Blondie’s First Gangbang

Blondie's First Gangbang #4 in the Blondie Saga

Young Southern hotwife pulls her first train

All week following Blondie's highly successful pick-up seduction of the handsome young Chicano, Ronaldo, I was in Dallas on business, returning south Thursday afternoon. Blondie hadn't yet come home from her commercial real estate/property management office, so I knocked out some paperwork until early evening, when I heard her car turning into the driveway. By the time she'd gathered her briefcase and files and come through the door from the garage, I had an icy vodka tonic with lime awaiting the tired looking lady. Kissing me a perfunctory welcome home, she brightened when she saw the sweating glasses on the breakfast nook table.

We sat down in the cozy alcove, taking long pulls from our drinks, and swapped our news from the four days spent apart. When we'd caught up on the minor chit-chat, there was a momentary silence, broken when my sexy young spouse, asked nonchalantly,

"You feel like havin' us a fun little party tomorrow evenin', sugar?"

That "sugar" came out "shugah" in her unique blend of warm, syrupy Dixie drawl and more clipped Cajun speech patterns that had come from being raised in the more ethnically diverse Baton Rouge rather than in the bayou country where her parents were. Their generation had grown up in a time before Cajun culture became hip, where their Acadian parlance had in fact been disparaged, and consequentially had striven, through college educations and their professional lives to limit, if not fully eliminate, the Cajun influences in their own speech and that of their two children. However, there was still some South Louisiana French strewn through their family conversations, especially when the grandparents were around. The Cajun influences in Blondie's French were further diminished by several high school and college French courses she had taken for easy credits.

I found the more languid Dixie drawl Blondie had acquired from her white-Southerner, mostly non-Cajun schoolmates a delightful complement to her bayou country, "Jolie Blon" (pretty blonde girl) charms and loved her frequent use of French terms of endearment or the muttered Gallic expletives sprinkled into her usually spicy vocabulary. As soon as my new bride-to-be had discovered early in our courtship that her use of profanity didn't bother me, she let 'er rip, so to speak, and has had quite the salty mouth on her from that very day forward.

But getting back to that evening's current conversation, when this alluring Louisiana belle innocently suggests a party, it always carries with it special implications regarding the participants, with the usual attendees being limited to her, whoever the guy is that she wants to entertain, and me, her voyeur husband, whose role is mostly just watching them screw their eyeballs out. As usually happens when my wife proposes having sex with another man, her question that evening gave me a pleasant little jolt in the groin, as watching my comely, blonde Cajun cutie making hot love to other men had recently and quickly become my favorite sexual activity other than screwing her myself, of course.

When I asked for details, she said with a smug smile, "Apparently I made quite an impression on young Ronaldo last week—he's called three times today to see about us gettin' together for a little sexy foolin' around tomorrow night."

"I don't have any problem with that," I said, "You guys really put on a hot show last week—the kid's a real hoss and you were incredibly responsive to him," an understatement for sure.

Eyeing me closely to gauge my reaction, she purred sexily, "Très bien (very good); now how about if we do somethin' a little different?" She paused, "Like includin' a couple of his 'vatos' as he calls them, his little buddies from work, like we discussed last week?"

Fixing me with a steady, measuring gaze, she asked, "Think you could be cool with your wife entertainin' more than one guest at one of our little parties, cher?"

Chuckling, I replied, "So you want to try playing choo-choo, huh? Try pulling that train? Boy, it sure didn't take you long to decide to give that a shot, did it?"

The previous Friday when we had gone to the El Rincón, a popular area bar, to pick up a new boytoy for Blondie, the fellow she had quickly decided on, Ronaldo, or Ronnie, had been sitting at a table with a few of his construction worker buddies, like him all young Chicanos. After we invited Ronnie over to our table for a drink, it was fairly obvious to anyone watching what we were up to, and his buddies had all sat there leering at my wife, or as she had later put it,

"Strippin' me bare-ass naked with their eyes."

More pertinent to our current discussion though, had been my little slut's Saturday morning admission that she had been quite sexually aroused by that telepathic undressing and the collective lust focused on her. It had brought back memories of a former schoolmate who had confessed to my future bride that gangbangs were in fact, quite fun and exciting. Blondie had acknowledged that, sitting there as the virtual bullseye for all that concentrated desire, she had been seriously sexually aroused at the notion of serving as the star attraction in their youthful gangbang imaginings.

Young Ronnie had cannily picked up on her lustful vibes, and later at our home, after fucking her a couple of times, had proposed that she "dance" for his friends as she had for him and had asked her again the next morning as he departed. I then pointed out to her that he was surely setting her up for a gangbang, which was when she confessed her long-held interest in the topic.

It was Blondie who had used the expression "pulling a train" to describe being a woman getting gangbanged, something she'd learned from, Yvette, that high school acquaintance who clearly had liked pulling trains on occasion. Evidently, my bad little bayou babe was now ready to explore the reasons for Yvette's affinity for gang sex by playing a bit of choo-choo herself. With a crooked, bad-girl smile and a searching gaze, she now asked somewhat skeptically,

"Think you can handle your femme coquine (naughty wife) doin' somethin' so totalement sauvage et fou (totally wild and crazy)?"

Up to this point, our sexual perversions had been essentially private, with us and only one other male partner at a time being participants, and therefore only that man being witness to my willingness to let Blondie mate with other men. At the El Rincón we had taken it a step further, publicly revealing my cuckold role to a whole table of young males. With what she was now proposing for tomorrow night, I now would be publicly confirming that I was most certainly a cuckold and one willing to let his marital mate indulge her most depraved desires in his presence, including allowing her to be serially-fucked by multiple men. I now knew with absolute certainty that I was a fully committed cuckold when I responded,

"Yeah, I can handle it—in fact, sweet buns, I've got a boner just thinking about it."

Her gaze stayed fixed on my face, her eyes locked on mine as she said, "I knew you'd get turned on by the idea, but I was afraid you're just too naturally cautious to actually let me do it."

When I said nothing, she leveled another steady, appraising gaze and continued, "Okay then, the obvious next question is, how many do we invite to the party? You have any suggestions on that? Three? Four? All five of 'em? How many?"

She gave me a wicked leer and growled lustfully, "Last Friday night your petite putain (little whore) was ready to fuck all those jeunes hommes (young men), the whole damned table, you know, cher?"

I said, "Whoa! Slow down a minute hotpants! Putain or not, let's not get carried away here our first time out of the chute on something like this, okay, babe?" I paused then said, "Let's get out of these work clothes and relax, talk this thing over some before we go making any decisions."

Many years after this eventful weekend, I was to learn why my wife was both eager and confident—her senior year of high school she'd been a very sexually active, eighteen-year-old, who apparently, according to information I later came across, was not averse to "double dates" where she'd go parking on bayou roads with two LSU frat rats at a time—fucking both and enjoying herself very much. My only disappointment upon discovering this was the regret that had I been aware of this when I married her, I wouldn't have waited so long to propose that she have sex with other men.

Quickly agreeing with my suggestion on relaxing, Blondie vanished into the bathroom while I shucked my business attire and slipped into a black velour robe. I returned to the kitchen, made fresh drinks, rolled a fat joint, then then sat down on the sectional sofa after putting on some easy rock at low volume. It was fifteen minutes before Blondie returned, but, as usual, well worth the wait. She was wearing a white lace negligee with nothing underneath. She'd swapped her work heels for a pair of white patent leather, open-toed, open-heeled stilettos, her "come-fuck-me" shoes, as we called them, and several pieces of pearl jewelry.

I let out a low whistle and said, "Wow! I wasn't expecting all this, babe, but I sure don't mind."

Smiling happily, she picked up her drink then settled herself next to me and took the joint from my hand. She took a couple of deep tokes, holding them in as long as she could before exhaling and explaining,

"Fits the mood I'm in, plus I figured I better give daddy his lovin' tonight so he doesn't have to wait in line tomorrow night while his little mama's busy pleasurin' a buncha horny, teen-aged boys, hmm?"

Leaning over to take back the doobie, I kissed her lightly, then with my lips still touching hers, teased, "Sounds like maybe mama might be wanting that to be a rather long line."

Then her reference to teen-agers hit me—I said, "Whoa, wait a minute! I thought they were in their twenties, Blondie."

She smirked, "Only Ronnie—he's twenty, but barely, an' he's the oldest—the others are nineteen except for one who's eighteen. A couple of 'em are his cousins an' they all went to Lanier High School together, so that's why they're all buddies. Ronnie got 'em all hired onto that construction crew so he's kinda their leader, I think."

Well, they were street legal for drinking and sex in Texas, I thought, but eighteen? I joked,

"Sounds like mama not only wants a long line, she wants a very young one, too, hmm?"

For some inane reason, shortly after we acquired our first pet, we had begun referring to ourselves and each other as "mama" and "daddy," and an affectation that had quickly become part of our sexual banter, seeming to convey some cryptic, naughty suggestion. Go figure.

Laughing, she playfully pushed me away and sighed, "C'est vrai (that's true), cher, long et jeune (long and young), but before we decide on how long, there's more I need to tell you."

When I cocked an inquisitive eyebrow, she continued, "Ronnie wants us to start our little party at the bar—says he wants to show me off a little—publicly parade the blanca (blonde) around, have me dance for 'em un petit peu (a little bit), if you're okay with it."

"More like have you strip for them," I replied, which brought a mocking smile to her lips,

"Of course, but I thought you like for me to strip for other men, cher? I know I sure don't mind doin' it—truth is, I like doin' it." She gave me a lewd grin, "Turns me on just thinkin' about struttin' my stuff for all his little buddies an' showin' 'em my goodies."

With a playful smile she teased, "But you can quit worryin'—Ronnie says no nudity—city laws, an' the manager says he could lose his liquor license, so..."

She continued, "But, Ronnie says El Rincón does have a small private room in the back that he used once for a bachelor party that will give us some privacy. He's gonna slip the manager a few bucks so he'll be okay with some sexy dancin' long as I don't take my clothes off."

Seeing my concern, Blondie smirked, "Hé, détends-toi (Hey, relax)! This way I can meet his friends and get to know 'em a little better, an' decide who to bring over here for mama's little baise partie (fuck party) an' he does have a point, you know?"

Licking her lips, she purred, "Can you just imagine how damn sexy it's goin' to be to dance in front all those boys who were undressin' me with their eyes last week, tease 'em all real good?"

I grinned, "You little pute, that boy's playing you like his personal fiddle. Of course he wants to show you off. He's a young, macho Mexican male—probably been bragging all week about how the beautiful, blonde, married white chick couldn't get enough of his big Chicano dick. I'll bet every one of those boys has heard repeatedly how tight your pussy is, and you can also bet they all want to meet this hot blanca and get up very close and personal. Like your grandpa's fond of saying, you'll get more attention than a June bug strolling through a chicken pen."

Blondie giggled, "You're right of course, but what's worryin' me is if you can handle it—like sittin' there with all those young Mexican studs lookin' at your white wife knowin' you already let one of 'em fuck me an' we're back to do it again—if you're gonna be able to deal with that aspect of it."

Hesitating a moment, she said, "In the short time we've been here in South Texas, that's one thing I've learned, lettin' some guy fuck your woman's a big no-no in their macho culture—a huge fuckin' no-no, like a kill the sumbitch no-no, you know?"

Having spent much of my childhood in Texas, and being fully aware of the cultural tendencies and the risks associated with what we were doing, I felt I could handle the situation, saying,

"Let me worry about that, Blondie—what are you planning to wear for your Chicano fan club?"

She grinned broadly, relieved that I was unconcerned about any potential embarrassment.

"I was thinkin' maybe my black leather miniskirt and that black lace blouse, the outfit Franco likes me to wear when he comes over."

Franco was a handsome, charismatic, Latino cop, the first man she'd had sex with in my presence and now a semi-regular boyfriend whom I suspected Blondie of entertaining when I was traveling on business. I wondered if she wore that outfit for him when I wasn't here.

Looking thoughtful, she mused, "Definitely a shelf bra so they can see my nipples through that blouse—I'll wear that black velvet vest you bought me and keep it buttoned when we're goin' in an' out of the place, then unbutton it or take it off in the room—give those boys a perky pink nipple show, hmm?"

I nodded agreeably. I had read somewhere, and had mentioned it to Blondie, that since most Latinas had brown nipples, their men frequently found the pink nipples of Anglo (white) women to be a real turn-on. If Franco was any example it was true—he loved to suck my wife's erect nipples when she gave him those bare-bottomed lap dances.

She continued, "Think I'll wear mesh hose, black of course, an' wear heavier makeup, lotsa eye shadow an' bright red lipstick, give 'em that trashy blonde hooker look, hmm?"

Chuckling, I said, "Sounds like the perfect outfit for a married white chick looking to pull a train for a bunch of horny young vatos."

Blondie twisted around to lean back against the cushioned arm of the couch, pulling open the gown and lifting one shiny stiletto pump, resting it on the back of the couch, planting the other five-inch heel in the carpet. Cocking her head, she smiled her best naughty-girl smile, crooning,

"An' this little ol' white girl is most definitely lookin' forward to pullin' that train, cher, like maybe helpin' those boys get their ashes hauled, hmm?" I smiled at her wordplay.

With the first three fingers of her right hand she began a desultory massage of her clitoris as I said, "You've obviously been giving this a lot of thought, babe."

She gave me a steamy smile and murmured, "Think maybe? Feel ma chatte (my pussy), cher."

Her pretty pink pussy was liberally lubricating; she could have begun pulling that train right this minute, with no problem. I noticed her luxuriant brown bush was a bit unkempt, "Perhaps I should trim this thing up for you," I suggested.

Still idly rubbing her clit she teased, "Whatever floats your boat, lover. Doubt those boys will be complainin' about mama's little beaver bein' just a tad too wild an' furry as long as she's willin' to let 'em have some of it, do you?"

"Probably not," I said, "But we're going to pretty it up a bit for your party if you don't mind."

A few minutes later I slid a folded towel under her raised bottom and, using a depilatory cream, a disposable razor and barber's scissors, over the next half hour trimmed that disheveled bush into a very jolie chatte (pretty pussy) indeed. And it was a pretty pussy—her pink labia were small and symmetrical, like opening rose petals—not overlarge and excessively fleshy and wrinkled as with so many women. Also her clitoris wasn't large and protuberant as I had experienced with other females. Blondie's clit was a small, sensitive, bud that remained hooded until it came out to play, when it became excitedly engorged to the size of a large pea, a sweet, rosy pea.

While engaged in my barbering task, I asked her just how many young men she thought she could comfortably accommodate. She pondered that, then offered,

"I've been askin' myself that all day an' I just don't know: Three? Four? Five? More?"

Pausing thoughtfully, she went on, "I mean, like, I haven't had any problems handlin' two at a time, like you an' these other guys we've fooled around with, you know? What do you think?"

She grinned guiltily, "Think maybe my eyes are gettin' too big for my stomach? Literally?"

Before I could respond, she said, "You know, Yvette told me her record was six—one right after the other, some of 'em more'n once—right there in her own house one Saturday afternoon when her folks and her brothers were at an LSU game way up in Arkansas."

She chuckled, "Can you believe that? An' that crazy little coonass girl set it up herself—just picked up the phone an' called every single one of 'em and invited 'em to come over an' fuck her, just like that. Screwed six different guys right there in her own damned bedroom! Can you believe it?"

Not wanting to dampen her enthusiasm, but concerned she was, indeed, letting her fantasies get the better of her, I suggested,

"Why don't we start off a little more conservatively, Blondie, maybe three—there were five total, right? Maybe do Ronnie and a couple more tomorrow night, then if you don't have any problems with that, we can always go up from that number."

I grinned, "Look, if your goal is to fuck all of the guys that were at that table last week, hotpants, to somehow prove a point, to show them what a bad girl you really are, okay, I get it. You can still do that, but do it by screwing a few at a time, over a couple of weekends, rather than all of them at once."

"Be reasonable, I said, "You don't really have any idea how many guys you can handle. It will be a lot easier on you physically, not to mention safer, babe. Don't be an impatient little pute."