A dozen men wait in the conservatory. Some sit on the few chairs at the far end of the room, and some stand, but few are feeling chatty. All of them, from twenty-somethings to those in their sixties, look like penguins. Black and white is the dress code for tonight. Well, more specifically, black boxers with white shirts, polos or t-shirts. Everyone is on the verge of breaking into a serious sweat, and it’s not just because of the heat. It’s been up to thirty-five degrees today, but something else hangs heavy in this room. It’s the thick, warm blanket of anticipation.
Hearts are thumping all around me. And I’m thinking the same thing over and over again as I glance at the darting eyes around me. Can this really be happening?
I’m not the only first-timer. Hardly any of the men seem to know each other. Even those that do aren’t talking. Elsewhere, you would expect casual chit-chat to begin, helped along by the free bar and the awkwardness of silence. But this is not elsewhere. Pretending that we’re here to socialize with each other would seem nothing but ridiculous. We all know why we’re here. We’re here to fuck.
This is my first gang-bang. I’ve gotten to know some people on the local scene, gotten myself approved for the guest list, and here I am. I still keep wondering when I’m going to wake up. At what moment will our friendly hostess come in here and tell us that this was all an elaborate practical joke? Haha, gotcha, you pussy addicts! You really think women who want to be gang-banged exist in real life?
But the place keeps filling up with more men. And all have obviously gotten the same black-and-white memo. They spill into the next room on the upper level of the house, presumably the living room. There’s over twenty of us now. Are they friend or foe? Are we a team or do these kinds of parties get competitive? I’m really not sure. And it doesn’t feel like I’m alone in that.
I think my preparation for this evening has been good. I’ve spent the sizzling afternoon at the nude bathing area across town, taking dips in the sweet fresh water whilst gradually building my horniness in a sea of sun-smothered naked women. The closer it got to leaving for the party, the more I smirked to myself if I saw a pretty female walk past. There I had to behave - even staring was out of order. But I smirked away, happily patient, a million miles from frustrated. Because I knew that in just an hour or two, if I saw a naked woman, then it was going to be with an open invitation to invade her body.
But now we’re waiting, waiting, waiting. It’s almost nine o’clock, and I feel like something is supposed to have happened by now. The fan in the long, rectangular conservatory is struggling against the syrupy air of a glass room that’s been cooking all day long. There’s little to look at. The glass has blinds pulled across it, so it’s just us penguins, a medium-sized cactus and a simple water feature. It’s an ordinary suburban house in a regular suburban street. Do the neighbours know what goes on here? The floor tiles feel sticky against my bare feet.
I clutch my orange juice and soda. Tonight doesn’t seem like one for alcohol. We don’t need to work up courage, right? The women are here for sex anyway. And dehydration of any sort seems a stupid idea in this heat. Do I need something to calm my nerves? No, I don’t think I’m nervous. I’ve done sex in front of other people before, at swinger clubs. I’m not worried about that part. But I don’t quite know how a gangbang works. There were a lot of instructions online, and my only concern is making some kind of blunder. I just want to get into it now. This is a coiled, curious anticipation.
After half an hour of weight-shifting and then (eventually) a little what-do-you-do and ain’t-it-hot talk with the guys around me, our hostess arrives at last. She’s changed from the casual clothes she had on when she greeted us at the front door, ticked our names off the list and sent us through into this part of the house. The brunette is wearing a figure-hugging black dress and heels - much sexier! I assume that hosting duties will prevent her from taking part in tonight’s proceedings, but just seeing her in that dress is enough to focus all of my attention on the reason we’re here. I can feel the rest of the room wake up too. The heat is forgotten. A female is present.
She gathers all of us in the living room. There’s a mild and half-hearted Roman theme to it. Peachy colours. One or two pictures on the wall. It’s utterly run-of-the-mill. Apart from the condoms (Normal, Large, XL) in a fishbowl on the mantelpiece, that is. Framed photographs of her daughters look out at us from a shelf in a wall unit. I don’t know where these teenagers are tonight, but do they know about mom turning their house into a sex party venue once or twice a week? How could they not know? Wow. I wonder how I’d have turned out if my parents had been that open about sex?
Our hostess calms everybody with her broad, never-ending smile. Every word she utters is conveyed with a kind of gleeful anticipation. There’s a glint in her eye as she stands in the middle of the room and addresses the two dozen or so horny men encircling her. But there’s no trace of judgement. It adds up: she’s active on the local scene as more than just a party hostess. She understands that we’re all just human animals.
She welcomes us, reminds us that a new condom is compulsory any time we penetrate a new woman. “Be realistic when choosing your size,” she grins. It lightens the mood, but still I feel like I’m in a room full of kids on their first day at school. And not just because we’re all in a uniform of sorts. Nobody’s speaking out of turn, nobody’s cracking jokes, nobody’s wolf-whistling. Somehow I didn’t expect everyone to be so good.
That doesn’t change when the presentations begin. But I can only assume that everyone’s cock stiffens as mine does when the first woman is brought into the middle of the circle by her partner. She’s a buxom blonde, perhaps around forty. She’s wearing a tight corset. She would not be outstandingly attractive in the ordinary course of things. But parading herself in scanty clothing and advertising her sexual consent to a circle of twenty-five randy men? Just doing that makes her ultra-hot. Such guiltless honesty is still rare in our world, and it’s one of the sexiest things I know.
The women - six of them in total - do not speak for themselves. The single ones are introduced by our hostess, and the ones who come as part of a couple are introduced by their husband or boyfriend. One by one we learn their names, what they like and any taboos that may be relevant for the evening. My German isn’t perfect, but I gather enough to understand that not all of them are against anal sex or ejaculation on their faces. The mere mention of these practices gets me seriously hot under the collar. I may not have completely taken in which woman wants what, but I’ll keep an eye on what others are doing and act accordingly. No problem.
Each of the introductions ends with a formal invitation to enjoy ourselves with the woman in question - hot every time! - and a polite round of applause. Yeah, weirdly civilized.
Two girls stand out. As soon as I see them, I know that I’d rather wait in line (will there be lines?) for time inside their bodies than get immediate access to the others. They are head-and-shoulders hotter. One is a nervous-looking brunette - can’t be more than thirty - with long, straight hair and a deep tan. She has a sharp nose, black-blue eye-shadow and a tight sapphire tube of a dress that makes her seem even slimmer than she already is. She is sultry and beautiful - the kind of girl who will turn away most hopefuls in a nightclub. Yet here she is - should I believe it yet? - offering her soft young body to every man present. No chat-up line required. No dancing skills either. It’s animal stuff. No, wait, it’s better. Even animals have to do mating dances.
I swallow hard when I see her, unwilling to let myself believe that I’ll get to have my way with this girl at any moment. She looks innocent. If I passed her in the street, I would never for a second take her to be the horny, cock-hungry vixen I’m now being given to believe she is. I lean my elbow on the mantelpiece as I watch her being presented to the gallery like a slave at an auction. I notice that her partner is a league or three below her in terms of looks - not that this in any way matters to me right now. The testosterone in the air is palpable, but the atmosphere remains polite and tense.
More impish by far is the other girl I decide I’ll be lining up for if I need to. The strawberry-blonde is shoved into the circle by a partner at least twenty-five years her senior. Not quite the slip of a thing that the brunette is, she looks that little bit stronger for getting pounded. She’s blindfolded and wearing a typical schoolgirl’s outfit. Tartan skirt, white blouse, all the trimmings. Her blindfold ‘accidentally’ falls off as she stumbles into the ring, revealing a round but pretty girl-next-door face. She looks around the company as if to say ‘Well now, what lovely dream have I just woken up in?’ Her escort holds her tight around the waist as he explains - and I do get this part just fine - that pretty much nothing is off the cards with his young charge. Take her ass. Come in her face. She sways as he talks, conveying a kind of drunken desperation to be taken sooner rather than later. I like her style.
Her presentation is the last. Her partner pushes her out of the room into the central hallway, where I see them disappear down the stairs to the basement level I’ve been reading about on the instructions. All the women are now on that lower level. Nobody’s moving yet. What happens now?
Our hostess steps back into the circle with another wide grin. “Well, gentlemen, that’s everyone. What are you waiting for? The ladies are downstairs - go and enjoy them!”
This is it. Sex time. Are the gloves about to come off? Will there be a mad stampede down the staircase? And when we get down there, will someone be standing with a clipboard and giving you a ticket number? I really have no clue how this is supposed to play out when I get to the basement.
I’m definitely happy for a few people who’ve done this before to head downstairs ahead of me. Equally, some instinct makes me not want to be squeezed out towards the back.
But I couldn’t get squeezed even if I tried. Still, nobody is barging or jostling. Some are even hanging back, ever the nervous schoolboys. I can’t believe we’re being so civilized when we’re about to get so primal. With little more than a purposeful stride, I find myself seventh or eight in the penguin convoy approaching the top of the stairs.
As I pass the side unit just before the staircase drops, I grab myself a condom.
End of part one.
