I arrived late to the sex party, and into the middle of a rant. The boy — tall, short blonde hair, ostentatiously shirtless — targeted me. “I’m annoyed by all these straight couples!”

I hadn’t gotten the chance to verify the existence of said couples. But I could understand his sentiment. Too many couples at a sex party create a swing-club environment, where couples pair off, or fish for singles together. And not to knock threesomes or female bisexuality, but there exist plenty of welcoming venues.

“And there’s all this dominatrix shit lately,” he added. “Spanking and whipping? I like being tied up sometimes, but I’m not into pain. You know?”

Really, I didn’t know.

A young couple came out on the terrace: the woman short, with gloriously curly dark hair, and the man half a head above her with dreads tied back from his shoulders. They cuddled as they introduced themselves to us.

“You guys win the cutest couple award,” said the boy. “Awww. Are you in love?”

I started to dislike him.

It came out that he was also annoyed by gay people. The gay women especially. How ould he feel comfortable approaching someone for sex if he didn’t know that they were bi?

I smiled a little too widely. “You know, honey,” I told him, “there are people here whose orientations match with yours who aren’t going to want to fuck you.”

The others laughed. “Do you agree he’s overthinking this?” they asked me.

What are you, anyway? we asked him. He explained that he didn’t suck cock or fuck men, due to his terror of disease, but he was eager and indiscriminate about receptive sex. Such bad logic made my head hurt.

The pretty couple left the terrace and he slid his hands onto my ass. He informed me that I was the hottest woman there, that the ‘caliber’ of the women had ‘gone down drastically’ at these parties. He squeezed my upper arm, my side, like he was checking a cut of supermarket beef.

I liked him even less.

We went back inside, his hands still attached to my breasts like octopus tentacles. I dragged him over to the host and made a request. In short order Octopus Boy was ass up, mouth shut, and getting fucked hard. The pretty young couple was on the bed. I was happy again. No one was talking; there was only the sweet sound of grunts and gasps and moans.

The boy with the dreads leaned in to me. “May I kiss you?” His lips were full and soft.

The host was slamming into Octopus Boy now, holding his knees up to his chest. The lines of their bodies were hard and urgent. He had Octopus Boy’s cock and balls twisted up roughly in one hand, shoulders pinning back the boy’s calves.

“Boys can be so rough with each other,” I said appreciatively.

“I’ve never seen someone do… that… to balls,” said the curly-haired woman. I do it all the time, I thought, suppressing a grin.

Octopus Boy grimaced — not at the host, who he could ask to stop, but at us, the ones apparently enjoying it the most. “Just to let you know, that doesn’t feel good. My legs are going to hurt tomorrow.”

I made off to the other bedroom, where friends of mine reclined in a post-coital puddle. I settled in the armchair with my drink and had thirty seconds of peace before Octopus Boy reappeared. “I’m taking a break,” I told him. It took four or five repetitions, which I issued with cheerfully decreasing tact, but I got my space.

“You’ve got a puppydog,” a woman cooed.

“I’m terrible at kicking them.”

I sipped my drink. Two boys started to kiss in front of me, one the shaggy-haired tattooed boy I met last time. I leaned back. This was the life.

Octopus Boy kept coming by. “I haven’t come,” he complained. He sat in my chair. “Can I come?”

“Don’t ask me for permission.”

The pretty couple from earlier appeared in the doorway, and as Octopus Boy started to jerk off, the boy with the dreads moved in closer. Octopus Boy grabbed my head protectively. The body language said it all: the pretty boy had missed the “I’m too good to suck cock” memo, and OB wasn’t in the mood to explain.

When the pretty boy lingered, despite the head separating him from his goal, OB declared a desire to get fucked. We looked at each other. We shrugged. I palmed a condom, and the pretty boy wrestled it onto his not insubstantial member. OB eased himself onto the erection.

I watched. I’m such a sucker.

Miraculously, OB retained the presence of mind to stop jerking off and molest me. “Kiss me. Come on, I need you here for this.”

I pried his fingers out of my crotch again. He started pulling off my panties, but I would have none of it. I had long since moved past the point where I began humoring him.

As he approached orgasm he started begging to fuck me. He grabbed my hip. “Please, please, come on.”

“No.”

“Can I come in your mouth?”

“No.”

“Please, just for a second.”

“No.”

“I need to feel you.”

“No! You have to take a ‘no’!”

He actually grabbed a condom and started to put it on, and that’s when I lost it. “You have to take a ‘no’”, I repeated, clipping my words. Someone laughed from across the room, echoing my words. Silly me, to say no.

I wandered out of that party taking tally and feeling pretty good. I didn’t get fucked, didn’t come, didn’t even take off my panties. But it’s not like an orgy can be wasted, with all the people around you. (Nor did I waste it, without going into further specifics.)

It’s what I didn’t feel that lightened my step: slimy. Ashamed. Regretful.

I was brilliantly proud of sticking up for myself.

Posted in young and confused, anal sex, shame, orgy, sex party, bisexuality, consent