[Breeder] The Birthday Gangbang 1: Blake

[TheBreeder]

To see Breeder's original blog post click here

Three days until your birthday gangbang.

Only a couple of more days until your birthday gangbang!

Are you ready for your birthday gangbang tomorrow?

See you tonight . . . for your birthday gangbang!

It wasn’t my birthday. The event wasn’t technically mine. And it wasn’t a gangbang. But my friend who enjoys throwing group sessions for like-minded guys to meet and fuck latched onto the fact that I was having a milestone birthday this last week. After that, all I heard about was my birthday gangbang. As I told a couple of people, hey—if it got me a few spankings, I was one hundred percent good with the host advertising it under that moniker.

All of us who’d confirmed our attendance that night received a few days in advance a list of the other guys coming. There were about twenty-five of us in all. I browsed my way through the names and looked up their profiles. Though I’m a little too laid-back to write the cuter guys to say Hi! We’re going to the same orgy! I hope to suck you there!, some less-inhibited of the party had no problems sending me notes online to beg me for some private attention at the party. And as it turned out, those turned out to be the very guys I ended up spending the most time with.

Over the years I’ve written this blog, I’ve had a lot of men write in to ask how a group sex session like this one goes down. Is it awkward at first, with people pushing each other away and the unattractive guys shoved to the sidelines while the hot ones go for each other? Do guys just strip and go at it? Is there conversation? Are the lights on? Does everyone who says they’ll attend actually show up?

My answer is always: a lot of the tone of a group get-together has to do with the guys who put it together. Throw together a random group off of Craigslist and invite anyone and everyone who responds, and you’ve got a recipe for a party in which two guys go at each other with lackluster passion while a handful of men of various ages and levels of attractiveness and cleanliness stand against the wall and fondle themselves while rejecting any advances. If the host takes a little trouble to weed out the gawkers and to use some common sense in sending out the invitations, the party has a good chance of being more of a success.

The best kind of party is that like my birthday gangbang. A party for which the host carefully curates the guest list, selecting guys of a similar sexual hunger—guys he’s met and knows as sexual partners. He’ll select a good proportion of bottoms, versatile guys, and tops. Most importantly, though, the host remembers one thing: that a good group session isn’t merely about collecting a bunch of hot body parts and dumping them into a room. Orgies are attended by people. Invite good people, and the men will have a good time. It’s not dicks and holes that make an orgy successful. It’s people.

So rather than write about the birthday gangbang as a whole, I’m going to talk about a handful of the men I met there, one by one.

1. Blake

His profile was intriguing. Top, it said. Masculine. Looking for similar. Must know how to kiss, or else no deal.

Was I surprised when, after I looked at his profile, he sent me a note telling me he wanted to bottom for me at the party? Nope. I get that a lot from other tops—almost to the point that when another top looks at one of my profiles, I’ll assume he needs a rogering. It’s not that I like to presume I’m prime alpha of every top present. But I know that just about every top out there, even those who relish the position (like myself), every once in a while wants to get his clocks cleaned.

When they get that itch, a lot of them trust me to scratch it.

This guy was totally my type, too. Tall—taller than I, even. Shaved head. Piercing eyes. His profile showed his facial hair in various length. Clean-shaven, he looked like a mischievous devil. Scruffy, he seemed like the bad boy at which guys might take sidelong, yearning glances when he’d walk down a corridor. Fully bearded, he’s a hot motherfucker. Put him in a leather vest and he’d be a biker. Put a whip in his hand and most people would fall to all floors with a hurried yes sir! Naked, and erect, he looked dangerous.

I’d be glad to fuck you, I wrote him back.

When I arrived at the party, he was the only man there other than the host. He was standing there in a plaid flannel shirt and jeans cuffed over a pair of bare feet. His grip, when I reached out to shake his hand, was so firm I almost lost circulation. He stared right into my eyes, the stare unwavering and steady. “Hey,” he said in a deep voice.

“Hey,” I said back.

Then he used that grip to reel me into his arms, where he squeezed me hard and planted his lips on mine. While the host watched, the two of us made out in the middle of the hotel suite’s living area, swaying back and forth as if we were in a slow dance.

We weren’t alone for long. Within ten minutes, the small suite had about twenty men crowding the living area. Hot men, too. The kind of well-heeled, handsome, beefy specimens I’m accustomed to seeing walking at high metropolitan speed from their workout at Crunch toward brunch at their Chelsea apartments. A couple of the men were in their thirties, but from the preponderance of salt-and-pepper hair cut short and high, I would’ve guessed that most were in their mid-forties or higher. Fit men. Men with tattoos encircling their biceps.

And all of them, for the first twenty minutes of the party, stood around either in their shoes or stockinged feet and their clothing. Chatting. I know when guys ask me about how these things start, they’ve got this worry fixed in their heads that they’ll actually have to make some casual conversation with some of the other attendees. Nonsense, I usually tell them. I’d never attended an orgy at which guys just didn’t walk in, strip down, and go at each other like animals.

Except for this one, that is. While I was talking to Blake after our kiss, it was a couple of minutes before I realized that everyone who’d walked into the room had kind of followed our example of standing around with a glass of wine in one hand and a cheese slice on a cracker in the other, chit-chatting about our careers in that superficial way that men in New York tend to do. The host, meanwhile, didn’t try to coax anyone into other activities. He flitted around in the background, refilling the bowls of peanuts and chips. After a while, I looked around at all these prime examples of Manhattan beef, and thought to myself, Holy crap. Is the fucking ever going to start?

There must have been some trace of the bewilderment in my expression, because when I turned my attention back to Blake, I saw his eyes twinkling. “It’s getting a little hot in here with all these bodies pressed so closely together,” he growled. Then he reached out and undid the top button of my shirt.

“I think you’re right,” I said back. Our eyes met again. A sexual stare between two men is rigid. Magnetic. When our eyes locked, nothing was going to pull them away. My fingers danced down his shirt and loosened the buttons holding the flannel together. He used both hands to undo mine, and then snapped open my belt buckle with what felt like a flick of his fingers. My jeans slithered to the floor. He grabbed my shirt in a fist, used it to pull me close to him, and then I felt his lips around mine once again.

We kissed each other roughly, beard rasping against beard as we wrestled each other’s clothes off. Still trying to keep our mouths in a lip lock, we lifted our feet and pulled off our pants and shorts. Our hands reached for each other’s cocks. He was wearing a steel cock ring; I wore two rings made of rubber. And still we were the only undressed men in the room.

Not for long, though. The moment we’d started removing clothing and tossing it to the window ledges, men had started to crowd around the two of us. Maybe it was the effect of our magnetic stare, drawing them closer. While Blake and I made out, deeply, passionate, I heard belt buckles all around me. The conversation subsided and was replaced by the sound of sighs, of grunts of appreciation and hisses of breath as men touched each other’s chests and twisted each other’s nipples.

Blake pushed me to my knees. One of the room’s armchairs was behind me. I perched on the edge of the seat and took his meat deep into my mouth. His cock wasn’t as big as mine. In fact, when I peered around at the ocean of erect penises all visible at my new eye level, my ego got a bit of a boost as I saw that I was the biggest at the party. Blake wasn’t interested in any comparison, though. He’d gotten a hungry cocksucker right where he wanted him, and he knew what to do. With one hand holding the back of my head still, while the other positioned it at the correct angle, he skull-fucked me hard. I could feel his nuts bouncing off my chin with every thrust.

Other cocks came at me. Blake turned my head so that my mouth opened for another one—it belonged to a man with an enviable barrel chest and a porn-star goatee. “Yeah, boy,” he hissed as he sunk it in. “Suck that big dick.”

I sucked cock after cock while Blake stood behind me, hands on the sides of my head, directing it any meat he wanted to see my mouth on. The party had only been officially started for five minutes, and already I’ve had more than a half-dozen dicks battering the back of my throat. Finally, he pulled me up. Hugged me to himself. And licked the pre-cum and spit from my lips. “I like that taste on you,” he murmured.

I didn’t encounter Blake again until near the end of the party, about three hours later. I’d shot a couple of times by that point. More than half of the twenty-eight guys who eventually showed had left. But there were a few stragglers standing around recouping their strength by eating a few snacks, in the living room. Blake straggled out of the bedroom with a sheepish grin on his face. “There you are,” he said, when he spied me on the naked mattress of the pull-out bed that had been hidden in the sofa.

“There you are, you mean,” I told him. I’d seen him fucking other dudes all night.

He nodded down at me. “You’re still hard.”

I realized I was echoing everything he said, but still I repeated his words. “I’m still hard.”

He placed one knee on the pull-out bed, then the other. “Fuck me lying down,” he whispered.

About eight guys crowded around the bed as I slid into him. I knew they were digging the sight of this tall, muscular man spreading his legs for me. “Go slow,” he begged, as I started to fill him. “I don’t get fucked that—oh. Oh!”

I was in. The man’s hole was tight. I don’t know whether I was imagining the sensation of his fur sliding over my dick, or whether it actually was creating extra friction, but I liked it. “How many guys has that guy fucked?” I heard someone ask.

The number was of no importance. This was the man I was fucking right now. The fuck right now was the one that mattered.

The stow-away bed creaked under the weight of us as I pounded into him. The man’s voice, normally a basso, soared up to the treble as he let loose little cries of wordless soprano pleasure. It came back down to earth as he begged, “Come in me. Please come in me.”

I’d been fucking too long that night to have any more explosive, loud orgasms. This one was muted, soft. I held him in my arms and drove in deep, and simply released the seed into his ass. I know he felt it—or felt the pulsing of my shaft as it pumped out its payload. His ass gripped tight to my cock. His hands clutched my fingers, and kept me close to him.

“You know,” I whispered in his ear. “If you invited me over some night, I’d spend the entire evening making love to you. Just. Like. That.”

“Yessssss,” he hissed. His chest deflated with relief, like a balloon.

Later that night, after I fucked one more time, Blake and I left together. He was heading downtown; I was going back to the train station. Once we were outside in the cold night air, he said, “You know that sensation after Thanksgiving dinner when you’ve eaten too much? That’s what I feel like right now. Stuffed.”

“Using that metaphor,” I told him, since we were surrounded by people, “How many ‘meals’ did you get stuffed with tonight?”

He looked up to the heavens while he figured it out. “Four?” he said. “And I ‘stuffed’ three others.”

We sat side by side on the nearly-empty subway all the way to Grand Central, rocking back and forth as we talked over the rattle and clatter of the train. “I would really, really like to see you again,” he told me, holding both my hands as we were about to part ways at the turnstiles. “Just you and me.”

“You’ve got a deal, mister,” I told him.

When he kissed me on the lips, without shame, without looking around to see who might be watching, right in the mob of people swarming around us either to their train or to the shuttle, I saw a glint of the devil in his eyes once more. “And the next time,” he assured me, “I’m getting all the loads.”

More...

[mike43]

nice sounds like the beginning of a great thing