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The Cocktail Table, Part One
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
THE COCKTAIL TABLE part 1 of 2
By Sue
A few weeks ago, I received an Email from a young man who was a graduate
student at a University in a city a few hours from where I live. He said that
he is an avid fan of my stories that are posted in alt.sex.stories. He and
his girlfriend read them all. In fact, they have been sharing them with a
group of friends at the University. This isn't just any group of friends --
they are a sort of club that engages in mate-swapping and group sex. There
are twelve of them all together, all couples. So they have taken to reading
my stories out loud at the beginning of their gatherings as a way to get into
the "swing" of things (no pun intended). According to Tim, who is the fellow
who emailed me, my stories have had quite an affect on the group. Apparently,
things have become a little placid for them, since they have been meeting for
over three years. That is a little hard for me to believe, since I can't see
how that kind of group could ever be boring. In any case, my stories have
gotten them all very aroused, and they have determined to be more creative
about their interminglings. The past few months have made them all big
admirers of my stories.
I wrote Tim back to thank him for his support, and I told him that I found it
to be exciting to imagine them all together reading one of my stories, and
then imagining what happened when the pages are put down. I asked which story
they liked the most. Within a day, I received another note from him. Their
favorite story was "Slippery When Wet," partly because it involved
college-age men, and partly because they were intrigued with my fascination
with large amounts of semen all over my body. Tim said that this story had
led the group to experiment with having several men ejaculate onto one of the
women. The experiment was a success, and they concluded that this line of
exploration warranted further investigation. Those were his words exactly. It
was obvious that he and his friends were graduate students in science. But it
was hard for me to imagine nerdy science students being liberated enough to
be into group sex.
In my next message, I challenged Tim about the reality of his swingers group.
His response blew me away. His group was going to prove to me that they
existed. One week from the date of his message, I was invited to join them.
He gave me directions to the apartment where they were meeting, and they made
sure that I could retain my complete anonymity. They also assured me that
they were all completely well behaved ladies and gentlemen, and that my
safety and well-being were assured. In fact, they adored me for the
inspiration that I had given to the group, and that my presence at their
gathering would be a wonderful honor for them.
I decided to attend. It was hard to let go of my fear of strangers, but quite
frankly, these people seemed totally benign and genuinely friendly. And my
curiosity was piqued. I wasn't sure if I would actually engage in their
sexual activities, and I wasn't even sure if actual sex was on the agenda.
Maybe this would be kind of like a book-signing party or something. Lots of
talk and congratulations and the like.
Today is the day. Before I left home, I put on a long back dress, velveteen
lined with satin. It has spaghetti straps and it goes down to my ankles, with
slits up each side that reach halfway up my thighs. I never wear a bra, and
the vee neck of the bodice extends deep into my modest cleavage. Well, maybe
modest isn't the best description. What I'm trying to say is that my breasts
aren't so large as to leave a Grand Canyon between them. But there is enough
to provide a nesting place for the long string of fake pearls that drapes
around my neck and falls into the valley, accentuating the mounds of my
breasts. For panties, I chose scarlet satin panties with black lace around
all the edges. All of this was rounded out by shiny red pumps, with no
stockings. I was trying to play the part of a writer of titillating erotica
out to meet her fans. It was a bit like dressing up for the prom.
So now I've driven all afternoon. Fortunately, the weather today was warm
enough so that I could drive with the top down on my Miata. It felt great to
let my blond hair stream out behind me, and the wind blew into the top of my
dress, sort of inflating it and pulling it away from my chest. The breezes
whipped across my nipples for all that time on the highway. It was the most
slow and gentle and effective kind of stimulation, and my nipples never lost
their hardness for the entire trip. I had given myself plenty of time to find
my way, but nevertheless, I got lost. So here I am on the doorstep to the
apartment, and I'm almost an hour late. Oh well, hopefully, they haven't
given up on me. So I ring the door chime. My heart is beating a little fast
out of nervousness. I have never actually met any of my alt.sex.stories
readers. Maybe I should have kept it that way. Maybe Tim's invitation was a
scam, and behind the door are a bunch of macho, sex-maniacs who intend to
include me in some sort of nc, sm, bd episode that they can write up for the
Internet. That is not my cup of tea at all, and I suddenly decide to turn
around and flee this potential fiasco.
When I have wheeled around and taken a couple of steps toward the elevator, I
hear the door open. Should I run for it? Before I can decide, I hear a sweet
and delicate woman's voice asking if my name is Sue. When I turn my head back
to the door, I can see the woman, and I can only feel silly for being afraid
of the occupants of the apartment. This person is hardly menacing. She is
short (maybe 5 foot or so) and pretty and I guess the best way of describing
her would be to say that she is demure, even timid. She seems more nervous to
be meeting me than I am in being met! OK, I'll go through with it, so I turn
around and walk back to the door and into the apartment.
In the living room, all of the seats are taken, and other people are seated
on cushions on the floor. When I enter, they all stand up and welcome me in.
Crowding around me, they are effusively thanking me for coming. Tim
introduces himself to me, and then to everyone else. All the names escape me,
going in one ear and out the other. I've never been so much the center of
attention, and I found my focus wandering from person to person, responding
to their questions with simple yes and no answers. My head is swimming.
Eventually the woman who opened the door (this is her apartment) recognizes
my bewilderment, and offers me a chance to wash up in her bathroom. That
sounds great. The three minutes in there give me an opportunity to settle my
nerves and get back into the role of vamping queen of erotica that I had
chosen for myself. Now I'm ready, so I rejoin the group.
One of the first things that I am asked is whether I have written anything
new. Well, I haven't, and they seem a bit disappointed. Tim asks if I will
read them one of my previous efforts. When I tell him that I would, I also
want to know which one they would like to hear. Several people chime in that
they would love to hear "Slippery When Wet" again. I suppose I should have
anticipated that, from what Tim had told me.
I have now figured out that my hostess is Jill, and that she is Tim's
girlfriend. They are all exactly as I might have pictured them. Not exactly
nerds like the caricatures in the movies. But definitely intensely academic
grad students. Of the twelve of them, only two aren't wearing glasses. Most
of the men are wearing Dockers type pants and button down shirts (a couple of
them even have those pocket protectors things) and most of the women are
following the lead of Jill. They have on unpretentious and wholesome outfits
that seem like they come from the Eisenhower era. Pigtails and braids,
blouses buttoned up to the neck, white socks... the works! I'm not trying to
portray them unkindly. Really, they are all totally likable and earnest. But
I still can't make this image of them jibe with the fact that they are
apparently wild-and-swingers. They look more like a meeting of "Catholic
Virgins Anonymous," or something!
Jill is handing me a printout of my story. The pages are kind of worn and
dog-earred. This copy had been reread many times. Someone vacates a big
overstuffed wingchair for me, and I settle in and start to read. There is a
total of 18 pages, so it takes a while. During my recitation, they all sit
around me with rapt attention, eager smiles on their faces. But despite their
enthusiasm, they show little sign of the sexual stimulation that might be
expected from Tim's Email. The predominant thing that they are doing is
simply sitting still with their hands folded in their laps.
On the other hand, this story is getting to me. I hadn't reread this one in a
long time, and it is actually pretty sexy. And having an audience had a funny
kind of stimulating effect on me too. I've been reading and writing stories
like this for a while, but saying the words out loud is somehow very
different. I have never done that before. It is making me physically warm,
and sexually hot. I even feel a bit lightheaded, almost intoxicated. As I
approach the end of the story, we reach the part where the four men are
holding me afloat in the big jacuzzi, and I'm sucking on the balls of one,
jerking off two of them, and the forth man is plunging his huge cock into
wide-spread cunt. They all spray their come onto my wet heaving body as I too
have my orgasm. This image is an incredible turn on for me. Usually semen is
available in such small quantities. In this story, the jets of string stuff
are splattering onto me in wonderful abundance. As I read, the listeners
surrounding me become imperceptible as my imagination focuses wholly on the
cinematic images that are brought up by the words that I mindlessly (yet
passionately) read aloud.
The story ends. I let the sheaf of papers fall to the floor and take a deep
breath. I am almost drunk with arousal. I can't see how my new friends have
stayed so still and calm.
Ah, but that is not the case. Jill stands up and tells us all that she
doesn't care what they agreed on before, she needs to do something to deal
with how turned on she is. Now they all start talking. It turns out that they
had decided in advance of my arrival that it would be rude to have an orgy
with me there. Somehow, they had felt that I was "above" that kind of thing,
and that they should be well behaved and proper with me, their special guest,
in attendance.
And Jill isn't the only one who wants to abandon their rule for the evening.
So then Tim tells me that they obviously can't restrain themselves, but they
would fully understand if I choose to leave the party now. They have no
desire to hurt my feelings, but they now want to take care of their "more
important needs."
I ask them if they are encouraging me to leave, or if it would be all right
if I stayed. Their faces light up when I ask that, for certainly, they would
like that more than anything else. They had just been too timid to ask. I
realize that this is my chance to live out a bit of a fantasy that I had been
playing with in my day dreams recently. The "Slippery When Wet" story
involved four men spurting their semen onto me. Why not more. After all,
Tim's Email said that their group had been experimenting with this kind of
thing. So this is my opportunity. Yes, I'll most certainly stay and join
them. I have one request for them. Would it be all right if I get to provide
them with the basic scenario for our group play?
They are thrilled that I will stay, and more thrilled that I will direct
them. Somehow, they have built me up in their minds into some kind of guru of
uninhibited sexuality. I am far from that, but what the hell. If they want to
think of me that way, who am I to argue.
They push all the furniture over to the walls, leaving a wide space in the
middle of the floor. The couch and three big arm chairs are all on one wall,
with a big coffee table in front of the couch. Jill has gotten several bath
towels which she has spread in layers onto the table, making for a
comfortable position. Now I tell them all to undress. I myself remain fully
clothed (for now) in my provocative outfit. My full attention is on the
twelve bodies being transformed from conservative to libertarian dress code.
I notice at once that the plain apparel that they wore in public is only a
cover for an array of more interesting underwear. Most of the men are wearing
tight bikini pants in dark colors. One of the guys is has his cock encased in
a tiny strip of a cod-piece, held up by string straps that circle his hips,
with a single string disappearing into the crack of his ass. The women are
similarly attired in sexy panties and bras which cry out with bright reds and
neon greens. A couple of them have nylons and garters, and Jill has a black
strapless push-up bra which cuts across her large breasts, creasing deeply
into her wide, brown aereola and leaving her nipples exposed. And she has
crotchless panties, which I notice when she puts her foot up onto the arm of
a chair to remove her white sock. This spreads her thighs apart, and her
entire pubic area bulges out of the crotch. She has an incredible amount of
hair around her cunt, and it is dark reddish-brown, like her head hair. This
provides a great contrast to the shiny black of her panties.
They are all now stripped down to their underwear, but by some unspoken
agreement, they are waiting for my instructions before going on. So I have
all the women go over to the couch and chairs and make themselves
comfortable, and the men stand in a close line facing the women, with the
table separating them. I stand at the end of the table, and tell the men to
observe the women closely as they all slowly remove the last scanty
semblances of modesty. In unison, with me as their "conductor," they reach
behind their backs to unclasp their bras, and then they lift their hips to
slide their panties down their legs. The women with garters leave them on.
The men keep their tight bikini pants on, outlining their anxious erections
within the tightly stretched material. Now I have the women untie, unbraid,
or unpin their hair, and also take off their glasses.
This last set of actions is the most transforming of all, more than the
process of undressing for the men. Whereas I had once lumped them all
together as nerdy intellectuals, I can now abandon that stereotype and see
them as individuals. Six women of all sizes and shapes, different color hair,
all sorts of nipples and different amounts of pubic hair. No longer the mousy
librarians, these are hot-blooded women with hunger in their eyes. When I ask
them to spread their thighs so that the men can see the buried treasures,
there is no hesitation or modesty. The three women on the couch actually hook
their knees over each other, and the others arrange their legs by taking
advantage of the arms of their chairs. With the gaze of the men taking it all
in, women follow my instructions and start to play with their nipples with
one hand, and with the other, they tangle and twist their cunt hair.
Gradually, they work their fingers into the wet and open folds of their cunt
flesh, and gently start to probe and caress their labia and clitorises (Shit!
what is the plural of clitoris? Clitori? Or maybe it is like "deer" or
"pants," both singular and plural at the same time!). The hungry look in the
women's eyes is being replaced with a kind of glazed-over stare that lets us
all know that they are happy, and getting happier.
Continued in part 2
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