The Polyerotic Reader: Seven Group Sex Stories

The Polyerotic Reader

Seven Group Sex Stories

Serafina Conti

© Copyright 2016 by Serafina Conti

Smashwords Edition

Contents

Preface

Amy Says Yes: A frat-house gangbang story

Jesus and the Cum Dump: A pornological romp

Bad Husband: A man confronts the reality of his marriage

Cécile’s Calling: An eighteen-year-old discovers her talent

The Ruination of Annabelle: A dark tale of self-discovery

The Four Teachers: A gangbang love story

Diary of a Faithful Wife: How to stay faithful to your husband

About the Author

Preface

IN ONE OF my favorite fantasies, a number of young naked men crowd around me, touching my body. I don’t know anything about their lives, loves, or deepest desires, but only that they lust for me now. Their hands, boldly invading my most private places, are evidence of this.

They don’t care that I want them as much as they want me: they’d take me whether I wanted them or not. Sometimes they handle me roughly and sometimes gently, but always insistently: they bend me to their will, manipulating me for their convenience.

They say little to me, but call out words of encouragement to each other and negotiate the use of my body among themselves—who gets to penetrate what part of me at any given moment. It’s as if they were shooting hoops together and I was the basket.

My orgasm is seismic, but by the time I come I’m beaten and exhausted. The men don’t care: they dress and leave, talking among themselves. Perhaps one of them will remain behind, but if so, I’m not sure why. Maybe he loves me, but it’s just as likely that his reasons are darker. I’m too tired to care much.

If your fantasies are anything like this, you’ve come to the right place. This anthology contains three novellas (Amy Says Yes, Jesus and the Cum Dump, and The Ruination of Annabelle), four short stories, and a great many sexual encounters, most of them involving three or more people. Most of the stories depict gangbangs—rough group encounters involving one woman and several men; Diary of a Faithful Wife, on the other hand, has a threesome.

What else can I tell you about these stories? The action is mostly heterosexual, with an occasional brief lesbian encounter; Bad Husband and The Four Teachers depict both straight sex and male bisexuality. Those who like their erotica lighthearted will probably like Amy Says Yes, Jesus and the Cum Dump, and Diary of a Faithful Wife, while those who like it dark and disturbing may prefer Cécile’s Calling, The Ruination of Annabelle, and The Four Teachers. Those who despise happy endings should read Cécile’s Calling and Diary of a Faithful Wife; those who want romance (of a sort) may like Bad Husband, The Ruination of Annabelle, and The Four Teachers.

What all of these stories have in common, of course, is their naughtiness. I hope you’ll find something to please you here.

Note: All characters depicted in these stories are at least eighteen years of age. Cécile's Calling and The Ruination of Annabelle contain oblique references to, but not depictions of, the abuse of minors. The author condemns all kinds of child abuse, and the purpose of the references in these stories is to convey this condemnation by showing the damage such abuse can do.

S.C.

Amy Says Yes

A frat-house gangbang story featuring a twenty-year-old discovering the power of yes.

1. The Amy scale

AMY MARSH knew very well that she was plain, and she had come to terms with that, more or less. Short and stumpy, she had untended eyebrows above dull gray eyes. Makeup might have helped her round puffy face, but she didn’t bother. Her hair was an average brown, and she wore it in an easily maintained nerdy cut. She had big dark-framed glasses: she’d tried contacts a few years ago, but they’d been more trouble than they were worth, so she’d given them up. Her jeans and sweater were nondescript, as all her clothing was: when she’d go out shopping, meaning to buy something bold and different, she’d come back every time with the same jeans and earth tones. In the summer she wore sandals, in colder weather unfashionable running shoes (which should not be taken to imply that she ran).

When Amy imagined a future for herself, it did not include love or indeed sex with an actual man. She knew very well that she didn’t turn heads, and, not being abundantly endowed with that consolation prize for the unattractive known as personality, she was unlikely to draw the attention of a man acceptable to her. Back in high school she had occasionally attended dances, where she’d stood off to the side unnoticed, watching the popular kids have fun. Sick of being a wallflower, she’d given up dances, and with them, all thought of getting a boyfriend.

This is not to say that Amy didn’t think about sex. She did, and frequently. She fantasized about the handsomest boys in school, about movie stars, about sports figures. She sought out pleasing pictures of scantily clad men to enrich her fantasies, and she looked at them and imagined what it would feel like to make love to them.

At college (where she was, on the last Friday in March, a junior), her parents had sprung for a single room, and in that private space she’d discovered porn. She occasionally worried that something must be wrong with her: she’d read somewhere that women weren’t supposed to like porn. But she did, and that was that. She loved James Deen: it was so hot to imagine him roughing her up as she sucked his cock! She liked Rocco Siffredi’s stuff from a decade ago—he’d been such a handsome pervert! She pictured him putting it to her, right there in the backside.

How would it feel to have a cock in her? She nervously, blushingly, ordered a dildo and a bottle of lubricant online and was relieved when they arrived, as promised, in plain packaging. She gave the dildo a workout, sucking it, fucking herself with it, and after three weeks of courage-building, putting it in her ass. Oh, it hurt back there; she had to give it five tries over three days, but when she finally got it in, the feeling was divine, and, fucking herself behind while rubbing herself in front, she masturbated to an orgasm like none she’d ever had.

She ordered more toys—butt plugs, vibrators, double dildos that could be inserted both fore and aft, Ben Wa balls. She started a journal of her adventures with them: Ben Wa and vibrator on clit, A081. Anal vibrator and deep finger-fuck, A063. Vibrator pussy and ass, AMAZING, A095. The numbers with A prefixed were the Amy Scale she had devised for rating orgasms, the first two digits indicating intensity on a scale of one to ten, and the third indicating type—1 being clitoral, 2 vaginal, and 4 G-spot; she could indicate combinations unambiguously by ANDing these numbers. A biology major accustomed to keeping meticulous lab notes, she was raising masturbation to a science.

Ever since Amy had observed, to her dismay, the form her adult self was assuming, she had eschewed the serious use of mirrors. This is unfortunate, for had she studied her face with any care, she might have noticed that she had one feature which, if not spectacular, really was quite good: her lips, which were full, succulent, and sensuously curved. You’d have to look twice or even three times to notice them, set as they were in such an unprepossessing face: since no one spent any time studying Amy’s face, they went unremarked.

This morning, however, someone did notice—a handsome, careless bon vivant, whose name Amy herself has since forgotten—let us call him John. He was enrolled in the same section of Anthropology 202 as Amy. This morning, a Friday, he was bored and grouchy, and that for a couple of reasons. The first was that he hated Friday morning classes. Like a great many undergraduates, he believed fervently that the weekend proper began at five o’clock on Thursday afternoon. But he needed this class, which satisfied a college requirement in an undemanding way, and he’d put off registering till the Tuesday-Thursday section was filled—so he was stuck. The second reason was that, although he had joined one of those fraternities that were supposed to guarantee brothers an active and varied sex life, he hadn’t seen any action in a good three weeks.

As the professor droned on about the gift-giving rituals of some savage group in New Guinea (or was it South America?) John scanned the room for pickup opportunities. Here was a smooth-faced blonde in a form-fitting sweater, and there a brunette with a cute upturned nose—but they were long shots. Besides, if he was to have any chance at all with girls like that, he’d have to work a lot harder than he was minded to do.

He’d just about exhausted all the possibilities and was starting to consider whether he could get away with checking out his Facebook page on his phone, when his eye, sweeping the room, paused briefly on Amy, industriously taking notes and seated halfway along a semicircle of seats, the endmost of which he occupied, so that he had an excellent view of her in quarter profile. With her limp hair, pasty face, frowsy clothing, and ugly glasses, she was ridiculously drab—completely out of the question.

And then, just a split second before John’s eye would have moved on, an event took place that would change Amy’s life. At a moment of intense concentration, as she was trying to condense the professor’s last three sentences into a form that she could write down before he proceeded to his next point, she bit her lower lip.

John’s eyes widened at the sight. In an instant, an image presented itself to his mind of his youthful member sliding between this drab girl’s pretty lips, and, just like that, his boredom dissipated. He opened his notebook, turned towards the front of the classroom, and started to pay attention to the lecture.

When the professor finally slapped his folder shut and started to pack up, John gathered his stuff and laid a course to intercept Amy on her way out of the room. He had pegged her as a Serious Student, and he had decided how to play her.

He managed to fall in beside her as if by chance, and as they were passing out of the classroom together, he said, "That lecture like really blew me away. Who’d have thought gifts had to be like repaid? Excuse me for just like talking to you, but that gift theory stuff really turned me on."

Accustomed to being invisible, Amy was startled at being noticed and spoken to, and it took her a couple of seconds to collect herself. But she managed to say, Yeah, it’s fascinating.

That was all the response John needed, for he was blessed with an easygoing manner and an open face that gave the impression that he was totally present and couldn’t imagine anything in the world he’d rather be doing than talking to the girl who was there with him at that moment.

And so it took him no time at all to steer the conversation around to the question, I was just on my way to like Starbucks. I’d really like it if you’d like join me.

And Amy, astounded to be asked by anyone to go anywhere at all, said, Sure.

At Starbucks, over lattes, John found it no trick at all to discover that he and Amy had astonishingly similar tastes in music, TV, and movies, and to work up to saying "I’ve really enjoyed talking to you. Do you think you’d like to, you know, go to dinner tonight?"

Sure, yeah, said Amy, pleased but not quite as astounded as she’d been at being invited to Starbucks—for she hadn’t, after all, spent the first twenty years of her life on Neptune.

Over dinner they discussed gift theory, a subject John found congenial, because he was, in truth, a firm believer in the principle that gifts had to be repaid. Indeed, he fully intended to invoke that principle this very night, after he’d picked up the check.

Amy was a quiet girl who found conversation difficult, but John was marvelously easy to talk to. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, and it continued to flow as they walked together after dinner. Without their having planned it at all, they found themselves standing together on the sidewalk in front of John’s fraternity house, and he said, "Look, Alpha Eta Pi isn’t one of those, like, dangerous fraternities you read about. If you want to come in, I’ve got some wine, and we can talk."

Smiling, for despite her lack of experience she was no fool, Amy said, Okay, and soon found herself alone with him in his room, sitting beside him on his bed and sipping some very nice white wine, the conversation drifting pleasantly in ever more personal directions, gaining intensity seemingly on its own, John leaning forward a bit more as they talked till his face was very close indeed to hers, and he said, with charming diffidence, Do you mind if I—

Not at all, she said, and he kissed those pretty lips.

This was, believe it or not, Amy’s first serious kiss—the first one that was more than a peck—and she liked it. She liked it a lot. This was a thing you couldn’t do with a dildo: you had to have a live person with you. Judging from John’s responses, she thought she might just have a talent for it too, and what with the sensory stimulation of his lips touching hers and his tongue in her mouth (not to mention hers in his) and the gratification of feeling that she was actually having an effect on him, she was getting very turned on.

And so when his hand brushed a breast, she breathed Yes into his mouth, and he became bolder and was soon kneading her breasts through her blouse.

And when he plucked at her buttons with nervous fingers, she whispered Oh, yes, please into his ear, and soon she was naked from the waist up, and he was nibbling her pink and perky nipples as she moaned with pleasure. And when, with a practiced motion, he unbuttoned the button of her jeans, she whined Yes, a long, drawn-out sigh of a syllable, and that emboldened him to put his hand into her pants and massage her pussy.

And when his middle finger slipped over her clitoris and into her slit, she cried, Oh, fuck, yeah! and pushed down her own jeans to give him better access.

He spent so long finger-fucking her that she decided he wasn’t going to go down on her the way she was sure James Deen would have done by now: she’d have to take matters into her own hands. She unfastened his belt and, getting to her knees by the side of his bed, wrenched down his pants and peeled off his underwear.

His cock, which had been uncomfortably confined in his pants for rather too long, sprang erect, and she said, Oh, yeah! at the sight of it. Not that it was such an impressive thing in itself—Shane Diesel and Rocco Siffredi had way better ones—but it was the first she’d ever seen in the flesh, and it was her toy tonight.

She closed her lips over the smooth pink head of it—incidentally making real for a dumbfounded and delighted John the vision he’d had earlier that day when he’d seen her bite her lip—and was transported. Oh, she had lovely dildos in various sizes and shapes, and she’d sucked them all; but none of them were flesh, none of them warm and covered with soft, smooth skin, none of them engorged with real blood pumped from a furiously beating heart, none of them leaking pre-cum from the tip. She savored the sensation of his skin slipping over the exquisitely sensitive surface of her lips—the head, the flared corona, the shaft. With her tongue she caressed the frenum (she had made an exacting study of the penis and could name all its parts) as the glans penetrated deeper into her.

Fuck, exclaimed John, who was used to having to talk girls into giving him blowjobs. As his cock slid between her lips as slowly and smoothly as a hydraulic piston, he wondered how far in she would take it. He had no idea that, due to long and enthusiastic practice with Lexington-Steele-sized dildos, his cock, of which he thought so highly, posed no challenge at all to her. Thus he watched with growing astonishment as more and more of him disappeared into her, till finally her lips grazed his pubic hair and he started to slide out again.

When the top of him reappeared, she said Yes to it with a hiss and began again. For a good ten minutes he watched as this dumpy nerd of a girl made love to his cock, massaging it with her lips on the upstroke and with her tonsils on the down. It was such a blowjob as he’d never dared to hope for, producing unbelievable sensations and raising his arousal to a pitch that he’d never experienced before. It all would have been perfect but for the nagging anxiety that this unappealing girl might prove difficult to get rid of once he was done with her.

He needn’t have worried, for he was, at this moment, nothing to Amy but a cock. But what a cock he was—producing far better sensations, as he slipped in and out of her throat, than the dildos she’d become so fond of! Surely the feel of this lovely cock in her pussy would be just as good. Abruptly she stood, shoved him onto his back, climbed onto the bed, straddling him, and sat down on him, marveling at the ease with which he slid into her sodden vagina.

Shit, yeah! she sighed as she settled onto him, amazed at how good a cock felt inside her. She rode him with a vigorous bouncing sliding motion, making sure her clitoris got lots of stimulation and paying little attention to the stupefied visage of the frat boy who was now pinned to the bed under her.

Yeah! yeah! yeah! she cried as he looked up at her round face, somehow transfigured by her passion into a state approaching prettiness, at her round, bouncing breasts with their lovely erect nipples, at her rounded belly, wide hips, and bushy snatch, which was doing impossible things to his nervous system. He was just sensing the approach of his orgasm, the moment around which he’d organized his whole day, when she emitted an ear-piercing screech and for what seemed the better part of a minute humped him with a wild abandon that he’d never witnessed in any of the sorority girls he was so proud of having poked here in his dingy frat house room.

It was a bit annoying, frankly, her riotous orgasm. It threw him off his rhythm, and he wilted while it was going on. Reflecting with dismay that it really was far better when a girl pretended to come, he felt himself slip out of her.

Amy climbed off him and assessed the situation. She was wet, but her experience of porn videos told her she wasn’t nearly wet enough. She touched herself: nothing was leaking out of her. She examined John’s cock: it wasn’t as slimy