The Moral Of This Story

I’m back from Oxford and I’ve had a very nice Christmas thank you. I got lovely presents, spent some time in the bosom of my family and had a drunken threesome with some RAF servicemen after a party. Which do you want to hear about first?

Presents first, because getting stuff is the real meaning of Christmas. Rather boringly, I wanted a new coat this year so I chose it, D gave me the money and I bought it for myself. It’s a rather splendid black cashmere knee-length double breasted coat with light brown fur collar and cuffs. It makes me look just a little like Doris Day (who am I kidding, nothing on earth could make me look like Doris Day but that doesn’t stop me dreaming).

Knowing that I would be unbearably sulky on Christmas morning with nothing to open, D also sent me a fishnet stocking filled with many of the things I had been careful to mention previously in my blog, notably the red leather collar with detachable lead and padlock but also some matching wrist and ankle cuffs, also with padlocks, and a pair of inch-long chrome clothes peg-shaped nipple clamps.

Being broadly familiar with D’s present-giving, I elected to open all of this alone in my bedroom. I tried the nipple clamps, experimentally opening and half closing them gently on my nipples before being brave enough to let them squeeze shut, pinching my nipples hard and making me hiss air through my teeth as I inhaled sharply. I looked at myself in the mirror – I think it’s fair to say the nipple clamps don’t make me look like Doris Day. They make my nipples flush an angry dark purple and the blue veins in my breasts stand out against my drained, paper-white skin. I took a picture on my phone, reflected in the mirror, and texted it to D – “I’m playing with my present.”

I decided against playing with any of my other presents as I can’t help noticing the stocking didn’t contain keys to any of the padlocks. Instead, I ate my sugar mouse and went downstairs in my dressing gown to watch The Muppet Christmas Carol.

D will be back on 5 January and I can just about contain my ‘new sex toy’ excitement until then. However this does mean that, if I’m planning any more ‘get it out of your system girl’ random shagging, I’ve really only got the New Year to do it in, which explains the RAF servicemen. On Saturday my brother and his girlfriend took me to a party at my brother’s best friend’s brother’s house. My brother’s best friend’s brother is in the RAF and so the party was serviceman-heavy. Somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder if I should have some vague liberal scruples about shagging people who may have been involved in the bombing of innocent civilians in Iraq, but fortunately for the flow of my story, I very quickly became far too drunk to worry very much about that.

I was, in all honesty, rather more drunk than is sensible for a girl who has left the party to go on to a flat with two men whose first names she gets mixed up. But you know sometimes, in amongst all the cares of the world, you just have to find the time to gyrate around the sitting room, stumbling and giggling as you strip your party dress off, run naked and jiggling into the bedroom, and flop down onto the bed with your boobs bouncing as you grin and call out “Who’s first?”

I wriggled happily as I was plugged at each end, on my hands and knees on the bed with my mouth bulging with one cock and my dripping pussy battered by another. From time to time they changed ends while I squirmed and purred, “Hurry up, I want more cock!” I spent a while at one stage lying on my tummy, dozing as they lay on either side of me, smoking with the ashtray balanced on my bum.

For quite a long while I was on my own with one of them, who knelt at the foot of the bed, bent over and licking my cunt while I twined my fingers in his hair and gazed, slack-jawed, at the ceiling, groaning and arching my back. As the last shudders of my orgasm died away, he crawled over me, pressing the head of his cock between the folds of my cunt and stretching out on top of me as his cock sank in. He fucked me slowly and I wrapped my arms and legs tightly around him, breathing raggedly into his ear. His companion returned and watched us for a moment then put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and rolled him off me, onto his back.

I quickly scrambled on top of him, sinking down onto his cock, squirming and riding it all the way up to its tip before smacking my bum down hard against his thighs. He cupped my swaying tits, squeezing them gently. I looked over my shoulder at his friend, sucking on my finger then circling its tip around my arsehole. He laughed, kneeling up behind me, gripping my buttocks and spreading them. He spat on my arsehole and I pushed his saliva into my hole with the tip of my finger until I could slide it all the way in. He gripped my wrist hard and snatched my hand away, my finger slipping out, and he pressed the tip of his cock into me. I squealed as he forced his cock all the way in and he grunted and cried out, “Oh, you fucking slut!” as he began to nail me hard.

With his spunk still dripping from my arsehole, I finished his friend off in my mouth, gulping down his spunk and licking my lips. I felt sober now and cold in the chilly bedroom; time to find my dress and call a taxi.

In the dark kitchen, listening for the sound of the taxi outside, anal boy pressed me up against the wall, his hands on my bum, whispering in my ear. “You don’t have to go yet. I could make a few calls, we could have a party of our own; what do you say, little slut, how many more cocks could you take?”

That’s a question we may never know the answer to. The moral of this story, rather surprisingly, is if you’re planning on taking advantage of a drunk girl in a tiny dress at a party with a view to having her gang banged by your mates, make sure you do it at the start of the evening before she’s sobered up a bit.

Back at my brother’s, I lay in bed talking to D on the phone.

“What have you been up to tonight, then?” he asked.

“Erm…”

“Lucy, have you been out shagging?”

“Possibly. Have you?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Liar. I can smell cunt on you from here.”

“I’m giving it up for the New Year, though.”

“Me too.”

Comments

[D&L]

Doris Day? I wouldn't have guessed. The coat sounds lovely. My stocking was stuffed somewhat similarly to yours--got to love a guy whose name begins with "D", eh?

I'm happy to report that Christmas in Connecticut did not involve cranberries. It also did not involve a threesome, but hey, the New Year's right around the corner.