. There’s an empty double bed in the corner. “Leave your clothes here,” says the naked man. He shrugs to tell me that’s it. “See you in a couple.”

I wait until he’s left the bedroom before I start removing my clothing. I stack it all into a neat pile, one of many similar stacks atop and around the sofa. It’s not a fancy apartment, this, but the inhabitant obviously has a lot of taste. He’s decorated the surfaces with Arts and Crafts pottery, with expensive blown glass and books on antiques. If I’d come here for a cocktail party or an afterglow following a show, I’d be studying the decor and the photographs and the diploma on the wall for cues for my light conversation.

But I’m not here for the conversation.

I don’t anticipate knowing anyone here. I don’t expect to go home with any new names in my phone’s contact list. I’m here to fuck, pretty basically.

When I move into the other bedroom—the room with the big, king-sized bed and the darkened shades—the scene is like some fundamentalist’s vision of Hell, or an Italian avant-garde film. Bodies writhe all around me. On the floor are couples slithering between each other’s legs. Against the wall a trio slides up and down as they suck face and cock in turn. The bed is a seething mass of moving flesh, male on male, cock to cock, ass to mouth, dick to hole.

I don’t even hesitate. I step over the fornicating pair and plunge into this nightmare of sex and desire straight out of Hieronymous Bosch. Hands clutch at me immediately, pulling me into the vortex, pulling me under. I’m gasping for air beneath all that weight and mass, but I’m the happiest drowning man ever.


2.

There’s mouth on my right nipple. There’s a mouth on my dick. I haven’t even bothered to look down to see whose. All my attention is on the man kissing me.

He’s the host—a retired professor from a prestigious New England university. His cock’s not much to look at. I’m not even sure it gets hard. His looks are past their prime, I think it’s safe to say. But he’s still attractive in a handsome-daddy kind of way. He’s got piercing blue eyes and a barrel of a chest spiked with prominent, eraser-shaped nipples. And holy crap, his kissing is amazing.

We’ve been making out for a good ten to fifteen minutes while mouth replaces invisible mouth on my cock. Sometimes there’s an addition tongue licking my nuts, or attempting to slip down between my legs to my ass. Every time someone dives for my hole, though, their host pushes them away. “That’s mine,” he even barks to one guy.

I’m fine with that. I’m good to my hosts.

“You’ve got beautiful blue eyes,” he growls at me. He’s nuzzling my ear, then pushing my head to the side so he can attack my with his open mouth. Then he’s back to holding my face to his and plunging his thick tongue into my mouth, as far back as he can, while he rams two of his fingers up my ass. It’s only a day after my time with the Haiku Writer who stretched my hole wide open with his massive uncut meat, so I’m still tender down there.

On the up side, I’m pretty much still wide open, too.

“I am going to molest you good,” he promises.

I fucking melt at his words. “Please, sir,” I whimper. It only makes him jam those fingers inside me deeper, up to the third knuckle. As I squirm and groan, he clutches me harder to his chest. Connected to each other, and to the men surrounding us, we sink into the maelstrom.


3.

“You’re. . . .” He’s grasping for a name. “. . . Rob? Is that it?”

I’m slightly insulted in theory. One familiar face has surfaced in the crowd. He’s a piece of sexy bald muscle that I’ve fucked at the hotel group for married men. I fucked him in my bed at home, too, after that. Just for not remembering, I shove my dick up his guts so hard that he sucks in lungfuls of air and winces. “That’s right.”

He looks back over his shoulder again, as he braces himself against the mattress. “I remember that cock.”

“You oughta,” I mutter.

This whore’s been over every dick at the party, and I love him for it. The only reason I’m not really insulted by his sex-fueled memory loss is that moments before, when he’d crawled off some older guy’s meat still dripping with lube and semen, he told me that he’d have to leave soon and that he’d saved the best for last.

A little sop to my ego goes a long way, in my book.

He’s got one of those worked-out asses that’s absolute perfection. Round as the globes in my middle-school library, hard as cement, sheltering a tight little pucker that’s easy to open and soft and wet to slide into. He’s definitely not thinking about the wife and kiddies as he backs up onto my cock, not worrying about work when he’s twisting and grinding on my meat and trying to take it even more deeply than it already goes.

Eyes are on me as I bang this little bitch. He might be all muscle, but he’s no taller than five-five, lighter than I am. I make a show of working the hole, of pulling out all the way so that those cunt lips drag over the girth of my meat, then shoving all the way in. Every thrust makes the little fucker gasp.

I feel someone behind me. There’s a pair of lips on my neck, a hand on my shoulder and another on my hip. When I look around, I can tell it’s a tattooed guy who’s been circulating around the group from the time I’ve been there. His skin is a dark tan that shows off his blond military cut. Half his tattoos are military in nature as well. The one on his chest proclaiming his love for God and Country and the U.S. Army could be used on a recruiting poster. His other passion is the Yankees, apparently. He’s got the logo on his calf, on the inside of his hip bone, and squarely between his shoulder blades.

That hip bone digs into my ass. The little bald guy is kneeling on the edge of the mattress and I’m standing on the floor. There’s so little room between my back and the wall that the tattooed guy has to press close in. I can feel his cock jumping as it brushes my crack.

He kisses me over my shoulder. His breath’s a little sour, but the guy’s a good kisser. He’s yanking my head around aggressively to get more of my mouth while his hips move with mine as I continue fucking my bald little muscle. “Rape that hole,” he growls at me.

I obey. I pick up the pace and make the muscle grunt. Then I hear the snap of a plastic top and feel the cold wetness of lube dripping down my rear. The head of his cock separates my ass and hones in for the hole.

I was just fucked the day before. My hole is still sore. But it looks like I’m about to be fucked again.
“Christ,” I spit out when the Army guy’s cock shoves home. He’s not large. Maybe about five and a half inches. Big head, though. My eyes pop wide open as it slides relentlessly home.

I’m overwhelmed in sensation again. It’s almost too much, this feeling of my hole being opened wide while I’m already balls-deep in a slippery hole. Every nerve in my body is overloaded; the electricity in my nether parts makes me jangle like discordant bells. I can hear men cheering us on, both me and the Army guy who’s shoved himself inside. But the cries are distant, drowned out by the pounding of my heart, the rush of my blood, and the insistent shrill of my muscles as they quiver and convulse.

I feel more wetness on my backside. Warm, this time. The tattooed guy’s cock slides out and shoots its load as it does, so that half of it glazes my butt. The rest slops out of the hole. I’m so aroused that the wet sensation pushes me over the edge. I shove inside the muscle guy so hard that he loses his balance and collapses onto the mattress. I follow, shooting pulse after pulse of seed deep inside.

“Hot ass,” says the Army dude with a pat to my ass, as he walks away. “That hole is real tight.”

I’m not so sure it is, any more.