I was in my cramped upstairs bedroom at my parents’ house in Hammond, Indiana, on a sticky July evening three years ago, sitting cross-legged on my old childhood bed, studying a neon-pink envelope with gold-foil letters spelling NUDAPALOOZA. I often had secret mail sent to my parents’ address, like mail I didn’t want my nosy husband to see. And as I tore open the envelope and ran my thumb over the embossed logo, my cheeks flushed as I read the RSVP details:

Please confirm your attendance by August 10, 2002, via US mail only. This is an adults-only event (21+) with a strict guest list. Your RSVP is required for entry—No unannounced guests, please! Location details will be shared upon confirmation.

I remembered the first time I lost my panties at a house party with my two besties and three horny guys during a game of Truth or Dare, the laughter echoing through my parents’ basement as we shot pool and took turns letting them eat us out. I remembered last summer, the backyard cookout, where I lost myself in warm, naked bodies under multi-colored string lights, skin brushing skin, and how exciting it was to slip off behind a parked car and fuck Raymond.

My pulse hammered in my temples as memories of free-spirited nudity collided with the extravagant promise of this VIP event. My internal sex clock was ticking. And as I stood barefoot in the glow of a bedside lamp, I tried to imagine my outfit and which color I would choose for my nails.

I paced across the carpet, weighing excitement against nerves, tracing the RSVP deadline in red ink, and then I plopped onto my computer chair and tapped out my acceptance, snapping the envelope shut afterward and setting it on the bookcase as adrenaline coursed through my limbs—an unspoken vow that I was about to live for the moment in a way I never had before.

The night of the party, I stood naked in front of the mirror and scrutinized my body. My pussy was clean-shaven, and my toenails and fingernails were painted with glossy fuck-me-red enamel, which really stood out against my porcelain-white skin. I never had a problem with guys wanting to fuck my petite four-foot-eleven frame, but I wanted to try anyway.

From my mom’s collection of old 60s party attire, I selected a gold glitter bikini and accented it with gold hoop earrings and gold, open-toed sandals that strapped up to my knees—spiked like Carmen Electra. Then I rubbed a water-based gold glitter paint all over my porcelain-white skin to give it a good sheen under the disco ball. In essence, I wanted to be the gypsy lady. The outfit was hot, and it received many compliments in the early stages of the party before taking it all off for pleasure.

The party was held at an undisclosed location in unincorporated Valparaiso, and all VIP guests received private limo service to and from the event, which was held at an old converted textile factory in an exclusive wooded area off a gravel road. I recall having my palms on the seat to steady myself as the limo driver, Lucus, navigated the potholes along the uneven path. I remember him checking me out in the rear-view mirror, smiling, and asking me if this was my first time. He was handsome enough, and I probably would’ve fucked him under different circumstances.

My heart raced as I stepped out of the limo. I could smell the sweet smoke of barbecue, mixed with the chlorine smell of a hot tub or swimming pool. And later, I was impressed to discover that both were available.

And the doorman, Freddy, was a blast, wearing only a cock-smock and Lone-Ranger-style mask. He checked my name against his little black book, then he checked me out from head to toe, tightened his jaw, and stared at me. Then he smiled and winked, opened the door, and told me that I would’ve gotten in anyway.   

The party room had an iron-beam ceiling with suspended ventilation and was at least 2,000 square feet, with 2 pool tables, 4 dartboards, and a disco ball in the center. The wood floors were smooth and exquisitely crafted. Queen-sized mattresses lined the perimeter with bright, pretty pillows in varying colors, and full-length mirrors decorated the walls, making it appear even larger.

 I was told that the merrymaking was on hold until the guest list was complete because there had to be an even number of guys and gals. And when complete, everyone would pick numbers from two different hats—the women on one side, the men on the other.

Once we had drawn all the numbers, the host explained the rules, reminding us that ‘no’ means ‘no’ and that we shouldn’t take it personally. She reminded everyone to practice safe sex and pointed out all the various locations throughout the house where condoms, KY jelly, and Wet Wipes were abundant in large bowls.

The host went on to explain that everyone’s first partner would be that one special person standing on the opposite side of the room with a matching number, and she emphasized that no one was allowed to exchange numbers, and only after everyone enjoyed an anonymous partner would they be free to lust after anyone on their dream list. And when both hats were empty, and all the tickets had been taken, the host shouted, “Let the party begin!” and the room became a mad rush of bodies, clothes peeling off, and numbers held high to find their very first partner.

And it was in this loud mayhem that I first noticed the guys’ cocks already standing at half-mast and flopping like little seesaws with pre-cum glinting from the tips, the girls’ asses jiggling like Jell-O. It was a funny sight that I’ll never forget. My number was thirty-six, and it didn’t take long for Mr. Thirty-Six, in his baseball attire, to find me.

After a lighthearted exchange, we shook hands, revealed nervous smiles, and began undressing. I removed my gold bikini bottom first, stepping out of it with my toes flexed to present my fuck-me-red toenails, which men were always crazy about. Then I removed my gold-glittered top—my C-breasts standing round and firm—and dropped it all in a bed of other discarded garments along the outer wall.

Although they were beginning to hurt my feet a bit, I chose to wear the gold knee-strapped sandals a bit longer for a more sensuous, sexy feel. I knew it turned guys on to see my porcelain feet and red toenails strapped up in the spiked sandals.

After we were both naked, Mr. Thirty-Six asked me where I wanted to fuck, shifting his eyes around my body and around the room again. “How about over there against the wall?” I said, pointing to the mirror-lined wall. And as he took my hand and led me over to the select spot on the floor, I could feel my skin tingle in the air-conditioned room, and I wondered for a moment if I should run and call a cab.

I stopped and checked my pussy for wetness, then spread my legs and rocked up on the balls of my feet, and placed my hands high against the mirror. I could see him standing to my right side, reaching his hand into the bowl, and selecting a condom. His cock was hard and swinging as he rolled it on and positioned himself behind me.

Before entering me, he grabbed my waist and spun me around, pulled me close, and kissed me hard, swirling his tongue deep inside my mouth the way I like it. He smelled like cheap cologne. And as I swirled my tongue with his, I grabbed his cock and worked it back and forth with my hand, his fingers finding my nipples and squeezing them just enough to hurt. My breasts have always been sensitive.

He then smacked my ass and forced me against the mirror, and I could feel the blunt head of his hard cock moving between my legs, searching for my wetness, finding it, and sliding in, inch by inch. I closed my eyes and tossed back my head, feeling the ridges of my long, sandy-blonde hair sweep across my naked shoulder blades, my size-five feet pushing against my spiked heels to steady myself, as he filled me up and began thrusting.

And as he fucked me, I shifted my stance back and forth from one foot to another, a technique that I learned from a stripper friend back in Chicago. It consistently increased my level of pleasure when fucking this way.

But sadly, Mr. Thirty-Six turned out to be a quick shooter, so I was off to the bathroom. And on my way, I passed other couples fucking in various positions. One girl was getting it on a grand piano, another in the ass. And it was fun to watch—all the facial expressions—the cocks sliding in and out.

And after chatting it up with a few other girls in the bathroom, I slipped off my gold-spiked heels, dropped them near the other discarded shoes around the perimeter, and shuffled barefoot across the cool wood floor. I pushed open the back door and stepped onto the warm concrete patio, which felt so fucking good on my sore feet.  

The barbecue smelled delicious, and one of the cooks, a Latino man who introduced himself as Mario, asked me if I’d like to help with the preparation. He handed me an apron and spatula, gave my small, porcelain frame a once-over, winked at me, and told me that some fun games would be heating up soon.

Donning nothing but an apron, I helped with the turning of burgers and hot dogs for about twenty minutes before I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning to look, I was amazed to see this gorgeous hunk of a Black man standing there, smiling with a perfect set of white teeth. He extended his hand and told me his name was “Maurice.” He said he watched me from afar and just had to get to know me better.

I shook Maurice’s hand and told him my name was “Jennifer.” Then I asked him confidently if he’d ever measured his cock. Honestly, it was one of the largest I’d ever seen.

"Ten and a half inches. Want to try it by the pool?"

“Yes... er... yes, I would,” I replied, removing my apron and setting it aside. The grass felt cool between my soft, naked toes as I stepped toward the pool area, the warm air stimulating my fresh-shaven pussy, glinting now with my juices.

Maurice took my hand and led me to a set of lawn chairs. He turned one backward and asked me to lean forward. “You like stand-up-doggy?” he asked.

“It’s my favorite,” I shot back as I kneeled before his magnificent black cock, taking as much of it as I could into my small mouth.

I crammed as much of it in as I could, tasting the salt, but he was so huge. I continued playing with the tip, flicking my tongue around the massive head and soft underbelly, kissing gently, and admiring deeply.

I then stood up and placed my hands on the back of the lawn chair, keeping them a shoulder’s width apart. I then widened my legs the same and rocked up on the balls of my porcelain feet, lifting my ass into position for Maurice, and I tried to imagine the feeling.

Maurice commented on what a nice ass I had as he slicked his large, dark hands over the smooth white curves. Guys always liked my ass and my feet, and I knew how to use both to drive men wild. My husband really loves fucking my feet.

Maurice slapped his black cock against my white ass a few times before selecting a Magnum-sized condom from the bowl, which almost didn’t fit. He then applied a bit of K-Y to the tip and started working the head into me with a practiced confidence.  

At first, it hurt just a little, but I didn’t dare say anything that might make him stop. I just wanted him to fuck me, and I wanted others to watch.

I almost asked him to take the condom off because I wanted to feel the essence of his skin against mine, but he was already halfway inside of me, and the feeling was indescribable. I’d already fucked Mr. Thirty-Six, or it could’ve hurt worse.

“God, what a monster,” I thought.

My toes grappled at the grass as he pushed into me, strong and steady, and squeaky little fuck-sounds started to come out of me unrestrained. He smelled like wet wool, his cock so huge that he couldn’t get all the way inside of me, and I only hoped it was satisfying for him.

A group of onlookers gathered around us, and some of them were masturbating. One guy—I don’t know who he was—jacked off on the side of my leg, and I could feel his warm cum dripping all down to my ankle, which was trembling —my white toes digging into the grass—as Maurice drove his cock deeper into me. It felt like he was in my uterus, and my special spot was getting stimulated, too.

After pumping me hard, Maurice came with an enormous lion-like roar, pulling out and jacking cum all over my ass. The spectators were clapping and jeering, and one hippie girl stepped forward with a smile and a box of Wet Wipes in her hands and started cleaning the cum off my thigh and ass.

When I turned around, Maurice was standing there holding his enormous cock in his hand with a big, white-tooth smile. And the guy who shot his load on my leg stepped in and apologized. But at this point, I’d already forgotten about it.

It was beginning to get cool on the patio. The damned mosquitoes were starting to bite, so I sauntered back inside the house to watch other couples fuck. And as I was watching, I noticed a young Asian guy standing near the door in a Jimi Hendrix “Are You Experienced?” t-shirt, so I walked over to him and asked if I could borrow it because my skin was starting to get goosebumps. He said, “No problem,” and peeled it over his head.

I slipped the t-shirt on, baggy but warm. “I’m Jennifer,” I said, extending my hand —and he told me his name was “Lee” from Bangkok. He said that he had been watching me fuck on the lawn through the glass door, and he complimented me on being one of the sexiest girls at the party.

He told me that I was beautiful, standing on the balls of my feet, with my “legs shaking like a cement mixer.” That made me laugh.

He went on saying that my feet were expressive when I fucked, and he liked the way that I shifted my stance from one leg to the other. “I loved watching your toes dig in the grass. You have sexy feet. I like the red polish, too. My sisters always wear it,” he told me with a quirky smile. And then he just asked me straight up if he could feel my pussy: “Could I just put it in and feel? Just a quick feel?”

“Sure,” I said. “Why not?” How about I get into the doggy position on that mattress over there, and you sneak up behind me and slip it in?” I instructed him, smiling back with a wink.

“Yes—yes!” he exclaimed. “I like it doggy-style!”

So I took the knee position on the mattress and lifted my ass. “Just a quick feel, you know. That means you take only a few strokes and pull out,” I said, pointing a fuck-me-red fingernail at him, knowing that I was only teasing, that I was fully letting him cum in me. But he didn’t know it yet.

Lee reached for a condom from a nearby bowl, his hand shaking, and I stopped him: “There’s no need for that—I want to feel you,” I said, bouncing my ass. “Come on and fuck me—fuck me hard! But just a few strokes!”

“Okay, Ms. Jennifer, just three strokes and I’ll stop.”

Other than Peter, Lee was the only other guy who came inside of me that night, but he was so adorable and funny. I didn’t think that he got much action with the girls, and it was entertaining to please the little guy. You’ll hear more about him in future stories because I fucked him at every party. He always found me.

As for entertainment, Barnum and Bailey had nothing on Nudapalooza. There were naked jugglers, bottomless tuxedo-dressed waitstaff serving cocktails, and even clowns on stilts. And out on the lawn, there was a voluptuous naked lady with leopard prints all over her body, wearing cat ears and whiskers, tossing fire rings into the air. Lee told me that a contest was gearing up between select groups of men, and the winner would have a turn with the leopard lady on the lawn.

“What sort of game?” I asked.

“It’s called, Guess Whose Cock,” he replied, smiling and winking. “It’s basically a glory hole. The girl who can guess whose cock she is sucking wins a hundred dollars. But Maurice is restricted because the girls already know about him. It would be too easy.”

After watching the leopard lady’s impressive fire ring dance and the glory hole competition, I decided to stroll through the crowd of naked partygoers, some fucking in hot tubs, and others just standing around naked, talking, and smoking cigarettes.

Freddy was standing by the door, but without his cock-smock this time. He smiled and opened the door, patted me on the ass as I walked through. “Limo service till 4 AM!”

Inside, the hot Latina girls were getting fucked against the mirrors in the main room, their hair wet and straggly, sweat dripping from their slick bodies, as guys lined up and took turns. All the men loved the Latina girls. I could see the intensity in their eyes—the frantic way they pumped their asses. Short blonde and blue-eyed girls with tight little bods, like me, were sought after, too. But the Latinas had it all.

I was parked against the mirror, my bare foot resting against my knee, and still wearing Lee’s t-shirt, when a gorgeous, long-haired, rocker-looking dude came walking by, and I almost pissed myself. He was precisely the type of guy I was looking for: mysterious, square-jawed, both arms tattooed to his elbows. I smiled at him and lifted my t-shirt, brushing my hand over my slick snatch. His eyes caught mine, and he started walking my way.

“My name is Peter,” he said, smiling and extending his hand.

“I’m Jennifer,” I responded, looking him square in the eyes and showing my full, bright smile.

We chatted about Metallica and Iron Maiden before we cut to the chase about banging. He asked me where I wanted to do it, and I blurted out loud, without hesitation: “Over there on one of those pool tables!” I exclaimed, pointing a come-fuck-me-red-finger in the direction of the game room.

Maybe the idea chose me—I’ll never know. But I’m so fucking glad that I made that selection!

After choosing a table, Peter, along with Lee and a couple of other guys, helped me to climb aboard and steady myself. And once on top, I stood up and spread my legs and arms wide, fully exposing myself, as the crowd cheered us on.

A couple of banger girls standing ringside tossed condoms at the table, but I already knew that I wasn’t using one. The onlookers gathered, and I was feeling free now to make a complete spectacle of myself.

I slipped the Jimi Hendrix t-shirt over my head, lassoed it a few times, then flung it out for the spectators. (Hopefully, Lee found it at the end of the night.) And then a bottomless waiter handed me a white towel, which I draped on the green felt, before I plopped my naked ass down and leaned back, my hands reaching over my head and grasping the smooth edge of the pool table.

Peter hopped on like an athlete, his cock already hard, and pre-cum glinting from the tip. After taking a bow to the crowd, he knelt on his knees, scanning my naked porcelain skin from head to toe. He reached for a condom, but I stopped him with a motion of my hand.

He flashed me a curious look, then he positioned himself over me in a push-up position, looked me straight in the eyes, and started working his thick, long shaft into my sweetness. The crowd went wild, hooting and cheering us on, my legs splayed wide, my toes scrunched, and my hands holding the rim of the table.

Peter fucked me like a lover at first, and then he increased his thrusts gradually, the spectators clapping along with the tempo of each stroke, alternating a synchronized foot-stomp on the downthrust. I was in my element for the very first time. It was total liberation.

When Peter came, he pulled out and hand-jacked his hot cum along my stomach, the gold glitter in my body paint catching the disco light and shimmering. Then he collapsed on top of me, as the roaring sounds of the spectators reached a peak crescendo and faded.

Peter’s strokes were so sweet and hot that night. To this very day, we remain the best of friends, and whenever my husband is working the nightshift and our schedules allow, we get a bed and breakfast somewhere in Chesterton, Indiana, and fuck each other silly.

Sometimes when I’m alone, I close my eyes, and I can still feel Peter inside of me on that pool table, and I can hear the hullabaloo of the people watching us fuck. I hear the hands clapping, cheering us on. Even my husband loves to listen to the story when we’re fucking sometimes. He thinks I’m just a crazy storyteller, that it’s all made up. And I’ll let him keep thinking that way.