We shivered in our seductive outfits. It was October, two days before my birthday, in a damp backyard. Party attendees were trickling in, dodging the drizzling rain as they embarked upon their COVID tests. We made small talk as we awaited our results, eyeing each others’ silhouettes. What’s small talk and what’s flirtation? Here, the line is fuzzy. That’s what makes it fun.
The house was blissfully warm, buzzing with the spark of intimacy. Friends hugged, radiant smiles brightening their faces. I ate some strawberries from the spread on the kitchen table and took a hit from my weed pen, soaking in the atmosphere.
The sprawling basement, our orgy locale, was bathed in blue, like a haunted house. Colors glowed, fluorescent. Mattresses dotted the floor. A huge, multi-person bean bag beckoned from the corner. A side table was rife with dildos, my dildos, each clothed in a sandwich bag. That was pure practicality — wouldn’t want any stray debris to stick to them before they were even used.
When I was instructed to “bring dildos,” I did not take the request lightly. My Halloween-inspired menagerie included an orange bat-patterned dick, a dildo shaped like the Virgin Mary, and a hauntingly intricate glow-in-the-dark skeleton dildo.
These dildos were for the taking, for everyone. Except the bat cock — that one I wanted for myself.
When it was time, we coalesced in the basement to begin the opening circle. Accumulating at edges of the room, we shared our names, pronouns, and desires. There were a handful of newbies, and I smiled as they introduced themselves and admitted they didn’t know what else to say. We assured them there weren’t any rules. We designed this shit, after all.
But I get it: the pressure from a room of eyes on you, the daunting opportunity to divulge your sexual aspirations. Feeling like a student who’s been called on and hasn’t done the homework. I’ve been there, worried my desires were too basic, wishing I could live up to the scintillating specifics of others. Imposter syndrome at a sex party. We all get it.
When it was my turn, I gestured to my table of weird dildos and explained its communal nature. Then I gave my usual spiel about wanting to put my hands in people and/or wanting someone’s mouth around my cock. Simple. True.
“That makes three people so far who’ve mentioned wanting to put their hands inside people,” I observed. Clearly, it was what the masses wanted.
“Are you a Virgo?” one of the newbies asked.
“Virgo rising,” I replied without hesitation — feeling, triumphantly, like a Certified Queer™.
After our game of spin the lube bottle devolved into debauchery, a scene was set for the prophesied handfucking.
Multiple waterproof blankets were draped over the couch, overlapping like a quilt. Lube bottles were located. Black gloves were rolled onto hands. Three people formed a row of recipients, and three knelt before them. The pairings occurred naturally, and I found myself gazing up at my friend Rachel.
It was a special moment, because Rachel rarely received genital stimulation at our parties. She was the coach, the voyeur, the documentarian, the angel swooping in to wrap her fingers around a throat, offer up her voluminous boobs, or sensually feed someone a snack.
But tonight, she wanted to be fisted.
Never before had she been fisted. And never before had I fisted a person who’d never been fisted. My prior experience, just once, involved a fisting champ with an absurdly receptive vagina. This was not that. I cracked my knuckles figuratively — and drizzled lube over my fingers literally.
I pressed my palm into Rachel’s vulva, feeling my glove lightly crinkle as I rubbed in a circle. I slid my fingers down the puffs of her labia, then closed my hand and turned it to the side, stroking with my knuckles. Her vulva was wet with lube, shiny and inviting. I could feel the metal bead of her clit hood piercing. It turned me on.
The sex educator part of me urged, warm up slowly. Check in often. Ease into it. The rest of me groaned, fuck, man. I am so gay.
She told me when to slip in, when to increase the finger count. As I worked four fingers against her G-spot, we chatted nonchalantly.
“You’re clenching a lot,” I noted.
Inside her, my fingers felt almost invasive. But she didn’t realize she was even doing it. We joined forces with the common goal of convincing her pelvic floor muscles to chill the fuck out. She closed her eyes, sighing, focusing. I called for someone to toss the communal lube bottle my way.
The world went on around us — specifically, right next to us. Our friend Iris was also being fisted. By two people. At the same time. The pair were holding hands inside Iris’ vagina, forming a single unified fist. A sight I may never witness again in my lifetime. Someone scrambled over and snapped pictures of them wrist-deep together, posing proudly as if for a graduation photo. One was a newbie, clearly having the time of their life.
“Right now,” I blurted to Rachel. “You’re not clenching.”
It was like a switch, and I could feel it distinctly: the way her vagina relaxed after holding on with such ferocity.
I inched my thumb closer to her opening. This was the make-or-break moment. I worried she hadn’t built up enough arousal with all the distractions around us, that her vagina would not fully accept me. But then she reached down, grabbed my wrist, and shoved my hand all the way in. Shove is the correct verb.
My eyes widened. I was inside her, fully, suddenly, my hand surrounded by pulsing warmth. Rachel smiled with happiness. It was a triumph for both of us. A successful collaboration. We lingered there for a moment, but not very long. Orgasm was never the goal.
In the afterglow, we snuggled, kissed, and whispered sweet nothings to each other. I hadn’t expected to pop someone’s fisting cherry. It was an honor, and I’m sure I told her so. We gazed into each others’ eyes, exchanging compliments while our friends rang out in a chorus of approval.
I hadn’t even peeled my gloves off yet when my friend and fellow sex educator Amory Jane crawled over to me. “Can I proposition you?” she asked.
“Of course.”
She locked her eyes on mine. “I want to choke on your bat dick.”
Jesus. I was not prepared for that. And yet I very much was: in seconds, I retrieved my harness and dildo, discarded my dress, and strapped in for my second fantasy fulfillment of the night. Ask and you shall receive, apparently.
We wasted no time setting ourselves up on the enormous suede bean bag in the corner. She laid back and I mounted her, knees on either side of her head, bracing my hands on the wall in front of me. Then I pivoted my hips down, and she eased my cock down her throat like it was nothing.
This wouldn’t be just any old blowjob. This is a person who teaches expert-level deep throating classes. This would be a fucking treat.
Half my brain was preoccupied with ensuring the right angle. The other half was lost in the visual and auditory. I slapped my cock against her tongue, then I guided it further, watching the bats flutter in and out of her mouth. I hiked up her crop top and twisted her nipples. She whimpered, gulping me down, swallowing me deeper.
I held her jaw, gazed into her big doe eyes, and moaned: “fuck.”
It felt intimate. I understood the power I had, and I was laser-focused on ensuring her safety and enjoyment. I scanned her eyes for any sign of discomfort, but all I saw was desperate begging.
I thrust further. We were so close to the back of her throat, it felt as if one overzealous stroke could trigger her gag reflex. A few times she gagged more intensely, and I worried she would choke. But I stayed locked on her, trusting that her hands on my thighs would signal her limit.
Eventually someone brought her a Magic Wand. She immediately held it to her clit and resumed blowing me like her life depended on it. I’ve never been so ravenously deep throated. I could feel my cock hitching in the back of her throat, where it dipped down. Somehow it reverberated through the dildo. So close to the edge.
More about my orgy toys
She moaned against my cock, her voice muffled, whimpering as she came. I watched the orgasm wash over her face, her mouth filled with me, using me as a gag. A visual I’ve masturbated to many, many a time.
As she came down from her orgasm, she popped my cock out of her mouth, gasping for breath. I looked down, smoothed her hair, and waited a beat.
Then I smiled and murmured, “Happy Halloween.”
“You have really good cock confidence,” Amory Jane told me afterward. I draped myself on the couch, basking in her words as if I’d been given a gold medal.
I took a hit from my weed pen, harness and cock still on, absent-mindedly observing a scene in the corner. Two people were lying face down on a mattress, their asses red. They were being hit with a filed-down willow branch.
I don’t even know how it happened. I think we were joking about my bat dildo, forever erect. But I was offered another blowjob, this one from my friend Opal, and how could I say no?
So I sat back on the couch, like I love to do, and let them service me on their hands and knees, like they love to do.
Opal swallowed my cock like they were hungry for it. I tangled my fingers in their hair — long and luscious, teen heartthrob style — and tightened them at the scalp. With my other hand I squeezed their jaw, enjoying how the muscles moved. I asked if I could slap their cheek and was met with a resounding “yes.” Their moans reverberated through the dildo.
Opal pulled back, gasping, a ribbon of spit suspended between their lips and my cock. They were smiling, deliriously lost in submission.
This was all too hot for me. I needed to come.
We paused the action to choose a vibrator for me to use, and a new dildo for Opal to suck. I discarded my harness. Sitting back on the couch, I helped Opal brace the new dildo against my thigh as I used the vibrator. My clit practically melted with relief.
As Opal returned to sucking me off, Iris appeared standing behind them, eyeing their bare ass, wielding the tree branch switch.
“I’m going to hit you ten times,” Iris explained to Opal. “I want you to count each one, then say, thank you, daddy.”
I groaned, pressing the vibrator into my clit, the word ringing in my ears.
Opal struggled to keep their lips around my cock as Iris struck them with the branch. “One,” Opal gasped, body lurching forward. “Thank you, daddy.”
“What’s that? I can’t hear you. Louder.”
My clit twitched at Iris’ sadistic teasing. I was so excruciatingly close. As the countdown continued, I realized something: I could time my orgasm. I was born for this. My focus became singular: to come before, or during, the final strike.
And I did.
“Fuck,” I mumbled clumsily, mostly to myself. “I’m gonna come in your mouth.”
I don’t know if Opal even heard me above their own yelps of pleasure.
Everything was winding down. Someone demanded food and, being at a sex party stocked healthily with submissives, the request was quickly fulfilled. The bounty was laid before us on the floor, bread and cheese and fruit and donuts, and we devoured it. Naked and unabashed, bathed in blue light.
Upon seeing the donuts, some partygoers were inspired to attempt Cosmo‘s infamous sex tip. Erections were achieved, and I watched with amusement as donuts were wiggled and nudged onto them. It was very messy. Sprinkles falling off, icing dripping. The cake donut was the worst, crumbling immediately.
Erections were not maintained.
Anyone trying to eat the donuts off the penises — which I think is the whole point of Cosmo‘s tip — could only get a bite or two before the whole thing disintegrated. They’d cup their hands underneath to catch the inevitable.
I smirked and savored my own donut from the sidelines, licking the sugar from my fingers, tallying my feats of the evening. One fisting, two blowjobs, and an orgasm — it was beyond my expectations of any sex party.
Until you’re there, it’s impossible to imagine what any orgy will entail. I’ve attended parties where I’ve been beaten up, fingered, suspended by rope, and lit on fire. At others, I’ve posted up in a corner chair to watch everyone else, Magic Wand casually pressed to my clit. Once I used a Pure Wand on someone while they read e.e. cummings poetry; another time, I got a mind-blowing blowjob in an expensive condo.
Now, I had a new story for the list: Halloween-themed blowjobs, including a deep throating for the ages.
Originally, when I’d packed the bat dildo for the party, I was inspired by its potential for a good story. A fun Halloween memory. Turns out, its destiny was even greater — and even hotter. Now, when I think of Halloween, I’ll remember her below me, eyes wide, lips closing around my cock, swallowing more and more, whimpering as the dildo’s bat pattern disappears down her throat.