7 Women, 7 Men, Helping Hands

(Note to Readers: This warning is about what isn't in the story. There may not be any penis-in-vagina sex. There could be some, but it doesn't involve the main character. What there is, mostly, is simultaneous, hands-across, assisted masturbation among fourteen people (all of them at least 18 years old), which should count as some sort of group sex. Enjoy!)

***

I'm going to tell you about Sharon's Fapfest. She doesn't call it that, and wishes we didn't. Despite her annoyance, Sharon still hosts the Fapfest, about once every three weeks. And it's not like we blab about it on social media. None of us wants undue attention to this pastime.

I told Sharon it could be worse, we could call it The Group Event For Assisted Masturbation Held By Sharon Gilmartin, 2986 Ridgeway Drive. Knowing I was goofing, she dared me to use that whole mouthful, which of course I never did. Until now.

The address is actually that of Sharon's parents' house. Sharon, like the rest of us, lives in the city, in a tiny overpriced apartment in a hipster neighborhood. Her parents are high-powered management consultants who got a gig that has them relocated to Peru for nobody-knows-how-long. Sharon is house-sitting, spending two or three days a week there, until they get back. She takes seriously the upkeep of the property, out in the deep suburbs. She believes this justifies an invitation to her friends, to unwind (or something) in this large, well-furnished house.

I doubt that her parents know that Sharon does this. Because of the structured nature of the Fapfest, however, there's never the sort of mess or damage that could result from partying by horny, too-high, under-thirty singles. We're all a little subdued, even after having done this several times.

This week, I caught a ride out there with Dana and Travis, who deny they're in a relationship. I don't believe that, because it seems like every couple minutes, one of them says something that gets on the other's nerves. In my worldview, people who annoy each other that much, but still do almost everything together, have a linkage that they don't want to give up. Yet.

Also in the car was Milo, who is short, and nerdy, and more worried than the rest of us that he'd say or do something that would cause Sharon to uninvite him. My hunch was that the Fapfest was his only sex that involved other people.

If I'm going to dis everyone else, I should subject myself to the same. I'm Dolores, I'm twenty-four, and I'm unattached, and not looking to change that. I'm also a penis-In-vagina virgin. I date guys, to the point of us working together for orgasms, but I've never taken a Tab P into my Slot V. My choice. I don't feel the need, because I like lots of other sex (like things going waaay up in Slot V, and then returning to my nightstand drawer), and I have plenty of fun with guys who are okay with what I do (and don't).

Yeah, I'm worried about consequences, as every woman is to some degree. The longer I wait to Do That Deed, the more I decide to keep putting it off. The Fapfest (which is Sharon's!) is great for me.

I've never let a Tab P enter my Slot A, either. I don't even like a Tab F going in there. Enough about me, more later.

I was in the back seat. Ahead, I saw Dana turn toward Travis and say, "Did you send the porn?"

"I sent the link," said Travis, still facing the road (which, as a passenger, I appreciated). He said that to her with an impatient sigh.

"I did too," said Milo. "I mean, my suggestion, probably not the same as yours." Then a nervous laugh.

To get Milo off the hook, for having chimed in during a Dana-Travis Moment, I said, "I sent one that has a long stretch of helping hands with six people. Maybe good for a recognition laugh."

No response, which I think I can deal with better than Milo could.

2986 Ridgeway Drive is one of those cliché houses (atrium entryway with ornate chandelier, stairs along a curved wall, etc.). Travis parked his SUV on the long arced driveway. We hauled out, and in, the tote bags and backpacks with the stuff we needed. To me, this part felt like a chore, and I think the others felt the same.

We all knew the way to the vast kitchen, past two of the six bathrooms. Sharon sat on a stool at the island, glancing at us as she fingered her phone, likely check-marking us on the invitation list.

Beyond the kitchen is the home theater. Unlike the open-plan approach in the house's other public spaces, the theater is behind a solid wall with a two-way double door. The windows can be dark-shaded with no light leaks. Someone seated there really can't see much, apart from what's showing on the hundred-something-inch screen.

Still waiting for other people to show up, we got drinks and chatted with our friends. Never, I've noticed, did we chat about sex or romance or relationships. We all have work, and hobbies, and opinions on music and shows. I caught up with people, including the three men there with whom I've been intimate. On my terms.

(See, I tried hormonal birth control, but I got bad headaches and nausea. I don't even want to try an IUD, I've heard enough about the discomfort and inconvenience. Condoms? Spermicide? Too risky for me.)

Marlon told me about a subreddit he just joined, and I listened politely. Janice was telling others about a new song by a boy-band escapee seeking a solo career, and I added to that vocal thread (opining that his looks are better than his singing). The vibe in the kitchen was like if we were at a bar or a party. We had been to enough Fapfests now that the fact that we were about to masturbate each other didn't freak anyone out.

Except maybe Milo, who said nothing, and didn't drink any alcohol, and looked away when he thought he was being looked at.

Sharon, still looking at her phone, announced, "Theo will be here in five." Like the others, I head-counted. Theo would be the fourteenth and final participant.

Those of us who felt the need, myself included, headed for bathrooms to prepare in private.

As usual, I'd worn a skirt. This allowed me to strip the thong and bury it in the tote bag, and do a washdown. I strolled into the theater still skirted, but with my down-there clean and out of contact with anything. Except other down-there skin, and hair. That felt good, but I wasn't ready yet to get excited.

The home theater was completely dark as we walked in, slowly, so our incidental contacts didn't hurt. Some of them felt...interesting. Others were by hands that weren't convincingly incidental.

In the first couple of Fapfests, the darkness made for some mysterious sizzle. By now, though, probably everyone had fingered, and been fingered by, all of the opposite sex attendees. Any voice speaking more than a sentence or two, at normal volume, I'd recognize. The main benefit now, from the darkness, was that nobody could get incriminating phone pics. Sharon had made it clear that anything like a flash from a phone would earn the photog immediate, permanent expulsion, and maybe an unfortunate incident to the phone.

Sharon dictates this as boy-girl-boy-girl. As far as I know, all fourteen of us are cis, and identify as straight (or straight-ish). Seating is assigned by what Sharon insists is a random-sort app. My phone showed me that today I was in the system as F5. We all stood in the gap between the front row of seats and the screen, which showed an illustration of the three rows, each with eight seats. In a few seconds data were delivered to the screen. My F5 was assigned to seat C2, in the back row, between participants M3 and M6. I was pleased to have the hands of two males available, but knew that I would be the only female hand tasked to satisfy M3, on the end of the row in seat C1.

One of the first complaints when the Fapfest began was the use of three rows, six seats in the front and four each in the second and third. This put six people at row ends. Why not fill the front row, put six in the second, and leave the back row empty? That way only four people are limited to a single helping hand. Sharon explained that she knew seat assignments probably wouldn't last long, and in the six-four-four, there were open seats at the end of every row. People could mingle, whatever their reasons for doing so. And if boy-girl-boy-girl wasn't maintained, she said that was a decision for the people involved, and none of her business.

There followed the usual milling around. I got myself to the back row, took the towel out of the tote bag, spread it onto seat C2 (identified with glowtape at the front), unzipped the skirt and stepped out of it, folded it enough to get it into the tote bag, slid the bag under the seat, and sat. As I pulled up the hem of the t-shirt to be even with my navel, the ventilation tingled my exposed vulva.

The armrests are hinged to rotate up and out of the way. They were already in that position, from last time.

I didn't touch myself. I was about to be touched, so why bother?

"Thank you for your many suggestions, for our viewing pleasure," came Sharon's voice, I think from the front row. "I have selected some that I believe will appeal to you."

The screen lit gradually, with things like the anti-piracy and Part 2257 notices, allowing our eyes to adjust. Then the video began, a slow-build about a couple of white, under-thirty singles. They began fully dressed, in a street scene, clearly attracted but hesitant about getting closely involved.

I reached to the sides, and found the near hands of my neighbors. I gave each one a brief, friendly squeeze.

To my right I heard, "Hello, F5, occupant of seat C2." It sounded like he was suppressing a laugh. It also sounded like someone I knew very well.

"Good evening, M3 in seat C1," I returned. "I look forward to our mutual enjoyment."

He raised my hand and kissed the back lightly. So it definitely was Marlon.

My crotch tingled some more, and my butt twitched.

My left hand was picked up, and moved gently to the near, unclad thigh of M6 in C3. From that direction I heard, "Any time you're ready, no rush."

Beyond him I heard, "Uh huh," so I gather M6 had done the same with the hand of the woman in C4 (whose F number I hadn't noticed).

I didn't know, yet, who this guy was. I tried not to guess. I liked a little mystery, uncertainty, maybe a hint of danger?

Fortunately, there was no real danger from the hand of one of these seven men, playing with my vulva, as it had probably done before. But maybe, at least, he didn't know about what I kept away from my vulva. So I might be a mystery to him, without him realizing it.

Sharon had chosen a scripted, plotted video for the opener, because the audience was still easing in, and not yet very involved with their neighbors. There were three full scenes before the man and woman were alone together. They were facially very attractive, and expressive, which could hold attention while the viewer waited to see sex.

I'm a human woman, so I'm convinced that I don't look good enough. (For what? Influencing? Not something I want to do anyway.) But I know that guys like to look at me, and always want to see more of me, and are thrilled when I show them all of me. But that's because they're guys, it's as if they could die happy just to see an uncovered breast.

I'm a Puertoriqueña. I work with what I have, to make them positives. Thick, wavy black hair: I let it tumble to shoulder length, with a curved sweep across the forehead. Legs: I think mine are too short, so my shoes elevate the heels enough to curve the calves. Body: Early on, my mother warned me about the 'starch bomb' that could detonate in women of our heritage, so I forced myself to become a picky eater.

But here in the dark, these issues didn't matter. I might be as hot as the woman on the screen, who shed a sweater to show intricate tattoos on her right shoulder. The men surrounding me might have abs just as cut as the man pulling away his jeans. And when I put fingers on phalluses, I might find them as intriguing as the one on the screen, being fondled to rigidity.

All right, I couldn't sustain that with Marlon, nor he with me. We've dated, a few times, and we liked what I was willing to do, and that deepened our simple friendship. Right then I was okay with him being there, creating a safe zone. He might harbor hopes of Being My First, but he never made an issue of it. Maybe because me blowing him, and him eating me out, and all the kissing and groping, seem like real-enough sex.

The hand on my left, with lean fingers, moved across my thigh and brushed into my pubes. I gasped, eyes closing. When they reopened, the man on the screen had added clit fingering to his pussy licking.

The hand from my right touched the hand that was now stroking inside my clit hood. The new fingers, thicker and familiar, moved down to part my moistening labia.

From the row in front of me, a male voice moaned.

I wanted to loll lazily, and receive what I, at least, thought of as group sex. But I knew that I had to make my lovers moan. My hands, which yearned to push inside my t-shirt and mash my nipples, followed my overriding instructions, and moved to either side, to touch swelling cocks. Dry, but not (yet?) in need of lubrication.

The C4 woman's fingers slid along mine, and I heard an alto voice say, "Welll, hellooo," maybe almost laughing.

I'm never one to pass up a joke, at the expense of a half-naked man. "Ooooh, very nice. Just manicured?"

C4 spluttered, but then tried to recover. "Yes. It's such a shame to ruin it on this sweaty tube."

M6 hissed, "Should I wait outside?"

We then muted our giggles and began to show manual affection to a tube that wasn't (yet?) sweaty.

The woman on the screen began fellating the man. Even in 'non-exploitive,' 'sex-positive-feminist,' erotic video, there always seems to be several minutes of cock-gulping. That's something I'm happy to do for my partner, but watching it isn't a turnon for me. I admit, in this video the woman was shown at her level, rather than from above, so the impression was of her in control rather than dominated. With one hand she stroked the man's balls, with the other she fondled one of her breasts. She was petite, probably natural. The free breast jounced as she drove her mouth along the shaft, which gleamed wetly when the lips pulled back.

From the second row a male voice began, "Sharon, why can't we—"

"After you leave, do whatever you want," said Sharon impatiently.

I'm partly responsible for the Fapfest's existence. Sharon and I aren't BFFs, but we're close, to the point that we unburden to each other about some things, like sex. She likes the single life, and the guys in our acquaintance circle, but lately her libido had risen to an extent that she considered it a problem.

A few months ago, we were at a table on the rear terrace of a hip coffee joint. A couple weeks before then, I had shared with her about my boundary. She brought that up as we ingested caffeine. She asked how satisfied I was. And how satisfied my partners were.

Keeping my voice down, I said, "I'm totally upfront to a guy about this, before I get close with him. I say something like, 'I think you're hot, and I want to have fun with you. Are you okay if that fun doesn't include your cock in my pussy? Like, maybe, ever?' I then tell him what we might do, hands, mouths, whatevs."

"Are all the guys okay with that?"

I shrugged. "If there's a bad moment with a guy, it only happens once. When I've made it clear that PIV is a hard no, most of the men who hoped for a fuck aren't nasty about parting company. A few guys insist, or complain. But then they're gone, and they never return. It hurts a little, but I get over it." I smiled. "And with the guys who accept my limit, it's been really nice."

"I don't know if I could change my rules to be like yours," she said, lifting her mug with two hands. After taking a sip, she added, "Not with the usual guys. New guys, maybe, but why should I complicate my life with new guys?"

I looked her over. I was sure that almost any straight male would drool at the sight. Big blue eyes, tapered oval face, light brown hair that looked lush even in a ponytail.

I asked her, "Is the sex any good now?"

The cup met the table audibly as she set it down. "That's the thing, I'm not cumming much from PIV. Maybe that's why I'm so horny. When I'm out at the house, I fantasize about all of us partying there." She gave me a look. "Is that gross, or what?"

If she was looking for a confirming expression of grossness, she didn't get it.

"I don't know..." I said. "I could imagine going past one-on-one, but then I'd have to deal with more dicks, and their owners wanting to put them somewhere. Still, I like the idea of several naked guys, and enough ladies for everyone to be happy."

Sharon's eyes widened.

We did more caffeine ingesting.

Finally she said, "Maybe there's a way to do this without clusterfucking." She looked closely at me. "I'm going to think about this. Okay if I pick your brains again later?"

It was, and she did. There followed a long process of deciding who was in and who was out, and an effort to prevent knowledge from spreading too far. To our surprise, all of that seemed to go smoothly. Some of us even admitted that Sharon's rules, and her despotic enforcement, worked well.

And everything was working for me as M6's thumb and forefinger squeezed my clit and M3's fingers found my G Spot. My breathing got heavy, joining that of several others. On the screen the woman showed how limber she was, with a leg against the man's chest as they standing-fucked. Very nice for them, I guess, but my eyes often closed, as my attention centered on Row C.

I mustered what dexterity I could. The C4 woman had lifted M6's shaft and slowly pumped it, so I swirled my fingers on, around, and between his balls. I had M3's manhood all to myself, and I knew some things might make it happy. Like a stroke with mostly index, middle, and ring fingers, with the pinky sometimes teasing testicles, and the thumb sometimes tapping the tip.

In the front row, a woman moaned, and kept moaning. I thought it might be Dana. A male voice (Esteban's?) grunted. We were all getting our rocks off, in a group, but way short of orgiastic commitment. Within the rules, two men made love to me, as I did to them.

But as I excited towards ecstasy. I wanted more, their whole bodies, all of my skin on all of theirs, hands everywhere, and mouths! But that way lay the chance of my Slot V welcoming a Tab P, maybe more than one!

My near-panic at this thought zoomed me higher.

I'm one of those women whose physical yearning includes an acute awareness that Slot V is empty, and a hope to end that. My fantasies can be wildly irrational, but in real life, fingers are good enough. So is what I keep in my nightstand drawer.

"Almost there," I said, quietly but so my neighbors could hear, and understand if I slacked off on doing them. The lean finger and thumb sped their slide around my clit, and the thick fingers pushed deeper inside, losing touch with my G Spot but thrilling the flesh behind it. I had enough presence of mind to squeeze the frenulum of the C1/M3 cock, to keep it from going off too soon.

The moans I still heard, surely Dana's, were now overtopped by Gina's howl. With the room lit only by the sex on the screen, I could perceive the outline in the second row of Gina's hair, shaking. I don't think I consciously believed that cumming before everyone else would be too slutty, but I nonetheless felt better now about letting go. My upper body jerked, and the seat thumped rhythmically as my torso shoved it back to its recline limit. From my voice rose several sounds which, I have been told, resemble the honks of a Canada goose.