After Hours Orgy
Don’t you know what it means to become an orgy guy? It changes everything. I’d have to dress different. I’d have to act different. I’d have to grow a mustache and get all kinds of robes and lotions and I’d need a new bedspread and new curtains. I’d have to get thick carpeting and weird lighting. I’d have to get new friends. I’d have to get orgy friends.
Jerry Seinfeld
Are we swingers now? I hope not. Swingers have a bit of a bad reputation. You know, fake-wood paneled romper rooms full of mirrors, desperate middle-aged couples revealing their cottage cheese thighs to other middle-aged couples, fat hairy balding white guys licking their lips at the prospect of seeing their saggy wives get plowed up the ass by strange men, buffet tables piled high with steaming pigflesh. I mean, would you really want to “swing” with these people? I think the look on that guy’s face says it all. Is he even enjoying himself? Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with all this. It’s just not my thing. Call me an elitist but we’re still young and hot. If we’re gonna do this then we’re gonna do it right.
Now, to clarify, Leslie and I have been actively meeting, fucking and dating women together for about two and a half years. It started innocently enough with us dating people separately during a lame open-relationship phase. Then one day she happened to stop by my apartment while I was going down on my date, a sweet young strawberry blonde from Texas with perfect C cups. Thus began a long period of increasingly outrageous sexual hijinks. Picking up and seducing hot young things became second nature to us. We had threesomes, foursomes and private sex parties. We had girlfriends and mistresses. Not once, however, did I think of myself as a true swinger or an “orgy guy,” nor were we involved in anything larger than our own private debauchery. We were also leery of being in an environment where there might be other sausage around, or at least I was. People used to ask me why I did it and I would say it was because I wanted to have something to smile to myself about as I sat rotting away in my old age.
Recently I had the dubious pleasure of finding out that we’re part of an emerging trend. Apparently there’s a whole new generation of Americans who are discovering the varied pleasures of fucking in groups of three or more. This new post-swinger generation attends velvet rope orgies and rents private suites at swank hotels. They drink champagne. They don’t do buffets. It’s not called swinging anymore, it’s called play. This is the new new thing. The nauseating hyperbole that surrounds the new hedonism makes me almost want to get out of the erotic lifestyle altogether. Almost.
Last Saturday we attended SKIN, our second off-premises “play” party. In swinger lingo, off-premises means you can flirt, dance, tease and even remove some clothing, but orgiastic sex has to be taken to apartments and hotel suites. We did a full on-premises orgy a couple of weeks ago, but as shy newcomers we didn’t do much more than watch. Ironic that we were more comfortable picking up women in regular nightclubs than at parties specifically designed for such activity, but so be it.
After we tumbled out of the cab onto Bowery street, directly in front of the lounge, we stood around for a couple minutes, unsure of whether we were at the right spot. Fortunately the bouncer took one look at Leslie and waved us over. I was relieved that we looked the part. Or was I? It was still a challenge to embrace that orgy-guy image. Inside, it would have been easy to imagine we were at a regular nightclub except that everyone was unusually well dressed and the women were unusually attractive. On the whole these were the kind of people who commute in from Connecticut and not the usual hipsters who haunt the urban canyons of downtown Manhattan on a typical Saturday night.
We paid the cover and stood around for the better part of an hour, feeling if not necessarily looking out of place. People eyed one another hungrily yet warily, probably unsure as to whether they were to become predators or prey. Things finally began to flow when we went out for a smoke and met a busty blonde whose husband was hanging out somewhere inside. As most people seemed to be that night, she was relatively new to group play and really hadn’t seen or done much at all. It was a relief actually, as I suddenly felt wise and experienced in these matters. Eventually the night took on a kind of whirlwind quality as women doffed their tops to have their breasts spray-painted and people headed downstairs to flirt on the dance floor. I can’t remember what music was playing. Always the center of attention somehow, Leslie ended up in nothing but a g-string and blue-and-silver body paint, her breasts and ass writhing against the lithe frames of other young women. She had handprints on her delicious ass from someone who had placed his hand there and let the artist spray over them. The tantalizing silhouettes of breasts, nipples and asses undulated behind a backlit screen as Leslie gently teased and played with other women, partners changing fluidly. I forgot myself, standing around dumbstruck with the other men, lost in a tide of bodies, colors and shapes.
The night accelerated at a queasy pace. People began to discuss after-parties, boundaries, hotel suites, cellphone numbers. Gina, a thin, sharp-faced blonde and her husband Jaques, a handsome Egyptian man, wanted to bring us back to their room. They were also relatively new to this. Anxious young swingers with a ten-month-old at home. Gina and I had talked for a while about how to pick up single bisexual females, and then about the vicissitudes of playing with other couples. She wanted to go further than Jaques though, who told me (quite understandably) that he didn’t want anyone else fucking his wife. “I’d just like to feel another man’s arms around me,” she confided. Oddly I didn’t feel sexual at all but I didn’t want the party to end either. I was intrigued by these people.
The after-party brought us to the SOHO Grand. Five or six couples and an alluring woman in a black leather skirt crammed into a tiny air-conditioned room with what must have been a queen-sized bed at most. Jim and Kathy, a hipsterish couple with whom I hadn’t interacted much at all had come through at the last minute and provided our little crew of couples with a place to play. Leslie and I stood there dumbstruck as couples began to array themselves around the bed and Kathy began to eat Susan, a curvaceous brunette with stupendously large knockers. Knockers is really the only word to describe breasts that large. “They’re real,” she told me as I squeezed them a few minutes later. Her man looked a little bit like the porn star TT Boy, something we all joked about. Eventually Kayla, a gorgeous, sweet brown-haired girl from Bermuda, went to work on my girlfriend, hungry lapping at Leslie’s tight cunt as Leslie sat on the floor with her back against the bed, legs splayed. Kayla’s husband and I looked on appreciatively. He looked like a young version of the black guy on that TV series Everwood. As Kayla came up for air I pulled the fabric of her blue dress inward and a pair of beautiful tits popped out. I kept telling her husband how beautiful she looked.
I dropped my pants and Leslie began tugging on my cock to no avail. Somehow in the midst of all this sex I just wasn’t feeling aroused. It was all too overwhelming. Too close. It’s interactive porn, I kept telling myself, but there’s a world of difference between sitting on your couch with your cock in one hand and actually being on stage. We conferenced in the bathroom as the girls blew their men on and around the bed, which was the only thing everyone seemed comfortable with at the time. Leslie told me she couldn’t come with Kayla, but not for lack of desire. I was semi-hard at best. Round one was soon over as a few couples finished up and left. I squeezed Kayla’s tits one last time in lieu of a goodbye kiss. I’d love to fuck that girl. It was time for a smoke. On the way out Kathy was sitting on the floor with her legs spread, blocking our point of egress. Leslie and I each put one of her plump tits in our mouths as I ran an index finger along her pussy.
Outside, as the sun came up, we debated leaving. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this. But we had left some shit upstairs anyway. We had to go back in. As we entered the room we were greeted by a very different sight. Kathy, who was a saucy, pale Irish girl, was on the floor bent over the bed. Nancy, the intriguing short-haired brunette who had come by herself, was perched atop Kathy, her hands spreading Kathy’s ass cheeks as Jim violated Kathy’s pussy with a golden vibrator. Kathy was sucking Susan’s pussy as Susan lay in the center of the bed with her legs spread. The red flames of body paint that had streaked up Susan’s chest had already been licked clean around her nipples. Jim spit on Kathy’s ass and inserted his thumb for good measure. Leslie pulled off her dress and went to cradle Susan’s head in her lap. TT Boy watched attentively as both Kathy and Susan let out cries of pure ecstasy. Faced with this vignette framed by the morning sunlight streaming in through the blinds, I became aroused. In the immortal words of Dirk Diggler, I thought to myself, I wanna fuck.
And fuck I did. Susan detached herself from Kathy’s mouth and let TT Boy put his cock in her missionary style. I let Leslie suck on my turgid penis for a minute and then followed suit. I entered Leslie from behind and made her suck Susan’s ample breasts as I pumped away. Nancy positioned herself on a chair by the TV, legs slightly spread, and watched the scene unfold. Leslie and Susan were propelled into each other by the cocks that were pounding into them. Susan had a clit ring. I made eye contact with Nancy and licked my lips. She smiled seductively. Being watched was suddenly important to me. I wanted everyone to see my flesh going into Leslie’s tight little hole. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be heard. I wanted them to appreciate my newly shaved balls. I wanted to be filmed.
BDSM was something I had very little experience with, never having been involved in it nor ever having the slightest interest in watching it. It turned out that both Nancy and Kathy were subs, which I would have known by the collars if I weren’t among the uninitiated. Kathy had this habit of saying “thank you” every time her ass was smacked by Jim, sometimes even crying out multiple times “thankyouthankyouthankyou.” He put a black hood over her head, handcuffed her, applied a bar to her ankles to keep her legs spread apart, brutally tortured her ass with various whips, and fucked her hard from behind. But it was soft somehow. Respectful. Loving even. And all the stimuli that had overwhelmed me before now fed an outrageous sexual appetite. This is how Rocco Siffredi must feel when he’s lining up seven virgin asses and fucking them all in a row, I thought. I came. Leslie came. TT Boy and Susan left after lounging around on the couch and making pleasant chitchat with us.
Soon everyone was watching as I fucked Leslie again. We had become the show. I played with Kathy’s ass as she kissed and fondled Leslie, occasionally dipping my finger into Kathy’s cunt. Kathy’s ass was black and blue and though I liked squeezing it I couldn’t bring myself to slap it hard. An Andrew Blake video was playing on the television and some entirely inappropriate music was blaring from the radio. But it hardly mattered. I fucked Leslie from behind, admiring her puckered little asshole as Kathy moved behind me to lick and suck on my balls. I stood up as Kathy positioned herself under us in a sixty-nine position with Leslie. “Aren’t you going to fuck her?” she asked sweetly. I obliged and was then pleasantly surprised when my cock slid out of Leslie and found its way into Kathy’s mouth. I alternated between mouth and cunt. Mouth and cunt. Forever it seemed. Kathy helped get it back in Leslie’s wet hole when required. A good assistant she was. Nancy sat next to us for a closer look, captivated by the scene that unfolded before her. Jim eyed us from the foot of the bed. After what seemed like a blissful eternity I came inside Leslie, erupting into a coughing fit as I forgot to swallow and instead inhaled my saliva. My penis popped out and the last of my ejaculate dribbled onto Kathy’s chin. “Don’t worry,” said Jim. “She won’t mind.” It was that good.
This after-party changed everything. I have to dress different. I have to act different. I have to grow a mustache and get all kinds of robes and lotions and I need a new bedspread and new curtains. I have to get thick carpeting and weird lighting. I have to get new friends. Orgy friends. I’ve become an orgy guy.
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