I am a woman of my word. So when I promise myself that I’ll fuck a different man every day for three months or that I’ll tell you how I managed to meet my challenge at the last minute, I always mean it.
Unsurprisingly fucking different people every single day for three months is tiring (a month is probably more manageable FYI) and to a certain extent the men and the sex started to blur together a bit.
A few stood out but I mainly remember how I met them not what happened when we fucked. So I was slowing down a little bit by the last day but at the same time determined not to have got that far to fall at the last hurdle. I wanted to literally go out with a bang.
Back in those days I was quite the club kid and London was full of small obscure nights usually under railway arches or in industrial estates at the end of bus routes. I came of age in the Nineties and eschewed glamour on nights. Give me a room above a pub or a sticky floored dive bar or a club where the sweat drips off the roof. The drinks were cheaper, the music was better and the men tended to be the rough and ready kind I like.
So after a long Saturday at work daydreaming of dick and also a day to myself after this was all over, I waited til my flatmates had gone out and went home to get ready. I had a particular club in mind in the dim and distant arches beyond London Bridge and I wanted to go alone and without attention from anyone I knew.
The fashions of the Nineties had blended seamlessly into the wide leg low slung trousers of the Noughties and in those days hipster referred more to how low you could hang them on your hips than anything else. I had a particular pair of dark denim jeans that sat just low enough to stay up without a belt but while making people wonder about underwear.
I wore them everywhere and on this occasion I I knew I didn’t need knickers, teaming them with only a bikini top and a light zip up Adidas top to keep me decent until I was in the club. The club played achingly cool British hip hop that suggests more than just the cut of my jeans was hipster after all and not many girls went there willingly, mainly accompanying their boyfriends in a slightly territorial fashion.
I knew that from the look of the guy on the door I’d have no difficulty going in or out if I said I needed some fresh air. In fact he was my back up plan, but it didn’t take long to attract the same attention at the bar being clearly by myself and barely wearing any clothes. I ordered a drink and a guy immediately squeezed in beside me to pay for it.
I thanked him by agreeing to drink it with him and just as we got chatting his two friends joined us from the dance floor. Being in a mood to flirt I was immediately intrigued to play them off against each other and make them compete for my attention. I love how often men are much more comfortable with ‘pulling’ in groups and will embrace it so that at least one of them gets laid.
And these three clearly fancied themselves some kind of Muskateers because they definitely accepted the attention I gave them and worked as a team in return, encouraging each other. I can’t remember which of them suggested the Ecstasy but I’m sure it was the tallest, cockiest one who’d bought me the drink. It worked quicker than I expected taking casual flirting into dancing close up, touching each other more and that sexual intimacy that says fucking is a certainty.
A few hours in and I was glad I’d worn so few clothes. The place was so hot and sweaty I really did need to step outside to stop myself overheating. I excused myself to the tallest guy and walked away. He followed me at a few paces and asked if I was alright going outside alone. I told him to follow me out but only once he’d told his friends where we’d be.
Railway arches provide all kinds of shadows to lean into especially in those darkened laneways and I’d barely stepped into the shade of one when the tallest guy brushed up beside me. I leaned into him and we kissed before he pushed me back against the wall and brushed his hand down my exposed stomach toward my low slung waistband until my cunt clenched in pleasure as he unbuttoned my jeans.
By the time his slightly giggling, clearly horny friends found us after searching the archways, I was bent forward against the wall, ass in the air with him inside me while his hands pinched my nipples. I don’t know if it was the drugs or flirting from earlier but there was none of the awkwardness women would have if they saw a friend fucking.
Men are also more comfortable being overtly sexual in front of each other and if there’s anything I love more than watching a man masturbate, it’s watching men masturbate together. With my back to the other two I couldn’t see it but I could hear it. The buzz of a zip, those tiny throaty noises, the sound of skin on skin and the subtle change in pace until all three were in unison with each other as one fucked me and the other two watched him.
These were the only sounds until the tallest one spoke to ask if I wanted more. I wasn’t sure if he meant fucking me harder but when I said yes, he told the stockier darker guy to step forward and for me to ask him to fuck me. I didn’t just ask but I gave him the condoms I’d come prepared with too.
He was much heavier and bent me over less, fucking me in a rhythmic shallow way that slapped his hips against my bare ass as he reached round and smacked my clit until I came. All the while I was completely aware of the audience behind me and it was so ridiculously filthy it made me as euphoric as the Ecstasy itself.
I asked for more, knowing that the third guy would step up. Skinny and sandy haired, he looked like a naughty schoolboy except for the impressively hard cock he had in his hand. Again we exchanged condoms before he fucked me, pulling me back against his slender cock and pressing my ass against his balls as his friends watched.
It’s hard to keep track when you’re getting the sights, sounds and feels of three cocks but it was only when the skinny guy pulled out of my soaking wet cunt and bent me further forward with his hand on the back of my neck that I realised none of the three men had come.
They needed no reminder, stepping forward and leaning over me cocks in hand, condoms long gone and all three of them came over my lower back. I had no idea whose orgasm was whose, but each sound varied from a closed mouthed gasp to almost a bark as he slapped my ass and long silent groan of breath.
Their come seemed to start together but carry on in variation so I had no idea who was doing what. I was still bent forward, a hand on the back of my neck in that place that makes me ripple with pleasure and my own hand on my clit bringing myself to orgasm as three men’s come dripped down my back, ass and the top of my thighs.
I felt them step back and the moment was over. I pulled my jeans back up aware that without my jacket the come on my back was a visible brand of my sluttery. Each of them kissed me in that oddly platonic way way polite boys do when they want to thank someone for having them and urged me to come back and dance with them and see where else the night went.
There was no awkwardness or judgement of me for fucking them all but I was suddenly exhausted and all I wanted was my bed, completely alone and not touching anyone. I declined their invitation to keep dancing and they took the opportunity to leave with me and look for food instead.
We walked back to London Bridge, telling me their names and chatting like old friends do. I was acutely aware that my silence looked like I was regretting the whole thing but I was just fucked out in ways they couldn’t imagine. I kissed them all again and hailed a black cab before they suggest anything more.
I couldn’t utter more words than my address to the cab driver and crawled straight into bed, falling asleep covered in sweat and come only to dream that all the men I’d fucked over those months were stroking their cocks for me. My subconscious is an even bigger slut than the rest of me clearly….