One of my most common wank fantasies is getting fucked by a bachelor party. Technically it’s getting fucked by a stag party, because that’s what we call them here in the UK. But I am, as always, at the mercy of Google, so I’m going to use those two terms interchangeably in order to get search traffic. I hope you can forgive me, because after all I am sharing this delightful porn, in which the main character gets gleefully and riotously fucked by a bunch of drunk guys. Seeing as we’re all trying to remain indoors and avoid group gatherings, why not indulge in some of the group gatherings that exist inside our heads?
Fucked by a bachelor party
They rarely wear their wedding rings, the bachelors, but you can sometimes see the telltale ring of flesh around their fingers if you squint and look closely. And you’ll get a lot of opportunity to look closely, when they’re shoving those fingers into your mouth, hooking your lips open and pulling your head back so the Best Man can cum on your tongue.
I like to fuck these groups of men. Don’t ask me why: would you ask a straight guy buried in a sea of wriggling, feminine flesh why he was so keen to fuck a group of women?
I like to get fucked at stag dos. Late in the evening, when they’re done with strip clubs, and they spill out onto the street – roaring with laughter at whoever seems most drunk, telling the groom he’s a lightweight. Making eyes at me like they don’t think I’m up for it. Nudging each other when I stare for too long – to let them know that I am.
The first time I got fucked by a bachelor party, it was purely a matter of luck. I was stranded in central, phone dead and wallet empty, cadging calltime from drunk passers-by.
“Can I use your phone? I won’t be long, I promise. No, it’s not a scam. Look! You can watch me type the number! I just need to get myself a cab.”
You’d be surprised how many cunts you run into at midnight on Wednesday in London. Or perhaps on second thoughts you wouldn’t. Eventually someone stopped to help. He was reeling drunk but clearly friendly, and he offered me not just his phone but a ride home. Pointed out his friends, who were swarming in the doorway of a nearby kebab house. I gave him some chit chat, explained that I couldn’t get home. Blah blah, help me out, blah blah, alone and freezing. You know the drill. And if you don’t then I’m simply not telling you: I don’t want to give away my secrets. You’d be surprised how hard it is to find a group of horny lads who are genuinely easy enough to gang bang. Sure, a group of lads might all fantasise about tag-teaming the stripper, but when their bluff is called they’ll usually run a mile. If you want to actually get fucked by a bachelor party, that takes a lot of work.
So I worked.
Half an hour later I was worming my way into their inner sanctum: the bachelor party pad. Turns out they were renting a place somewhere north, near Angel tube. A huge townhouse, which the best man had found on AirBnB. Massive rooms, classy kitchen, marble countertops. Empty bottles and cans everywhere: they’d started early. I’d spoken to my saviour in the taxi and established that no, he wasn’t the groom but yes, he was the best man. And yes, he did want to fuck.
As I mentioned before, you can sometimes see the spaces where their wedding rings are meant to sit. The best man was a very naughty boy.
Once inside the house, I had to do the introductions – half the guys had been in a different taxi, and they displayed a mixture of bafflement, excitement and annoyance that they’d returned home with an extra in tow. A female extra, at that! Some gruff twat who I later found out was called Steve made a big song and dance about ‘no girls allowed’, and how you have to honour the bro code. A dude called Mike, who swiftly became my favourite, told him to fuck off upstairs if he didn’t like it, which he promptly did, swiping a half-full bottle of vodka from the kitchen en route.
There’s always one or two.
I mean that sincerely: there’s always one or two. Since I started doing this I’ve developed a set of rules. Well, maybe not ‘rules’ but expectations: there’ll always be at least one who struggles to get his dick hard; you’ll never really know when to call ‘time’; and you don’t get a gang of men to fuck you without having a few drop-outs along the way. It happens. Sometimes they’re not into me, sometimes just not up for getting their dick out in front of their friends, and sometimes their wedding vows matter. I’ll leave you to guess which reasons are the most common.
Oh, and I forgot one: as soon as you begin there’ll be one guy nagging for anal. I’ll say the same to you as I always say to them: have patience.
One of the things that draws me to getting fucked by a bachelor party is the element of taking turns. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s something about feeling desired – so desired I’m a bit nervous I may not make it round to all of them. It always starts with blow jobs. Again: no idea why. It just seems a bit easier to start off with snogs and touches, and then a quick drop to my knees as I unzip someone’s fly, than it is to get them to begin by taking charge. With this particular group, it’s a respect thing, and I admire that. None of them wants to properly make a move in case they’ve drastically misread my not-so-subtle clues and it turns out I was only there for a round of Uno before hopping on the night bus.
So. I kiss, I touch, I drop to my knees. While I’m sucking on the swiftly-thickening cock of guy number one, I make pointed and deliberate eye contact with the second. If eye contact isn’t enough for him to start rubbing at the crotch of his jeans, pulling gently at the head of his dick packed slightly-too-tight-now into his jeans, then I’ll raise an eyebrow just to hammer the message home.
I do this again with the next one. Keep one hand on the first guy’s cock, second guy’s cock slides in and down my throat, then eye contact with the third guy. Repeat until my face is slippery with spit and as many of them as possible are crowded round me in a circle.
That’s one of the world’s best views, incidentally. You can keep your Grand Canyons and your Mount Fujis and your seaside sunsets: let me stare up from naked knees on the floor of a stranger’s house, and see a circular firing squad of rock-solid dick waiting in turn to be serviced.
If I’m remembering correctly, the third guy nearly came as soon as I took him in my mouth. He’d been watching me choke and swallow the second guy’s prick – thin and long makes for excellent spitty gagging – and beating hard at his own cock like he was racing straight to the finish. When I moved on to him, opening my mouth nice and wide and jamming the head right to the back of my throat where the soft palate provides resistance, he made this gorgeous grunty moaning sound in the back of his throat, and I swear I nearly stopped the whole thing right then so I could run off for a mid-orgy wank. But that wouldn’t be polite. I’m the one who initiated this, after all, and there’s no point trying to get fucked by a bachelor party if I’m not going to be nice to the kind gents who are obliging me.
I like the sounds they make. Not just the grunty-moaning noises, but the things they say to each other, and the way those things escalate over time. It begins with ‘can you believe this?’ and other things that probably seem obvious, mixed in with the occasional bit of macho posturing ‘let’s see if I can give her a run for her money.’ And if it’s the right kind of stag party – if I’ve chosen my team well – the escalation will move towards friendly jostling and competitiveness.
“My turn, mate, let me get in her cunt,” or “I want a go on her, fuck her mouth while I do it.”
These guys were gentlemen, and it took a long time for me to coax them into that kind of chat, but we got there in the end. One of them had me bent over the kitchen table, both hands gripping tightly on my hips to slam me back onto his cock. He fancied himself an athlete and… fair enough to be honest. He was strong. His friend, positioned just to the side of the table, close enough to angle his cock into my gaping mouth, didn’t need to do more than just stand there with his dick twitching while the other guy fucked me forwards onto him. I love it when that happens: when the momentum of a fuck carries me forward so I choke on someone else. I like to try and let myself go limp, allowing the fucker’s movements to push me, so I can focus solely on the sensations of the other guy’s cock jamming up the back of my throat.
Someone else was kneeling on the table, wanking vigorously like he was just a few seconds away from coming in my hair. Two more were talking in whispers nearby, casually fluffing themselves in anticipation of ‘their turn.’
The turns thing, too. God, it kills me. The idea that one guy is just patiently waiting, keeping himself balanced on the edge of horn so that he’ll be hard and ready when his friend slides out… The anticipation of it! The moment when anticipation turns to frustration and eventually he nudges himself forward and says “my turn now, let me have a go on her cunt.”
Yeah. Bottle that moment for me, would you?
The one nudging, it turns out, was Mike – the guy who told the gloomy one to fuck off earlier on. Mike I liked, because our initial rapport had given him the impression I was ‘his’. That possessiveness, although misplaced, was exactly what we needed to get things ramped up a little further. He felt he had the power to command me, and in his power to command me he wielded power over his friends, too.
“My turn now,” he ordered, and the guy fucking my cunt stepped back. Mike yanked me off the table and nudged me to my knees, making eye contact with a raised eyebrow and a sideways grin that said ‘up for this?’
I grinned back.
When I was kneeling on the floor, legs spread and knickers still yanked to one side from the first guy’s cock, fingers working busily at my clit, he held his dick out straight in front of my face and told me ‘get this nice and wet.’
It wasn’t difficult to get it wet, especially not with his friend gripping the back of my head and pushing me harder onto it. Like he was doing his mate a favour my keeping me under control, and jamming my wet throat further down the shaft of his cock. I liked that – a lot. It had an atmosphere of teamwork. When I started to choke and splutter they paused, gave me space to breathe, and I took a few deep gulps of air before plunging back into it.
“Who’s next?” I spluttered at Mike, and he turned my head around to meet two other cocks directly behind me. I set to work again, this time with Mike forcing my head down onto them, picking and choosing which of his friends would be the next lucky recipient of my eager work. Choke, gag, slap, pause to switch over, and then begin again. All the while, I was vaguely aware of the queue that was forming nearby. Aware of the hands gripping tightly around cider cans and beet bottles and cocks. Aware of the muttering chat that was starting to flow more comfortably:
“She really knows how to suck cock.”
“Look how much she’s loving it.”
“My turn next, Christ I’m aching. I’m going to come all over her face.”
“I’m holding out to fuck her in the ass. I bet she takes it in the ass.”
I’m gagging on dick and keeping my ears pricked up for these snippets of eager filth. Rubbing away at my clit and trying to keep myself on edge, so that by the time Mike eventually grabs my hair and lifts me again for more fucking, I’m so close to coming that I know I’ll start the first waves as soon as he plunges it in.
His dick is fat. So fat that he struggles a little as he bends me back over the table. Two of his friends hold me down, just tight enough that I have something to wriggle and strain against, as his monster cock pushes against the entrance to my twitching cunt. I free one of my hands so I can reach for my clit, and as the thick length of his cock slides into my cunt, I nudge myself closer to coming. So close.
In the end, the thing that pushes me over the edge isn’t Mike’s dick sliding in. It feels good though. His cock and his hands on the small of my back, pinning me to the table and pressing my tits against the cool smoothness of the wooden surface. It feels amazing. Just like the hands which claw at my hair, lifting me up and slapping my cheeks so my mouth gapes open for someone else’s dick. The sensation of it hitting the back of my throat in time with the fucking, and the slippery wetness of fingers probing at the sides of my mouth, opening me wider so drool pours down my chin. The feeling of hands pawing at the cheeks of my arse, spreading me wider while he shoves his dick inside. The delicious, thumping pain of the table edge cutting into my hips as he slams his cock home. Getting fucked by a stag party is not about one individual sensation – it’s all of these, wrapped and packaged together, in a greed-sating cornucopia of physical and psychological hotness.
It isn’t pure physical sensations that tip me over the edge into my first orgasm of the night. The physical sensations are good, of course, but they aren’t the sole reason why I set out to get fucked by a bachelor party. What I want from this experience isn’t just the fucking (though that’s good), or the orgasms (though they’re nice), it’s the noises they make and the things they say. The peek I get into the inside of their heads: their most debased desires. The things they want, deep down, which they rarely say aloud. The ways they’d like to fuck, if all the rules were broken.
As I clench my cunt tight around the cock that’s viciously pounding me, and reach my one free hand out to squeeze tight round someone else’s… as I choke once more upon the cock that’s in my throat, and revel in the sound of intense rubbing and wanking nearby… these things all add to an atmosphere and get me close to coming. But what tips me over the edge isn’t dick or hands or clit-rubbing or even spunk.
It’s when I hear a voice from six feet away ordering:
“My turn, guys, it’s my party. So I get to fuck her in the ass.”