A Shared Retelling of Our Tale
[The following story is written jointly. I have set up the story and begun the tale. My good friend from the UK will continue this story from his perspective. I will then contribute my perspective yet again based on his telling. Neither one of us knows what the other will write.]
I’m certain my cheeks flushed when my buddy, Martin, invited me to his sex party. I’d been sitting on a lot of fantasy for the better part of growing up, yet my strict f****y life and then five years in a Catholic seminary taught me well how to manage, if not outright conceal, instincts some would, well… frown upon. While religion made efforts to have me stuff my truer, if more base, instincts and desires, they did little to quell the riotous debauchery of my imagination, particularly when in the great chapel of the seminary. How could I not become sexually excited as I knelt before the statue of our patron, St. Sebastian? St. Sebastian, the Roman martyr tied to a craggy tree stump, his arms pulled behind his back and tied roughly with rope. A tattered rag hung dangerously low on his belly, tucked into the rope belted around his middle, well below his navel. His muscular chest heaved outward toward the next arrow that was certain to pierce his alabaster skin firmly stretched across his pectorals, his nipples erect and pink. The arrows. In his body were seven arrows: one in the lower right leg, two in his left thigh (one of them completely piercing through to the back of the leg). Two more arrows bedded themselves along his flank, one of them dangerously near his sex, one in his left bicep and the last firmly planted in his breast near his collar bone. His radiant, if not ecstatic, countenance was lifted heaven-ward as if searching for the victorious avenging angel who would deliver him from his misery. His long, brown hair fell back from his forehead exposing a strong brow, and his square jaw was set against the agony of his body.
And I was supposed to be free of the burden and sin of my sexual appetites praying on my knees before this utter vision of my own desires? Pray to him? I wanted to BE him. Only with a cock just as firmly planted high up my hole as those arrows were deep in his body.
Sick, some would accuse. Fuck ‘em.
But I did learn to suppress and sublimate. Not actually suppress, but keep my mental dalliances within check in polite company. And not so polite company, too. At least until the night of Martin’s sex party.
I was well into stretching my sexual wings after leaving the seminary, finding great expression in the arms of men, or they in my arms, depending on my mood. Still, I was reserved, it seems. When I was engaged, so to speak, with some fine piece of masculinity, I would edge closer to the fire than most of them ever cared to go. I began to think that I was, well, sick; some kind of sexual psychopath. On too many occasions, a man in my bed would cry out for me to stop twisting his nipple, that it was hurting him. Or he would put effort into guarding against my thrusting, trying to hold my hip thrusts back from full measure as they pressed against his ass, my cock seeking greater depths when I was fucking. I didn’t understand it. And I was puzzled by the men who drew back from me when I urged them on deeper into me. They looked confused, even sheepishly frightened, when I insisted that they punch their cocks harder into me as hard as they could. How could they not want this?
I lusted for that sense of tipping off a precipice of masculine rutting, the tribal imperative to breed so deeply another man’s interior, to draw a man completely outside his own sense of being with my own body. If two men found themselves naked and aroused, dancing the heated mating dance borne in the centuries of man on man domination and submission, then how could one not engage fully, to the very brink of complete abandonment? Ah, what trouble these thoughts provoked in my mind each time I journeyed on a sexual encounter.
But a sex party. This would be new. I didn’t know what to expect. A gangbang? Was there a willing bottom already identified? Would we, like a pride of lions, fight or fuck for dominance? This might have potential.
Eight men were present the night of the sex party in Martin’s suburban basement dungeon. Ah, Martin. What he lacked in imagination he made up for with red light bulbs. The rumpus room, as he called it, tittering at his supposed cleverness, was covered with a number of air mattresses on the floor. There was a sofa along one wall, a sturdy coffee table in front of it that might serve as a fuck table if one was willing to kneel. Two overstuffed chairs of questionable age and durability flanked the sofa. And most promising of all was a pool table, around which the men were standing, some near naked others with towels around their middles.
Martin looked good, as usual. He was tan, a scant tuft of light brown hair between his pectorals and a cock of modest length but ominous girth. Another fellow, a past trick I had fucked with, was there – handsome in a farm boy way – with freckles and unruly reddish hair. The others, I didn’t know, nor did I find that interesting. But the evening proceeded and soon, I found myself on my back on the pool table, the herd of men around me. Ah, just my luck. I’m going to be gangbanged.
Inside, I knew I was not of the right frame of mind. I was impatient, as I often found myself in the company of men who want sex, but only polite sex. It felt good, no question there. I loved to suck cock and I was a master at deep throating. I so wanted this to be a good event…for the other guys… for me… Good grief, I was so in my head, so into the effort of pleasing these fellows and hoping that in some way they would “get it.”
I was casting about in my sexual mind, searching for the fantasies that would ignite me, would ooze out of me and in some way, enflame these other men, when I notice him.
How had I not noticed him earlier?
Involuntarily, I shuddered when we made eye contact, and a wave of gooseflesh rippled across my chest and down my sides. I could feel my gut twist, my cock pulse and send a throb of juicy desire from my rectum up through my belly to beneath my heart.
A slight, twisted grin pulled at his mouth when he saw that I had noticed him. He did not move from beneath the glow of the red light illuminating his place against the banister along the stairwell. He was leaning back in a pair of faded blue jeans, one leg crossed casually over the other at the ankle. His arms were large and covered with a fleece of what appeared to be thick, curly hair. His chest was a mat of the same dark, curly fur. The man with the strong jaw and dark brow seemed a creation from my imagined equal, only where he was dark, I was fair. Our chests were both covered with hair, his dark, mine sand colored. His belly was hair covered and thick, mine bore a single thin treasure trail.
I lost my sense of belonging in the party. I was going through the motions, but I suddenly found myself utterly aroused as I continue to watch him.
Fuck him. Fuck him and the spell I had imagined he’d cast upon me. It was only my mind playing with me. I had wanted to become fully engaged in the sex party, I had gone to my little card catalogue of games to turn me and other men on and this is where I found myself – on a pool table giving hand jobs, a blow job and getting butt fucked by a bunch of nice guys. So, stop being such a shit and just get on with it.
Thus, I began to lose myself in the party, feeling the heat rise and fall, experiencing the splatters and groans of spewed semen across my chest, thighs and ass.
And then a hand crossed my eyes, blinding me from behind and a husky whispered heat blew near my ear and down my neck, alone something that nearly made me cum. Very low, the voice rasped, “I know what you want.”
My hips bucked up from the pool table and my cock surge up my belly. Rough fingers crawled over my shoulder and down my chest to my right nipple where it gently and barely roughed around the nub. It ignited my balls which pulled up into my groin in protective need.
The fingers tightened unbearably on my nipple as he said, “We’ll be leaving for my place now.”
The pain in my nipple pulled me up from the pool table to a sitting position. I looked over my shoulder, saw him walking away from us, and begin to walk up the stairs as he pulled a tee shirt over his head.
I looked to Martin, who was preparing to serve some cocktail or some such thing. Martin grinned and shrugged his shoulders, saying, “Be careful with that one. They say he likes it rough.”
[Your turn, my friend.]