The Party Ch. 02

He did his best to remain in her as long as he could, but at last he was forced to withdraw, rolling over onto the other side of the bed in complete exhaustion, but also complete satisfaction. A dazed expression and goofy smile came over his face as he gazed up at the ceiling—but then his countenance suddenly became more serious. He noticed that his hour was just about up, and that other men were clamoring to take their turn with her. Still staring at the ceiling, he said almost somberly, "I love you, Joan"—and fled the room, not waiting for an answer.

*

Dinner on Saturday was a lavish affair, in Joan's honor, as the guys prepared a pot roast with all the fixings for her, and one guy who prided himself on his desserts whipped up a homemade apple pie. Joan enjoyed every morsel she put into her mouth. She got a bit of a rest after the meal, but the parade of men resumed after that.

Later that evening Mark wandered in. He was naked.

He was fairly well-endowed, but Joan couldn't help noticing, with an inward smile, that her pet Trevor was just a bit bigger than him. But his mere presence, in this condition, worried her.

"What are you doing, Mark?" she said softly.

His expression was harried, almost frenzied. With awkward steps he stumbled over to the bed, then flopped onto it. He couldn't take his eyes off Joan.

"Shouldn't you be with your girlfriend?" she said. "What's her name, by the way?"

"Donna."

"Shouldn't you be with her?"

"She said she had to catch up on a class—haven't seen her all weekend."

"Mark," she said gently but firmly, "please make sure you don't do something you'll regret." Like being unfaithful to your fiancée.

But Mark ignored that. "You're so beautiful," he whispered. Then he pasted a long, wet kiss on her mouth.

As he lay on his side next to her, he suddenly seized a breast with one hand while placing the other hand on his member. Joan just gazed at him with a mild but troubled expression. He had already been rock hard when he entered the room, and he seemed to be getting bigger and harder as he frenetically pumped himself. It was obvious that the culmination would not be far off.

But then Mark did something Joan didn't expect.

She thought he would just come on her belly, as several other guys had done that day. Instead, he raised himself up a little and, as both of them watched raptly, poured out his emission onto her pubic hair. Some of his come filtered down the long, curly hairs to her skin; others beaded up on top of the strands like white dew. A final dollop of his seed did land on her belly, lying there in a thick, irregular mass.

Mark seemed intensely mortified by the presence of his discharge on Joan. Snatching up some Kleenex on the nightstand, he said: "Let me clean that up."

"No need," she said amiably. "I like it there."

They looked at each other tenderly, both of them realizing that something deeply significant had happened. Mark wasn't nearly as naïve as the inexperienced Trevor, so she wasn't expecting any awkward professions of love; but she knew that Mark felt a deep and abiding respect for her—and it was a respect he could genuinely feel, since he had managed (barely) to preserve his faithfulness toward Donna, his fiancée. No penetration, no foul!

There was no need for words, and Mark soon left to make way for others.

In the course of that afternoon, it dawned on Joan for the first time that virtually every part of a woman's body could be fascinating to a given man. The obvious parts—breasts, delta, bottom—didn't need elaboration; but some guys exhibited a passion for her sloping shoulders, her flat stomach, her firm but soft thighs, her tapered calves, her long back. One man even claimed that the back of a woman's knees were her best feature! Others liked the back of her neck, her earlobes, her slender nose, the undersides of her breasts. And there was the guy who clearly had a foot fetish, not only sucking her toes one by one (something that produced a mini-climax in her) but then urged her to stroke his cock between her feet—a procedure that ended with his pouring out his discharge on her soles.

In turn, she gained a renewed sense of the pleasues of a man's body. The many different cocks—long, short, thick, thin, curved, straight—spoke for themselves; and it intrigued her that the cocks of men of color were slightly darker than the rest of them, even when erect. And, of course, a firm, muscular bottom was a glory in its own right. But she now found the muscles leading from a man's shoulder to his neck to be unutterably fascinating, to say nothing of the long muscles of his back and thighs. She was delighted to touch a man's bottom when he was thrusting in her, feeling the complex working of the muscles as he did so; and she loved to be embraced tightly by strong arms that held her just as a father would hold a dearly beloved daughter.

At the end of the evening, Mark informed her that she had had twenty-nine guys that day.

Some of them (like dear Trevor) were repeats from the night before; others were new. The numbers thrilled and startled her; she had lost count, given that pairs and trios had come to her in a bewildering fashion, along with the occasional singleton. As Mark mopped her up in preparation for her to go to sleep, he said:

"Any chance you want to stay through Sunday and into Monday?"

"If I won't be in the way," she replied whimsically.

"There's no chance of that," he said with a broad grin. "There won't be quite so many as today. We do have some studying to do, you know."

"I can take as many as you can give me."

"But you must be pretty tired."

"I suppose so—but it's a good tired, you know what I mean?"

"I'm not sure I do. I really can't imagine doing what you've done. You've really been sensational."

"I've enjoyed every minute—and you guys have all been wonderful."

Sunday was indeed something of a "day of rest," after a fashion. Only twenty-two guys! That made a grand total of seventy-two for the weekend. Of these, twenty-seven had gone into her pussy, twenty-four into her bottom, and twenty-one into her mouth. It struck her, more forcibly than at any time in her life, that a woman's chief function is to be filled by a man: there was nothing more satisfying to him or to her than that. Her various orifices indeed ached a bit after the dozens of men she had had; but they ached precisely because they were protesting their emptiness between copulations. The sense of fulfillment she derived when one, two, or three men entered her was beyond description; it was the pinnacle of her femininity, and it was why she had been placed on this earth.

And there was an added pleasure in being the source of such satisfaction to men. Their emissions in vagina, anus, and mouth were indeed rewarding; but even more so was the spattering of their discharges on her face, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, her bottom, even—in that one instance—her feet. This concrete expression of man's devotion to woman lifted her heart until it sang.

She admitted to some fatigue, but then realized that a major cause of it was her own climaxes. She must have had at least a dozen orgasms that weekend—most of them the by-product of various men's plowing into her body. For her, an orgasm began in her pussy, then radiated out over her whole body and produced a kind of explosion in her brain. Every so often during this incredible weekend she had reached that rarest of states for a woman—a kind of constant low-grade climax that lasted for an hour or more and made it seem that her body was being given a mild but recurring dose of electricity. It was wonderful—but exhausting!

On Monday morning, as one of the guys was preparing to drive her to work, Mark said: "Joan, you've been great. I can't describe to you how happy you've made all the guys."

"They've given me a lot of happiness too, Mark."

He gazed at her tenderly. "Any chance you'd like to come back sometime?"

"A very good chance." Stroking his cheek as she left the house, she said, "I'll let you know."