Last Saturday Night – When I Finally Let Go and Took It All
I’ve always been the guy who overthinks everything. Plans, boundaries, safe words, exit strategies—you name it, I’ve probably written a three-page Google Doc about it. But last Saturday I walked into that dimly lit loft downtown and left every single one of those spreadsheets at the door.
The host had been messaging the group chat for weeks: “No phones, no drama, condoms mandatory, lube stations everywhere, red/yellow/green check-ins every round.” Clinical on the surface, filthy in practice. I showed up anyway. Heart hammering, cock already half-hard in my jeans just from the anticipation texts that had been pinging all day.
Ten guys total, including me. Ages spread from mid-20s to early 40s. Bodies ranged from gym-rat carved to soft-daddy thick to wiry runner. No one was there to make small talk. We stripped in the living room like it was a locker room before a very different kind of game. Clothes folded into neat piles on the couch because apparently even sluts can be tidy.
They started slow—almost polite. Hands roaming chests, necks, asses. Kissing that tasted like beer and mint gum. Then someone dropped to their knees in front of me and the room shifted gears. Within minutes I was on all fours on the wide leather sectional, ass up, face down, someone’s tongue already working me open while two other guys knelt in front of my face, cocks heavy and leaking.
The first real thrust came without warning. Thick, slick, insistent. He didn’t ask if I was ready—he just sank in to the root on one long stroke and held there while I gasped around the dick that was already sliding past my lips. My brain short-circuited for a second: too full, too fast, perfect. Then he started moving and everything after that became rhythm and heat and the obscene wet sounds of skin meeting skin.
Hands appeared everywhere. One set gripped my hips hard enough to bruise. Another wrapped around my throat—not choking, just holding, reminding me I was exactly where they wanted me. Two more cocks filled my palms; I stroked without thinking, thumbs smearing pre-cum over swollen heads, feeling them pulse and twitch in response. My mouth stretched wide around the third, jaw aching already, spit running down my chin in thick strands.
They rotated. Not politely. Not one at a time. Just bodies swapping places whenever someone got close or bored or wanted a different angle. One guy pulled out of my ass only for another to slam in immediately, deeper, rougher, while the first one stepped forward and fed his slick cock straight into my mouth. I tasted myself on him—musky, bitter, humiliating in the best way. I moaned around it like I was begging for more.
At some point the couch wasn’t enough anymore. They flipped me onto my back, legs shoved up and back until my knees were near my ears. Exposure like that should have made me self-conscious. It didn’t. It made me louder. Someone straddled my chest, heavy balls dragging across my sternum while he fucked my throat in short, brutal strokes. Another buried himself balls-deep in my ass and stayed there, grinding, letting me feel every inch stretch and burn while hands jerked me in time with the rhythm.
I lost count of how many loads landed on me. Chest, stomach, face, back, inside. Some pulled out and painted my hole before pushing back in, turning everything slippery and obscene. Others stayed buried and came with low growls I could feel vibrating through my whole body. My own orgasm hit somewhere in the middle of the fourth rotation—untouched, just from the relentless pressure on my prostate and the sheer overload of being used from every angle at once. I came so hard my vision whited out for a second; they didn’t stop.
When it finally wound down the room smelled like sex and sweat and coconut lube. I lay there panting, covered, leaking, wrecked in the best possible way. Someone handed me a towel and a bottle of water like we’d just finished a pickup basketball game instead of the filthiest two hours of my life. We didn’t cuddle. We didn’t debrief right then. We just existed in the same space, quietly satisfied, while everyone caught their breath.
I left with cum drying in my hair, a limp I couldn’t hide, and the kind of bone-deep soreness that makes sitting down tomorrow a delicious reminder. No regrets. No second-guessing. Just the quiet certainty that I’ll be back the next time the group chat lights up.
Sometimes you don’t need to overthink it.
Sometimes you just need to get on your knees, open up, and let yourself be taken apart until there’s nothing left but the feeling.
See you next Saturday.
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