Sex Swing Satisfaction

Adrian and Dan are back by popular demand. They make new, younger, friends. No need to have read their previous exploits.

Many thanks to yowser for beta reading.

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WARNING: if you just clicked on the list of Literotica Valentine's Day stories, please note that this story is in the Gay Male category. It contains men fucking each other, and also British English.

If either of those repulse you, please hit Back now. I have many other stories with only heterosexual or lesbian sex, but I'm afraid the Englishness is unavoidable.

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This story is an entry in the 2024 Valentine's Day contest. If you like it, please vote and leave a comment.

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Sex Swing Satisfaction

"So, Adrian, love? How does it feel, being forty-nine?"

A square number. Amazed I've lived this long, to be honest. When I was young, I assumed the drink and drugs would get me, if AIDS or a fight didn't. Then I got much more stable by thirty, with the help of the wee woman I married. The luck couldn't last; I was a widower at thirty-four. I held it together, though. Mostly. Then my friend bet me her body to get me to give up smoking, and stuck an ad online for me, thinking that me sucking cock again would distract me from the lack of cigarettes.

Ten minutes later, this lanky blond guy called Dan turned up -- he was living in a flat upstairs. We got married in 2014, soon as we legally could, so I guess we can say that worked.

Now? We've survived Covid, better than most. My flat's a spacious two-bed, we already worked from home half the time, and we could cycle to different places when we needed a change of scene. No kids to entertain -- though the large atrium in the building was a godsend for our neighbours with them. Dan's family were all fine in the suburbs of Birmingham, my parents were already dead, and bastard Uncle Kevin won't be missed. I was glad of the excuse to miss the funeral.

So we got through it OK. What we missed, though, was our main hobby: going out and fucking other guys. Or each other, enjoying an audience. Even just watching other men, naked, getting sexy. Dan's an artist; he loves sketching guys in clubs. Nice little earner, that was, when he was between jobs.

Many sex clubs and gay saunas have closed down in recent years; London's rents only get more extortionate. Still a few about. We ought to help keep them in business, right?

It occurs to me. I've not had the joy of lying back in a sex swing and getting well fucked since I met Dan. Never done it since I got over my self-hatred and shit, actually. Dan's asked about my bucket list a few times. That might be one of the sexy things I actually do want to do again.

"Fine. Still under fifty; still young, eh?" I tell him. I've still got a decent head of hair, even if 'sandy' gets lighter and lighter. I'm told the blue eyes and Irish accent are attractive, though I suspect it's being a right whore which lures guys to my lightweight body. I love getting fucked even more than sucking cock, which is saying something!

Dan laughs. He's ten years younger. Helps keep me young, I swear. "Any things you'd like to do to help celebrate?"

We've just had an excellent dinner out with friends. He's raising an eyebrow. Waiting for me to suggest something sexy. He's open to any manner of filth, my fantastic fella.

"Was thinking."

"Don't strain yourself," he retorts.

I stick fingers up, telling him to fuck himself. All part of our banter. "I had this thought, right? I haven't used a sex swing in years. Before I met you, even. Lying back, all helpless and restrained, getting taken by a good number of good cocks, you there, getting more an' more aroused off it, supervising and finally participating..."

"Only you could use so many long words about getting fucked! Lil' slut boy." He reaches over to run his finger round my lips. "Total tart."

"Aye. And you love me for it!"

"Never said I didn't. OK. Where's a good club with the kit?"

"That, my boy, is the question."

Our closest sauna doesn't have play equipment. Somewhere huge like Torture Garden is more about the costumes than sex or play. Dan's not into kinky shit. Well, not pain or bondage. Some might say, him fucking me while I suck some stranger's cock is pretty damn kinky. Me, I just call it a good Saturday night.

We let the idea rest. A few months later, though, I get an email from some dormant mailing list. Someone's trialling a small club night, in a converted shop down near Elephant. One hundred guys max, dress code 'underwear or less', some bits of equipment more designed for sex than submission, heavy emphasis on wipe-clean surfaces. If other guys want to piss on each other, that's their business; I'm not fussed.

Dan nods. "Give it a go. I'm sure we can find enough volunteers to satisfy even you."

I like getting fucked long and hard, so sue me. Dan's great at it, but he's only one man. I do take him, sometimes, but at home, slow and gentle. More often, I'll show off my cock-sucking skills. I've been practising for thirty years, now. Think about that. Trust me, I'm good.

We turn up shortly after the place opens at 9pm. It's fully booked, which is a good start. Some talent is in the queue ahead of us. We do the wee nods and raised eyebrows you do to express interest. Conversation? We're men! We don't need that.

I laugh as I see the front of the building. It's one in a typical run-down row of shops on the main road, its plate-glass windows frosted with a logo, 'A4', in the centre. It used to be an estate agent. I guess they don't need actual premises nowadays to advertise crappy flats and shops to rent. Inside, they've partitioned off the front few feet, so there's space for a table and a beardy geezer behind it, then a flimsy door to where the good stuff's happening. He buzzes the door open for us.

A crowded room. Lockers on one wall, soft drinks on a table opposite, a few old sofas. And a few dozen men, removing clothes or already in their briefs. Or boxers. Or jock straps. Or bare-ass naked. I inhale. That scent of clean sweat, maleness, has to fight against excess deodorant and clashing aftershaves. There's a lot to be said for back rooms in these places -- they reek, sure, but it's of sweat and spunk. Even a bit of piss in there is more natural, doesn't detract from good male musk. I nod at a couple guys as I take my shirt off, giving one of them a small smile.

I turn back to Dan. Now I'm doing a proper grin at my man: he's tall and lean and fucking gorgeous, long limbs, one tattoo, indigo chevrons on his arm, his blond curls shaved short recently and a wee stubbly beard he experimented with in lockdown and we liked. He's got a good long cock to be proud of, but it's not perked up yet. It will.

He beams back, puts his arm round my waist -- it slides down and he squeezes my arse, as usual -- and leads me to the door to the back room.

Same size, nearly as many men, same cheap partition walls sloshed white, but here the walls and floors are lined in clear plastic. That'll make clean-up easier, I suppose. There's a guy leaning over a gym box, getting fucked while another man fondles him. One lad kneels before a bulky guy, sucking him off and looking up for approval. Another chap is seated, a bald man jerking him off, cum getting everywhere. A few guys are watching and wanking.

Dan's hand goes to his cock when he sees a big burly chap making moves on a fella who looks a bit like me, slender and floppy-haired. A youngish lad is being fastened into the swing. He's happy, can't take his eyes off his partner. Good. Less fucked-up than I was at his age, letting anyone at me to distract from my brain weasels.

The air is sultry, the reek of naked men growing. Some guy goes towards the toilet at the back, finds it occupied, shrugs, and aims for his mate's mouth instead. It's that kind of place. Two lads make eye contact, move towards each other, start kissing and let their hands roam over each other. I'd be up for them, too. Someone gropes my arse; I run with it. It's my kind of venue, everyone responding to the sensuous bass of the music, and to the pheromones all around.

Dan holds my head while he kisses my face off, then pulls me to the swing, making it very clear: we're next. But also, with various nods and glances, that I'm free for the taking.

God, men are filthy! And I love them.

The young dark lad in the swing arches his back and groans as he spurts jizz into the air, his action making him sway upwards to show off his tight wee balls and that usually-hidden suede-soft skin behind. Dan catches some of the cum on his hand, and smears it on his face and mine.

The bloke balls-deep in the kid notices. He grunts more, and hangs onto the ropes of the swing as he comes hard, rocking against the smooth hairless thighs of his mate. It's dirty, and hot as hell. I have to hold myself back from chivvying them away from the swing immediately so I can have a go.

Some might call it selfish, me planning to hog the best bit of kit for a long while, but it's not like my arse wouldn't welcome any man here. Dan will make sure they rubber up and treat me right.

I'm not sure what my record is for taking guys in one night. Eight, maybe? But with me basically sober, able to enjoy it all, probably three or four, though I could manage more. We're just talking good firm fucks, though I'll offer to suck some cock while I'm at it. Not fisting or anything painful; I look after myself nowadays. Mostly. When I don't, Dan does.

At last, the burly bloke scoops up his light-headed giggling boyfriend and they go cuddle in a corner, though they might object to a word like 'cuddle'. I've gotten over such shit; I like snuggling.

But I also like lying back on a solid canvas swing, my head supported, and my thighs and ankles buckled into separate hanging loops, forcing my legs open wide and showing off my tackle to all and sundry. Sordid and solid. Dan adjusts the waist straps so my arse hangs free, my bollocks dangling and exposed. It couldn't be more obvious -- I've got a hole I need filled.

"Comfy?" he asks. A dozen guys are watching with interest. Half are indicating to Dan that they're very interested indeed.

"Stickin' out," I assure him. "Put me arms in their loops, and we'll be grand." As he does the fastenings, I turn my head to the side. Yeah, I could give a blowie, but not while being fucked, I don't think. A big brown chap catches my eye and licks his lips, asking. I look down at my groin, until he catches on.

"This one first up?" Dan's idly rubbing my cock, as if I needed any help getting stiff in these circs. Like a pub barman, he's silently communicated their order in the queue to three more guys, as well as ensuring the first one adheres to the safer sex policy. He's rubbered up and ready; Dan passes him some lube to do the honours.

"Slick him up good, like. Generous with it. He wants taking good and hard, yeah?" Dan's blunt instructions to guy one get me rock hard.

Who says guys don't do romance? My man finds the perfect gifts for me.

Number one's done this before. He isn't startled by how the swing moves away from him, nor at how he has to pull me back, using his fingers up my bum.

His firm fingers are a good start. Gets me purring. But when he holds my legs to him, then leans forward to force his cock into my wee hole, driving in without a pause -- well, that's where life's at. I know I'm grinning inanely, even more when this bloke leans backwards and forwards. He rocks us back and forth, his cock sliding in a complimentary rhythm in and out. It's bliss.

The guy hammers into me, cumming enough I feel it even through the rubber. Good force, but too soon. Disappointing, when he goes soft and I'm still gagging for more. Just as well number two steps up immediately, a solid chap with a solid dick.

It's great. He's great. He's really hitting the spot, you know the one I mean!

I idly watch the ceiling moving back and forth while I let myself get well fucked. Plastic sheeting ripples over the lines on foam tiles. A wobbling grid, moving across my vision. I clench my arsehole to really enjoy being filled up full. It's fantastic, just a bit more to get me to come! Oh yeah, I'm in perfect nick, loving a perfect fuck, unlike those polystyrene tiles crumbling there, showing that insulation behind...

The insulation shouldn't be that colour! I'm distracted. I glance at the top of the wall partition, and there's more of it. Fluffy fibres that aren't right. Right now, I hate that I'm a professional fire engineer, because I know I need to check this out.

Fuck.

"Get me down," I tell Dan. "Sorry, mate. Gutted to miss out on ya, you were grand." I swing my legs back down to the floor and am inspecting the walls with my professional eye that's a bit dizzy, even before Dan's loosed my arms from the sling.

I feel bad for leaving the guy with blue balls. But even my quick rub with my hand I give him is cursory, because the more I see, the more unsafe I realise the place is.

"Pick that up," I order a lad who's just ditched his hot disposable vape on the floor. It's melting the plastic sheeting. Behind the plastic is air, acting as chimneys, in front of the cheap OPC board which I bet wasn't flame-proofed, and some insulation half-arsedly shoved behind that, which definitely isn't fire retardant. Add the crumbling polystyrene ceiling tiles, and the place is, as they always said on Watchdog, 'a potential deeeeath-trap'.

Instinctively, I look for the fire escape. There should be one, the back door. There it is, stickered but no light -- naughty -- next to the toilet. I go to open it, screw any alarms, so these guys can vape out there instead. Reduce the risk of fire, as well as the pong of their horrible fruit flavours. I'm getting old, I prefer my clubs to smell of sweat and even piss, to sweet bubblegum and such.

The door doesn't open. Eyeing the latch, I can tell it's been locked.

Right. Time to go radge on the management fuckers.

I sternly tell another vaper to put it away, he's standing in a fucking tinderbox. Don't think he knows the word.

Dan sees I'm on the warpath. He's cottoned on. He may not understand the details, but he knows a bodge-job crap conversion when he sees it. A decade of living with a fire safety engineer means he knows what sets me off. And the difference between me about to have a quiet word, versus me going to tell someone they'll have blood on their hands soon, if they're unlucky.

Back in the socialising room, Dan makes me put my trousers back on, then my shoes. He has a point: bollocking anyone never looks professional if you've got your cock out. I don't bother with my shirt; I want to give the front desk guy a fucking earful ASAP. I'm missing out on the fucks of a lifetime, thanks to his incompetence!

The desk guy is defensive. Then he claims not to understand English, then that I'm drunk. Dan scoffs at that one, pointing out that I'm stone cold sober, and if the man -- who was chatting away merrily in English an hour ago -- has any difficulty with my Norn Iron accent, he'll happily translate. Dude claims to have no knowledge of the shop conversion, says it must be safe, but when I mention there's no fucking excuse for a locked fire escape -- hasn't he heard of the various tragedies in garment factories and the like? -- he loses it. He tells us to fuck off out.

Dan grabs our stuff while I make one last attempt to make this tosser feel guilt. "Jesus, Mary'n'Joseph and the wee fuckin' donkey! This place is going to kill someone! Soon! Don't you fucking care about bein' done for murder?"

No dice. He's not paid enough to care.

So I stand on the pavement, my coat shoved over my shoulders, and call 999, requesting fire officers with police backup.

Two plods slide up in a silent car within two minutes. Early doors for them. It's strange, me suddenly being a respectable middle-aged man -- Dan's made me shove my shirt back on -- and thus being treated with respect by the rozzers, even with the Irish accent. It sure ain't the 20th century any more.

We agree to have the fire guys go in first, then the police only if needed. The cops don't want to have to ruin the night of a bunch of gay men if they can avoid it, any more than said naked men want invasion by the filth.

Eight firemen jump off a fire engine pulling up. Their leader is grey and grizzled, fifties, the rest all Dan's age or younger.

The guy grasps the situation from a quick chat with me. "We don't want to scare the punters; they're not the ones in trouble. Gotcha. Oi! Ricky?"

One of the firemen jumps up. "Guv?"

"Here's the thing, Ricky. We've got what sounds like a totally unsafe flammable conversion, lacking a secondary exit, so we need to get everyone out, without panicking."

"Right. What's the problem?"

"The problem," I tell him, "is there's about eighty men in there, all naked or nearly so. And half of them will be getting it on."

Ricky sees, instantly. He doesn't ask why him, so obviously it's because he's gay too. Instead, he says, "How do you know?"

"I called it in." I give him a level stare, daring him to ask what I was doing in there. I can't see much of him under the uniform gear, but he's got nice brown eyes.

He nods. "With ya. Do you want to come with me, then -- spare the boss's eyes? We'll call out, tell everyone what's what, please go get dressed and leave?" He's cottoned on. Smart lad.

"Just that the place has to be closed for elf'n'safety violations? Aye, that's a sound plan. If they won't leave, that's when we can threaten to send in the peelers." I nod at the two plods, who are chatting to some of the fire crew.

"Ricky? If you're unsure about the status, or anything, come get me, OK?"

"Sure thing, boss!" The guv'nor seems to care particularly for Ricky. The rest of the crew know what's inside by now, so they do the odd joke and wolf-whistle about this being a perfect job for him, but it's all good-natured, not homophobic. They must all like the guy, too.

Ricky pulls off his face covering, to look more friendly. He claws his hand through glossy black curls. Turns out he's a good-looking guy, his warm brown skin and stocky physique proving at least one of his grandparents, probably two or three, came over on the Windrush.

"Shall we?" I lead him into the front office and hold the door open so his boss can hear.

Ricky's speaking firmly. "We've had reports of dangerously unsafe interior cladding and a locked fire exit. So I need to go inspect. No, I do have the right, under Section..." He cites the legislation. "And if you don't let us in, then the police outside will force their way in for us. And none of us wants that, do we?"

That's one thing the desk guy does agree with us on. So he glares at me, but buzzes the door open. I follow Ricky in, attracted to his assertiveness.

Of course, the crowd assume a fireman arriving in a sex club is actually a stripper, and whistle at him. He takes it well, bowing, but apologises that he's actually here for professional reasons.

He calls out clearly, so all can hear, "I really hope I won't have to, guys, but we may need to shut this place down, at least for the night. So maybe don't start anything you'd hate to interrupt, leastways for the next few minutes, yeah?" The lad has style!

There's some murmuring. I point out the dodgy insulation in this room behind the boarding. He nods. "Undesirable, but not so bad in itself."

"Aye, that was my notion. But see the next room. Ah, this might be a wee shock for ya..."

Ricky rolls his eyes and enters the back room. He blinks. He makes a valiant effort not to look surprised at the dozen male couples mid-fuck, lots of cocksuckers, two guys pissing on another, and someone new being strapped into the swing. I'd be envious, if it weren't that I know the man'll have an even shorter, crapper experience in the swing than I did. At least mine had a while to get good. I get the impression Ricky would like to stay and watch, but he knows he's got a job to do.