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Month: January 2017

The Party House

I had heard stories about secret, underground parties held at a house off campus. Supposedly, they were the wildest parties you could imagine. According to the rumors, there was all kinds of crazy stuff going on there.

I was very curious to find out first hand.

One day I heard through the grapevine that one of these parties was going down that weekend. I had to be there! The only problem was I had no idea if it was true, or if they’d even let strangers in.

Well, I figured there was only one way to find out. I decided I’d have the best chance to get in if I looked sexy. I put on my tightest pair of jeans. They were cut so low that you’d be able to see my pubic hair if I didn’t shave myself nearly bald. I also wore a tight, skimpy tank top that barely held my braless 36C breasts. If I bent over, they just about spilled out the top.

I finished my hair and makeup and looked in the mirror. I thought I looked damn good. Good enough that any guy would probably let me into the party.

I got to the house and saw a few cars. The driveway was long, and the house was set back from the road, so I couldn’t see what was going on. As I walked up the driveway I heard music playing and figured it was the right place.

I was a little nervous, but went and knocked on the door anyway, not sure what I’d say when it was answered.

“Damn, hello sexy!” said the handsome guy that quickly opened the door and stepped outside closing it behind him as he checked out my body, obviously focusing on my breasts.

He was tall, probably 6’2″ or so and looked like he had a great body. His facial features were incredible. He had a strong jaw line, great lips, and beautiful blue eyes. And he had very trendy, longish shaggy hair.

“Hello sexy yourself,” I answered.

“So you want to get into our party?” he asked

“Absolutely,” I smiled. “I hear they’re the best parties around campus!”

“Yeah, they definitely are,” he laughed. “But do you know what our parties are like?”

“Well, I heard they’re pretty wild, but I don’t know anything else,” I told him.

“You’re gonna have to prove that you’re ready for our kind of party before I let you in.” he said with a wicked grin.

“How do I do that?” I asked with genuine curiosity.

Without saying another word, he undid he belt and dropped his jeans and boxers to the ground, exposing a beautiful, meaty, perfectly shaved cock and balls.
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Post Party Mature Massage

My girlfriend and I once took a sensual massage lesson offered by the Learning Annex. It was a lot of fun and made me open to the use of candles, oil and taking your time with the opposite sex. It even helped my relationship with my difficult and demanding mother, for I would give her a neck and shoulder or foot massage occasionally. After a day or two we’d find something to argue about again, but for a while there was peace.

Two years ago Alice, a long-divorced friend of my mother’s was getting married, so mom threw her a bachelorette party. I think another woman arranged it, but it was at our house, and I was ordered to leave the house and not come back until midnight. At five after midnight I arrived home from my girlfriends after a decent night of sex and pizza to find the party still in full swing and a male dancer throwing himself all over the ladies. The dancer glared at me in open hostility. I glared back and went to the family room on the other side of the house. I guess he liked being the center of attention or felt my arrival stopped the flow of tips into his g-string or something. Whatever the case, he left shortly and the women returned to some drinking games and the opening of gag gifts.

My viewing of Saturday Night Live was interrupted by shouts of my name. Curious, I went back to the living room and found that a collection was being taken to get me to give Alice a sensual massage then and there. It was my mother’s idea and she put her arms around me and did her best to convince me to go along. Other women clapped in agreement. I was tired, but agreeable. The person really needing convincing was Alice, who kept saying “No”. Some of the women plied her with alcohol to get her to change her mind and guilt-tripped her over all the money collected, a very respectable total of $73.00. My mother gave me the money and told me to light a candle or two in the guest bedroom and heat up some oil. I did, but I fully expected Alice to chicken out. She’s a vice-principal at a junior high school and very straightlaced: lots of hair spray, makeup and always conservatively dressed. Even tonight, a night to let her hair down, she looked like she was going to work in a long navy-colored dress.

I lit the candles, warmed up my only massage oil in the microwave for a few seconds and lay down on the bed. Minutes passed and I began thinking what cds I would buy with the money, then I fell asleep. An hour later my mother and two friends knocked on the door, escorting a wobbly Alice. They were all drunk or close to it. Alice still resisted, which was why they were escorting her. Another delay ensued when Alice said she could never take her clothes off in front of me, so mom got her a robe and they took her “under guard” down the hall to change.

The three women practically pushed the reluctant Alice back in the room and slammed the door. Alice, tipsy for the only time in my memory, kept repeating that this was “crazy, crazy, crazy”. I said the same thing, but got her to lie down across the bed face-up. I sat in a chair by the side of the bed and massaged her head, face and neck and shoulders for 15 minutes. She seemed to enjoy it and chatted away nervously between actual sighs of pleasure. Mom and friends came back to check on her about then. They convinced her to get her hands out of the robe sleeves and turn over on her stomach so that I could do her back. Alice thought that was too intimate and said “no”. The women insisted, but Alice said “No way”. More argument followed, then Alice finally agreed, so long as she could keep her bra on. Mom’s drunk friend Betty would have none of that and unfastened Alice’s bra herself with a scream of delight. They all ran out of the room after that. I locked the door behind them and stopped Alice from re-hooking her bra.

“Just keep your arms at your sides and I won’t see a thing” I smiled. Not strictly true, but…
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Claire and The Bachelor Party

Claire and I were sitting at our Saturday morning breakfast table when I revisited an ongoing conversation that fascinated me, but one in which Claire usually showed very little interest — at least in the light of day.

“You’ve always liked getting felt up, right?”

“You know that. I’ve never hidden it from you. But I’ve also never hidden the fact that I’m going to fuck one man in my life, and you’re him. End of conversation. I’m NOT going to fuck Bobby. He’s nothing but a trophy hunter, and he’s not going to mount me.”

The good news was that Claire was the top trophy at the bank — and would be in virtually any environment she chose to frequent — but Bobby would never get into her pants. She was a classy 5′ 2′ blonde with long hair and a tight body. She played tennis several times a week, and walked or jogged the other days. She had absolutely perfect tits and wore a 32 “C” bra, but didn’really need it because gravity seemed to not notice how much mass she had attached to her chest. Yes, she was definitely a trophy, but she was a committed, one-man woman, and Bobby had no chance with her. Neither did any other guy. Still, I liked to tease her about Bobby — and other guys too. I knew that if anybody had a shot at her, it was Bobby — but, realistically, he had no shot either.

So, I pressed Claire for details on a minor little incident at the bank on Friday. He had succeeded in separating Claire from the other women and used a pretty transparent trick in an effort to get a little tit.

I tried again, cautiously, trying to build on what had happened the day before. “OK,” I said. “When was the last time you got felt up by another man besides me and Bobby.”

“First of all,” she said, “To say that Bobby felt me up is stretching the concept a bit, but for the sake of argument, let’s say he did. That’s it: finis. It’s over. No more tit for Bobby from Claire. Further, if you keep probing, you might hear something you don’t want to here.”

Ignoring her admonition, I tried another tact. “OK, Ms. Claire, how long has it been since another man felt you up?” I expected her to say that it was Dale, her boyfriend before she met me.

But she surprised me by answering, “Well, since you insist on pursuing this line of questioning, I’ll answer you. The last time I got felt up by another man was the night before our wedding. You were at that stupid bachelor party, and I knew the guys planned to get you laid, so I decided it was a good time to have just a little fun myself.”

A bit taken aback, I said, “OK, tell me who felt you up and how it happened.”
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