Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor
There’s a reason she turned up to the club wearing no knickers, and it’s a very very good one. As she’s getting dressed, she briefly contemplates which ones to wear – silk, lace, maybe a tiny black thong that can be easily torn off. Eventually she settles for ‘none at all’ though, plus a skirt that’s easy to hike up round her waist. That option seems like the best one, to achieve the end goal on which she’s so utterly focused.
Note this story contains degradation, a gang bang, dicks going into all the holes, cum, etc etc etc.
No tights under the skirt either, and she doesn’t bother with stockings. She decides to go bra-less too, beneath a light shirt that drapes neatly over her tits, highlighting how hard her nipples get when she’s cold. It’s chilly in the club, she remembers. After a quick tour last week so she could get her bearings, she remembered warming up on the way home in his car as he told her the plan. Explained that the next time she came to this dank, echoey basement bar it would be filled wall-to-wall with men.
“Who?” She’d asked, naïvely. Her question was greeted with a shrug.
He doesn’t know who’ll be there, and doesn’t care. There’ll be men in the bar, and they’re expecting to do what they want – that’s all that matters.
She can smell it before she even walks in. There’s a fug about the air here, an atmosphere. Sweat, mostly. Cheap aftershave. Beer. The noise coming from the room is an energetic rumble. Masculine pitched chatter punctuated by the occasional raucous laugh. She clocks the CCTV camera in the corridor just outside the door and sticks her tongue out at it, like a brat. Flashes the lens a quick glimpse of naked, nipple-hard tit.
And then she enters.
The melée isn’t instant, and that makes it so much hotter. All the bravado and bluster that was resonating in those voices before she entered the bar suddenly disappears, replaced with an awkwardness. A shyness, almost. Those who’d been boasting about being the first one to fuck her are now shuffling their feet, unsure of the etiquette. It’s been planned by her partner, and these wannabe-boisterous men seem a little lost without a leader. She can see a couple grabbing at their crotches, nursing tumescent erections that they’re unsure what to do with, but nevertheless desperate to use. One of them’s licking his lips. And yet none of them take the initiative just yet.
She’s glad of it. The anticipation, the wondering, the lowkey fear… it’s all part and parcel of the thrill.
The bartender fills in the silence. Calls across the room:
“Drink?”
“Yes please.”
All eyes on her, watching and waiting, as she saunters over to the bar. Brushing up against each man she walks past, feeling the shift of bodies as the crowd turns to follow her journey, she tries not to let them see that she’s trembling.
It feels like walking into a den of wolves, which is perfect. And just as the pack will hold back until prompted by the top dog, so these men hold back until the exact moment one of them decides it’s time to strike.
As she walks towards the bar, one man makes an exaggerated gesture as if she knocked his arm. She didn’t. It doesn’t matter. He spills a few drops of his pint, then tells her ‘you’ll pay for that’ before pouring the rest out – all over her floaty white shirt. For a second she stands there dripping, measuring their looks. Noting how pairs of eyes are drawn to the dark peaks of her nipples picked out neatly by the wet fabric.
They pounce.
First someone grabs her from behind, dragging her backwards so he can shove a denim-clad erection against her arse. Breathes into her ear that he wants a go on those tits, before she’s roughly taken off him by somebody else. This next man wastes no time, tearing the buttons off her shirt with powerful ease, then pawing at her with hot hands that squeeze tight enough to hurt and bruise. Or maybe those aren’t his hands, but somebody else’s. Already she’s lost count as three, four, five men start to grope at whatever they can reach.
One grabs her hair, starts pulling it back from her face so another can spit in it.
Another’s hiked up her skirt to expose her naked arse, and in almost the same split second someone’s given it a deft, sharp smack. She briefly contemplates pulling her arms to her chest, to feign shyness about those exposed nipples, but as soon as the thought arises it becomes moot anyway: both arms are now being held as she’s dragged the final few feet towards the bar, bent backwards over it so the bartender can tip that freshly-poured pint into her mouth. And over her face. And her tits.
She’s soaking wet now and slippery, struggling half-heartedly to try and keep up the pretence, but secretly thrilled that she’s now half-blind and spluttering from the cold, fizzy lager. Unsure of how many men there are now fighting to the front of the fray.
Her skirt is bunched uselessly around her waist so they’re in with fingers – no gentleness or build-up, just rough, dry poking. Exploration. Competition. Three or maybe four or maybe five different hands trying to bat away rivals and get all the way inside her, even as the other men focus on what might come next.
One guy gets on the bar – to a chorus of cheers – and pulls his cock out from his jeans, beating at it as he tries to angle his body so he can cram it into her mouth. She opens up, obligingly, and feels a couple of short, sharp strokes as he jams it into her throat. Busy hands elsewhere try to lift her thighs so she’s perched a bit higher – all the better for everyone to see. When the guy on the bar slips there’s a raucous, jeering roar, and none of the others try to take his place. There are far better places to be.
They’ve got her perched now on the edge of a stool. One man stands behind her, pinning her arms back so her tits sit proud and accessible for everyone else to grope. None of the men currently enjoying the show are close enough to cum on them, but many of them comment on it – calling dibs on this or that type of fuck, knowing that talking about what they might do is the closest they’ll get to doing it unless they stop waiting to be offered. They need to muster the courage to step up and take it, and some of them just won’t be so inclined.
Most are, though.
Most of the men in the bar have gathered there for that exact reason: they don’t just talk, they do. Stepping forward, one by one, each sliding his cock inside her exposed cunt. The man who holds her arms has been joined by two others – each holds a thigh, spreading wide. Holding her taut and open so the rest can take their turns. They jostle a little, and she loves that: this animalistic, competitive demand to be the next inside. She enjoys that more than the fucking itself, perhaps: that moment when one man displaces the last, and an old dick’s replaced with a new one.
She enjoys, too, the way they talk to each other. Collaborating in the best way to hold her or move her or spread her legs even wider. All minds working on the same disgusting problem: how best to ruin this horny, hungry slut.
Her shirt gets torn further as she’s moved to a better, more accessible position. She weighs almost nothing with so many pairs of hands hauling her – like a ragdoll – across the bar to be dumped on a nearby table. It’s sticky with beer already and will soon be slick with cum as the first man of many seizes the opportunity. He’d been waiting at the back, cock in hand, enjoying the show as she got mauled from all directions. Now she’s laid out on her back on the table, her tits are easy to access so he grabs one and murmurs ‘oh God, oh fuck, oh fuck’ as he beats at his dick. Looking down at her wet, exposed body and her temptingly open mouth he grips himself harder and can’t hold back doesn’t want to hold back so he lets the pulses of orgasm take control, raining thick ropes of spunk down onto her face.
In her mouth.
In her eyes.
From her experience of these kinds of things, one cum shot usually triggers another, and she’s right. One more of the men who had held back to start with steps forward with eager intent. While the stronger men wrestle her legs open, then pin them back so her cunt is wide open and ready for use, this second man leans in and takes aim at her face. Fat droplets of cum squirt out onto her neck and chest, as she tries to open her eyes through the sticky residue. She fails, but no matter. The whimper he let out in the moment will resonate in her mind and be used in future fantasies – she’s glad he had a good time, but her motives are mostly selfish.
In fact, so focused was she on trying to memorise his climax that she could almost have missed the way others were now taking it in turns. Having dragged her to the edge of the table so her ass hung over the edge, all the better to plough her cunt and rattle her teeth as they did their best to out-fuck each other. Using her like gym equipment. Showing off to the rest how much harder, faster, stronger and more brutal they can be.
At this point, the blur begins.
She knows that they took it in turns, and remembers that some of them came. The hot-heavy feeling of spunk dripping down from her cunt when they manhandled her to the floor attests to that. As does a vague memory of one of them telling another ‘I’ve lubed her up’ (as if she needed it).
At some point in the blur she is on hands and knees – one guy railing from behind and another in front, not fucking her face but just holding her. Pinning her. Pushing against her shoulders to brace her for each stroke of the other guy’s cock. So she can’t escape the length of his shaft by retreating, she has to take it all.
Later, or maybe earlier, in the blur she is swallowing spunk. Two or three, in front of her face, taking it in turns to grab her hair and drag her onto their dicks like her mouth is a Fleshlight. The mingled grunts and sighs and murmurs of ‘that’s it’ and ‘my turn’ and ‘suck it, you fucking slut’ are as memorable as the taste of the cum that she swallowed, i.e. not individually, they all meld into one now. She gulped down more than one load, and even said ‘thank you’ to someone. Maybe when she gulped down a particular load, perhaps when the one with the fattest dick deigned to fuck her with feeling. At the edge of the table, with his hands round her thighs, gripping her firmly but unsuccessfully on that cum-slippery surface as he hauled her body down his shaft and called her a ‘bitch’.
There is more to this, of course, but she won’t remember it all. She knows she’ll be asked how many there were, but she’s long since lost count so figures she’ll estimate. Instead, she focuses on the key points and moments: the moment they moved her to the table; the guy who dragged her to the floor; the point at which someone said ‘quick, let me have her, I’m gonna come’ and got his wish straight away – her cunt emptying of the first guy so the second could slide in just a moment before he started to twitch and pump cum. Being ordered to open her mouth so one guy could spit in it, a different one stepping forward to plug her throat with his cock. Pushing that warm, lager-tasting saliva down her gullet as her eyes watered.
There is more to this, of course, but you’ve heard enough. There’s a reason she turned up to this club wearing no knickers. It’s a very very good one, and it isn’t because of these men. These men are bit-part players in a far more important production. One that starts the second she returns home.
Shattered, trashed, spent, and covered in cum, she tiptoes through the front door and heads to his office. When she steps inside, she knows exactly how she looks. The dishevelled, post-fuck, ruined look on her face pairs well with the tattered remains of the shirt she once wore, and the mess of her hair is a crowning glory of sluttery and shame.
The bar, the beer, the men, the degradation… all of it happened as a prelude to this moment.
She walks into his office, raises her eyes to meet his, and receives one simple instruction:
“Confess.”
Click that link for part 2 of the story. Part 3 will be published soon.
