Teamwork - A Gangbang Trilogy Pt. 01

Acknowledgement:

The author wishes to express gratitude to sluts throughout the world for their inspirational example.

To the selective, to the promiscuous, to the queer, to the cum-hungry-

To sluts everywhere, this story of OFS (Our Favorite Slut) is respectfully dedicated.

If I have overlooked any sizable group of sluts, I apologize.

- The Author

Part 1: If music be the food of love, play on.

I dance down the hallway, hair bobbing in a sloppy bun, big shirt billowing in the wind. A mostly empty handle of vodka sloshes in my hand. My tiny novelty handbag trails from my shoulder. It bumps the fat of my hip as I move.

Passersby gawp, mostly prettier girls than me. We're not supposed to mix with the guys in this building after curfew, but we're here. They stand in clumps with their guyfriends, making me weave through them.

I know the guys are wondering: is there anything on under this long university store t-shirt? The girls, too.

Which, there isn't.

I left my underwear in my room. I left my shoes in my room. I left most of the vodka in a separate container in my room. (Like hell I was going to waste it, but I was creating an effect.) I brought my bag, my bottle, my shirt, and myself.

I doubt anyone will notice I'm acting. Or that they would care.

I make my way to the end of the floor. Apparently the entire football team is holding court in several rooms, doors agape. The music is loud, but the conversation dies as I float in

I'm a shambling pied piper. In wordless coordination, a line of big, strapping lads follow mes into one of the rooms.

Someone shuts the door behind them, which dims the light and mutes the music.

The stage is set. If music be the food of love, play on.

I could have chosen better. This tiny room is a mess. It smells like nine guys sweating in eight bedsheets.

But it's a men's dorm. They all smell like this.

They're big boys. All of them. They stare in bovine confusion-a half dozen of them, at least. I briefly forget my plan and wonder how so many of them managed to fit into this tiny room.

Murmurs waft through the crowd.

"Bro, is she serious?"

"Dear Penthouse..."

"She ain't even that fine."

"You know why they call 'em love handles?"

Big, gormless farmboys. Exactly what I need right now.

I set the vodka bottle down on the bedside table with a wet clunk and sink wordlessly to my knees. The shitty dormitory carpet is already tearing them up.

My eyeline quickly fills with basketball shorts and sweatpants. They all bulge in the front.

One of them is in front of me. The tentpole in his sweatpants jabs my chin. Two more, one on either side of me. Two, I think, behind me.

There are a couple more standing back, near the door, holding contraband beers in their hands. They watch as though this were happening on TV.

I let my handbag slip off my shoulder. It hits the floor, spilling its contents: a little travel bottle of lube, condoms of all sizes, black nitrile gloves.

I love black nitrile gloves. I know it's not their only purpose, but they always make me think of sex.

The guys are eyeing the condoms. I'm eyeing the bulge in front of me.

I hook my fingertips around the waistband. I make brief eye contact with him, then I avert. I don't want to break character, but this doesn't work unless he's into it.

I pull his sweatpants down to his ankles. His cock springs free: beautiful, sort of smallish, hairy. It protrudes under an overhanging tummy, a furry stripe connecting pubes to navel.

Without looking, I grab one of the condoms off the floor and open the packaging with my teeth.

Now for my little party trick.

I hold the condom between my lips in a big "O." I slide it onto his cock down to the hilt. A chorus of gasps around the room.

I've craved this padded hardness in my mouth all day. I love the taste of latex. And the smell of it-so heady, mixed with his scent. He's hygenic, but he still has that sweaty, spicy smell that boys can't seem to shake.

I was wet before. I'm liquid fire now.

I'm pretty sure I'm playing it cool.

I curl my fingers around his cock and begin bobbing my head up and down the end of it. My spit quickly lubricates him.

I feel him looking at me. I feel like he sees a total stranger sucking his cock, but he doesn't see ME.

That turns me on very much.

His horny teammates advidly watch. He doesn't seem to mind.

I hear a rustling sound. Hands in my handbag, getting into the condoms, the lube, the gloves. Good boys.

I hear one of them dare another one to take a drink of my vodka, and I hear him do it.

Bad boys.

The one beside me begins pawing at me. Not the vodka thief, I hope. My t-shirt is several sizes too big and his fingers are finding only cheap cloth.

Eventually, he finds one of my pendulous tits within the folds. He gives it a couple sharp squeezes, as if testing it for ripeness.

He's presumptuous, but I know what I'm here for.

Mr. Nice Cock is well along. His breathing is shallow. His skin is flushed. The seconds are ticking down.

I feel hot breath on my neck. Mr. Titgrabber is smelling my neck, hunting for my nipple.

Under normal circumstances, I hit the ceiling when my nipples are touched. I pray I'm horny enough to absorb the shock when he finds one.

Mr. Nice Cock gasps, embarrassingly high-pitched. The reservoir tip of the condom inflates like a water balloon on my tongue.

I, a well-trained cum scientist, carefully time the beating of his cock and bring him down gently.

Once I'm sure his balls have been thoroughly drained, I let his half-limp cock slide from my mouth. It comes loose in strings of mucus. A couple of the guys clap and cheer.

He lasted less than a minute. I don't mind.

Sometimes, a quick comer is flattering.

Mr. Nicecock takes a few steps back, receding into the sweaty shadows of the room.

Meanwhile, Mr. Titgrabber is getting impatient in his search for my elusive nipple.

Hint: Big tits, no bra. It's lower than you'd think.

He fumbles for the hem of my t-shirt instead. He seems to have two left hands and ten thumbs.

I have no idea how football works, but I assume his job isn't to catch the ball.

From the other side of me, another cock emerges in the periphery of my vision.

While Mr. Titgrabber had me distracted, this gentleman managed to disrobe completely and apply himself with one of the large condoms.

Normally, I choose the condom myself. In my experience, men who go for the big ones are usually flattering themselves.

This guy is not flattering himself. He looks great-big, dark, shiny-headed, a hard marble core wrapped in plush, shining skin, with sparse, tightly curled hair.

And that's just his penis.

Mr. Titgrabber is still going for the hem of my shirt and I'm starting to pity him.

I do the porno disrobe. I cross my arms in front and gracefully lift the shirt free, unveiling my doughy brown body in its statuesque glory.

The shirt messes up my hair bun, but I feel I've still crafted a moment.

The boys were silent during the whole Mr. Nicecock spectacle. But the presentation of a naked female body gets them talking.

"Man, she got tattoos all over."

"She looks like this sidepiece I used to fuck."

"You know how you can just look at a girl and know she does anal?"

"It's cool, bro, I'm into tattoos."

"When's the last time she trimmed that bush?"

For the record, I know my pubes are in full bush mode. I was going to shave everything below the neck before I came here. But I had too much to do and I lost track of time.

...Okay, I was masturbating all day.

And, no shit, I do anal.

I let Mr. Titgrabber have his moment. He cups my tit. Mercifully, his hand is warm. He thumbs my nipple and I don't scream.

I was worried that he'd try to roll me like a booger, but he takes it easy. It's kind of nice, actually.

With Mr. Titgrabber occupied, I look back to Mr. Bigcock. He's patiently waiting his turn. His great panhandle looms with expectation.

I cup his balls, pulling him gently towards me. He follows my lead. I leave my pinky hooked around his sack and curl my remaining fingers around his cock.

The base grip is an old pro move. Looks sexy, spares your gag reflex.

I put my lips and tongue around his head and we do the thing.

I glance up; his eyes are closed. He doesn't like to watch. Maybe he's shy. My horny brain is gifting my jaw muscles with supernatural endurance.

Someone behind me is stroking my bare back, which is very nice of him.

Someone near the door has his cock out. He's staring and jerking off. It provides a suitably grimy atmosphere.

Besides, the guy standing next to him is staring at his cock, which I find hilarious.

Mr. Bigcock is having a good time, but he doesn't feel like he's close yet.

Mr. Titgrabber plays with my nipple and someone else plays with the other one, sending broadband signals through my entire body. Goosebumps rise; my pussy tingles. Teamwork makes the dream work.

I'm slobbering all over Mr. Bigcock and myself. I don't know if this is happiness, but it's definitely bliss.

Mr. Bigcock touches my head, trying to take down my hair. I stop and pull away, connected to him by strands of mucus. I untie my hair, getting spit in it and immediately losing the hair tie.

Mr. Bigcock gratefully grabs my hair by the fistful. I get back to work on him.

I'm not one to come from nipple stimulation, but what Mr. Titgrabber and his friend are up to is really doing it for me. If I got the old fantasy machine working on it, I could probably have an orgasm right now. But I let it ride.

Mr. Bigcock is closer to the edge, but I don't feel the countdown beginning. Somewhere behind him, I hear "Oh shit!" Mr. Jerkoff has just ejaculated all over the floor.

I hear someone-Mr. Nicecock-say "Nice job, Trent."

It doesn't feel creepy when everyone else watches. Just Trent, the only one who's been staring with full-on masturbation face.

My pussy is nagging me for relief. I spread my knees apart. As if by robot programming, Mr. Titgrabber's hand leaves my boob and travels over my tummy roll. I gesture towards where I'm pretty sure the gloves and lube are, and he takes the hint.

The shock of the cold of his lubed fingers in my pubic hair and on my vulva is delicious. Mr. Titgrabber strokes in slow circles, carefully avoiding my clitoris. It feels cruel and merciful at the same time.

And I think to myself, when Mr. Bigcock finishes, Mr. Titgrabber is next.

Behind Mr. Bigcock, I hear an argument in whispers. Now that Trent has accidentally satisfied himself, he's belatedly realized that his friend was watching. He's not happy.

I can't quite hear what they're saying, but I get the impression that something like this has happened before.

Suddenly the door opens and the music gets much louder and the light gets much brighter. Trent storms out and the silhouettes of several heads peek in. I realize, by some miracle of geometry, that the hallway has an absolutely unvarnished view of everything. If they squinted, they could probably see my IUD.

We now have an audience. And a musical score.

Too bad, Trent. I would have gotten to you. Eventually.

If such a thing is possible, my mouth detects an emotional response from Mr. Bigcock. Before I can react, he's out of reach. He flings strands of spit as he turns away from the door. The light shines on his ass as he removes his condom and goes off in search of his clothes.

Apparently, what was fine in front of his teammates is too scandalous in front of his neighbors.

Meanwhile, Mr. Titgrabber is doing a pretty good job with his hand

I whisper, as voicelessly as possible so that only he can hear. "Your other hand. Get a glove."

He obliges.

Kneeling there, I am on medical display to the world. My pubes shine with lube, which cools in the drafty air. My big clitoral hood shines purple through my dense pubic hair.

Then Mr. Titgrabber has two fingers inside me. They glide in without effort. He resumes circling with his other hand, pressing into the fat of my pubic mound. The feeling of fullness, pressing upward and downward together, clamping down on me, is pretty fucking terrific.

Damn good show, Mr. Titgrabber.

I don't remember the next ten seconds. I'm reclined back, my knees apart, my hands on the floor, my pelvis rocking in his grip, working my knees into that abrasive carpet. Glorious plumes of latex and sweat-I realize they're coming from me. Everything else recedes.

It's warm and tingly and it's an addictive wash that floods me right out to the tips of everything. Time passes weirdly. Waves flow and ebb.

When I start paying attention again, more cheering and clapping. Mr. Titgrabber is standing up, taking a performative bow, enjoying the attention.

Incredibly, the other bystander-Trent's friend-is now jerking off. And he has the same creepster expression on his face. Where did we find two of these guys? By the power vested in me, I pronounce him the new Mr. Jerkoff.

Mr. Backstroker and Mr. Nipple Toucher are behind me, bearing my weight, kissing me about the neck and collarbones. Their kisses aren't intimate. They're hot, wet, greedy, sucking kisses.

I can already feel the welts coming up, and that's fine. My artsy fartsy side appreciates the symmetry.

Mr. Titgrabber is apparently something of a showman. He drops his pants, cock to the audience, and very theatrically applies a condom. His pale ass is covered in long, dark bodyhair, which thickens considerably in the divot of his asshole. I want to saturate it with my spit.

He turns to face me. He has an overgrown patch of pubic hair that absorbs all light that touches it. His cock, long and girthy and uncircumcised, looks tightly constricted by the condom. I can see it pulling at the long public hair that runs the length of his penis.

I reach for it. He pulls away. I think he's being playful. He doesn't realize the condom he's wearing is for cute little baby dicks. Someone should tell him that this is how you get blowouts.

I reach again. Again, he backs away. I pull away from my two friends who, by now, have mottled my neck and upper chest with leopard spots. I begin crawling to him, hands and knees.

He turns sideways, still backing up. I follow his footsteps. When he has us positioned side-on in full view pf the hallway, he stops. The showman wants a big audience.

He kneels. He wants me to blow him on my hands and knees. I'm fucking ready for it, but he isn't-he still has that condom problem to take care of.

I put my fingertips on him, right at the base of the condom. He starts to relax into my loose grip. I know what he expects.

I hiss "Sorry" through my teeth and roll the condom up as gently as I can.

He nearly jumps out of his skin. People giggle. The condom took some hairs with it-straight, dark hairs, at least an inch long each.

A translucent pearl of precum, marbled with sperm, nestles in the folds of his foreskin. I ready my mouth with a more appropriately sized condom and do my little party trick again.

I love foreskin. The trick is to pull it back just a little bit so that it moves back and forth on the glans inside the condom head.

In the corner of my eye to my right, I can see Mr. Backstroker and Mr. Nipple Toucher. Big, both of them, and surprisingly similar-looking. They could be brothers.

Mr. Titgrabber's pubes smell like women's shampoo. I start pumping. He moans immediately, the first sexual vocalization I think I've heard all night. I wonder if he's already close or if he's just loud.

I hear some commotion with the condom bag. I hear someone murmur something that I can't quite make out. Someone suggesting something and someone else apparently thinking it's a good idea.

After a moment of sucking Mr. Titgrabber's cock, I feel a pair of thumbs pulling apart my asscheeks. I try not to react; I don't want to break the spell with Mr. Titgrabber.

For a moment, I wonder if they're just gazing into my asshole. More murmuring-I think they are. I feel the hands reposition themselves and spread me again. This time, my labia and my asshole are spread wide apart, on full display to whoever's behind me. I'm hyper-aware of every droplet and strand of hair that stands exposed.

They're providing amused commentary that I can't quite hear. Their whispers are drowned out by the sloppy sounds inside my mouth.

Then I hear someone hack, and I hear them spit. I feel a feeling of cool slickness trickling down the crack of my ass, over my anus. I feel a thumb circling it, tracing a smear of spit over the ridged muscle. The slippery rubbing feels good, like a tiny massage.

The circling thumb disappears and is shortly replaced by what is unmistakably the pressing head of a penis.

TO BE CONTINUED