I love group sex.


Threesomes, foursomes, five. Sticky, writhing orgies rivalling the ancient Greeks. And, of course, the crudely named gangbang. An ultimate experience for one lucky soul captured and caressed and thrown around by crashing seas of testosterone, sweat and primal hunger.


It's not that I dislike one-on-one. Not at all. Two people sharing an experience as intimate and stimulating and often mind-blowingly wonderful as sex is a great thing. Truly. And, lest we forget, the act of making love: arguably the most beautiful and fascinating aspect of humankind known to man.


But, there's something about a bunch of people coming together to strip off, open-up and allow the invigorating energy of connection to roll and surge like a tantalising tide.


The ebb and flow of sweet sensory exploration. The pulling currents of excitement. The crash of pleasure hormones like waves over the millions and millions of neurons making up the sparkling beaches of perception.


My motto: if you're not hurting anyone (against their will), and you're safe about it, then go for gold. Do whatever makes you happy.


At nineteen, however, my attitude was a different story altogether: a bleak, misguided tale inspired by something far from simple curiosity.


Back then, group sex wasn't beautiful or wonderful or a chance to connect with more than one person simultaneously. It was exciting, sure, but it was naughty and slutty. A seedy taboo to tick off my sexual bucket list: a bragging right to impress only myself.


A sordid fantasy twisted by pornography and fuelled deep in my subconscious by an incessant need for physicality.


To feel something. Anything.


Of course, I was far from knowing anything remotely close to clarity at the time. Standing, naked and rock hard in Richard's apartment, I didn't see the group of men in front of me as six people. Six humans with their own stories and lives and lessons to teach me. They were things.


Objects with muscles, not minds, and full balls for one purpose and one purpose only.


To treat me like a piece of meat.


I'd been with multiple guys before, with Harry at The Cellar, mainly. One or two extras, usually a friend of the top or a passer-by we'd found to take it in turns on us in a cubicle. A one each and then swap set-up. No names.


Sometimes no faces.


Once or twice I'd been spit-roasted. Felt the leg-shuddering friction of two men inside me from each end, pumping themselves in and out. Relished the submission that had taken over as my body became theirs. Longed for more.


More hands to hold me down. More cocks to force me open. More loads to swallow.


As my towel hit the floor of Daddy Dick's apartment and his friends stopped in their tracks, turning their ravenous eyes over my naked body like spotlights, it was finally happening.


A warped dream come true.


All of them were as I'd hoped. Handsome, strong and primed to tear my arse up. And, with a full prescription of PEP with my name on, I could take it further. I could let them fuck me bareback.


Hear their grunts and moans. Feel their convulsing bodies shoot load after load deep inside my arse, filling me fuller and fuller.


Truth is, in those few seconds, as five new minds made a first impression of Richard's new plaything, the reality that one of my dirtiest fantasies was about to come true hit me so hard I almost dribbled precum like a babbling brook all over the expensive rug beneath my feet.


I'm in heaven.


Taking a deep breath to compose myself, I surveyed the scene. They were stood and sat at the dining table running parallel to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that offered a near 180-degree view of the stretching city below. Like a Roman frieze, two were sat and four standing, all chiselled sublime.


At the far left, as I would later find out, was Steve.


Steve, maybe thirty-six or thirty-seven, was in blue jeans and a tight, turquoise t-shirt. At six-foot he was the same height and almost the same build as me apart from broader shoulders and bigger biceps: imagine the difference between a soccer player and a rugby player's arms. That was us.


He had simply styled, short brown hair above blue eyes and a smile so big, white and striking it would have looked comical on a less handsome man. But it suited him.


Next to him (again, names came later), was Jason, Richard's doctor friend, in a pair of dark green chino trousers and a white shirt undone at the top two buttons. Six-foot-one maybe two, he was closer to Richard's age (about forty), was slightly smaller but still broad and toned. His hair was short and brown and sat above his very handsome, defined face in dark, thick waves. Green eyes, big hands, olive skin.


Sat next to him, the youngest of the group at about thirty, was Nelson.


Nelson was shorter than the rest and myself, at about five-nine, but his arms were long and hairy and his body, including a fantastic bubble butt, was toned, tight and covered in the most perfect chocolate brown skin. His hair was thick and black, and his eyes were almost as dark.


From the bulge shaping the mound of blue denim between his legs, I was certain he would make up for his, shall I say, shortcoming, in a more fulfilling way.


Next to him, perched at the end of the table, was Richard, and to his right were Rob and Michael, one of those couples who look almost identical. Thankfully for me their look was mid-thirties, six-foot, muscles, tattoos and shaved heads, under midnight blue jeans and stylish tees.


`Hello gents,' I said.


Standing from his chair, Steve placed his glass of champagne on the spotless glass table top. It tinkled gently against the surface as he walked toward me; the others following suit but slower; Richard turning and pulling open a drawer in the kitchen.


Standing directly in front of me, the rest of the group now behind him in an ever-watchful semicircle, Steve smiled his wide smile and ran the backs of his fingers down my cheek. Then, turning his hand, his fingertips. Down my neck, over my chest and tracing my six-pack until he wrapped his whole hand around my hard cock; his breath warm and sweet; goose bumps blossoming up and down my body.


Squeezing me tight he said, `You weren't kidding, Dick. He's stunning.'


Grinning devilishly, I hung my head to let the waves of scintillation roll through me as his strong, warm grip pulled me off.


Jason came next, his shirt already unbuttoned and open to reveal a tanned, washboard stomach and strong, toned, hairy pecs between expensive white cotton. Standing to my side he slid his hand down my back, tracing the ridges of muscle all the way to my arse, before cupping my left cheek and squeezing.


`He's the best you've found,' Jason said, his green eyes searing into mine before slowly taking in the rest.


The other three staring and smiling. Watching my milky, teenage skin be stroked and explored. T-shirts coming off. Belts being undone. Jeans hitting the floor in heaps of leather, metal and denim.


Then Richard, finished rummaging in the kitchen drawers, reappeared among the undressing crowd. In his hand was a piece of light brown rope about half a metre long.


`I told you he was worth it,' Richard said, now standing in front of me between the watchers and the touchers.


Jason's index finger gently circling my hole. Steve now jerking himself as well as me.


`You certainly did,' said Michael, the more tattooed of the two skinheads with a full, intricate sleeve down each arm.


Rubbing one dinner-plate, inked hand over his denimed crotch, he put his other arm around his boyfriend's shoulders. Rob, already shirtless, pulled down his zip and took himself in his hand. Thick and uncut, he started to pull himself in rhythm with Steve's working hands.


Soon they were all naked. Naked and hard. Each man large and impressive and thick. Two cut, four uncut. Each slowly jacking themselves to full attention. Spit flying or glistening pre-cum being smeared back and forth to lubricate.


Twelve eyes savouring the sight in front of them.


`Turn around, boy,' Richard said.


I did as instructed.


`Hands together.'


Ten seconds later, he'd done what he'd promised. Tied my hands behind my back so tight I could barely wriggle; my biceps and triceps bulging; the lightest of light blue veins beginning to show under my creamy skin.


Grabbing my bindings, Richard pulled me to my knees. Hard but controlled: the soft rug cushioning my fall. Sleazy pleasure rippling as the realisation hit: no escape.


I watched them circle, my hands bound. Helpless. Soon I couldn't see the apartment. All there was was a three-sixty wall of muscle and hair and flesh in cream, tan and brown. Low moans and soft grunts mingling with the heavy, salty scent of six crotches inches from my face.


`Open wide,' Richard said.


I did. He stepped forward. Steve wrapped his hand around my neck, pushing my head until Daddy Dick slotted between my lips. His thick, purple cock head jamming against the back of my mouth.


Then it began. Stage one: stretch my throat.


They took it in turns. First Richard, the biggest of the bunch. Slow and controlled. Sliding in and out of my mouth so he could cover himself with enough spit as possible.


Adequately greased, he started to test me. Push my boundaries. He knew, from our first date, that I had it in me. That I could take a pummelling. And I knew, by the look in his eyes, that he wasn't going to hold back.


He didn't.


Both hands around my head. Legs either side of my shoulders. One ruthless thrust and pull until the walls of my throat gave and his warm, defined abdomen met my face, squashing my nose and filling my nostrils with pubes. His cock slotting between my sternum like it was meant to be there.


Then repeat.


Each time he would hold me against him for longer and each time the boys would cheer him on or watch with awe as my throat expanded, one of them wrapping their fingers around the new bulge behind my Adam's apple. Then they'd whoop or groan with pleasure as my gag reflex kicked in and my body jolted and convulsed, still wedged in place.


`Fucking whore,' a voice would say as my head span and my cock pulsed with each degrading syllable.


Now and then he would pull out to let me breathe. Letting go of the back of my head or whatever clump of hair he'd been using to hold me in place, he would slap me. Fast and hard as a hot ball of spit would be sent into my gaping mouth to accompany the oxygen refilling my lungs.


Fifteen minutes in, my jaw began to ache, but Richard hadn't finished. He was setting the bar high. Showing his friends just how much of a cock-hungry slut I was.


Letting my eyes roll to the back of my head, I pushed past the ache. Tapped into my inner debased bitch and tried not to blow all over myself as rivers of spit gushed down my chest and over my glistening six-pack as his thrusts and pumps grew faster and deeper and more ruthless.


The whole time Steve and Jason patiently waited their turn, watching and helping. Their cocks resting on my shoulder or slapping my face. The others watching.


Nelson on the sofa, legs wide and hairy. Michael sat on the arm with Rob in his, both watching me as they smoothed each other's skin and muscles. Whispering into each other's ears.


Eventually Richard pulled out. Looked down at me gasping for breath and then slid three fingers into my mouth until my teeth pushed against his top knuckles.

`Still tight,' he said, slowly twisting his fingers. `We can do better.'


Pulling out, Richard reached down and guided in the next in line. Steve. Thick, cut and veined. Maybe eight inches. Enough to make me gag up a fresh layer of foam after less than a minute.


Then Jason. Then Nelson. Then Rob. Then Michael, harder and faster than the rest, no doubt making up for lost time.


`Take him to the sofa,' Michael said.


Smirking, Nelson, squatted behind me and placed two large, strong hands under my armpits, lifting me to my feet. Grasping a clump of my hair, Michael then yanked me toward the sofa. Threw me down, flipped me onto my back and hung my head over the side.


`Fuck yeah,' he said as my view of the ceiling became a hairy, defined, inked stomach.


`Take a deep breath,' Rob whispered in my ear, one hand around my throat, the other around himself


I did as I was told.


Then, one after the other they fucked my mouth like it was my hole. Fast and deep and devastating. One of them thrusting, the others holding me down, sucking me off, fingering my arse or simply watching and jerking.


Soon my neck ached as much as my throat, but no matter how much churned up spit tendrilled down my face before falling to the floor, they kept on coming.


Not that the pain mattered. My mind was being bombarded from all angles. Blissful heat as a hot mouth worked my shaft. Burning pleasure as one, two or three fingers drove inside my arse. All while my throat stretched wider and wider than I'd ever thought possible.


Use me.


It wasn't until my gag reflex kicked in so hard my legs jolted me into a crab, wriggling my body out of the way, did I get a chance to rest.


A towel. Soft and generously threaded was wiping my face. It was Richard.


`Such a good boy,' he said, cleaning me.


`Thank you, Daddy,' I managed to say, my voice almost gone.


Slap. A backhand across the face. Harder than ever but still not enough to make me bleed.


`Don't speak,' he said.


I nodded as the burning prickle of his strike danced over my cheek, but before I could register anything more, I was being yanked by three sets of hands. Pulled off the sofa and onto the floor.


`Get him on his stomach,' said Richard. `I want his hole.'


Turning me around, Rob and Nelson pushed me to the ground. Face down arse up.


`Nice,' said Steve, taking a seat in front of me on the floor and slapping his cock against my forehead with a fleshy double thud before sliding himself back inside my mouth.


`I'll hold his legs,' I heard Nelson say; my vision obscured by the hot, darkness of Steve's crotch.


`You going in raw?' I heard Jason say; the room blurring as Steve held me by the ears and began to yank my head back and forth; my legs being forced apart; two wet fingers driving inside my hole.


`We all are.'


Want more?


The first in my Australian series of erotic tales, Oscar Down Under: Part One, is out now. Find it on Amazon US here, Amazon UK here and Amazon Australia here. Or simply search for `Jack Ladd' on the Amazon homepage. Also available on iBooks, Barnes & Noble and more.


Want a FREE book? Download my prequel novel, Oscar, for absolutely nothing here.


Or head over to my website to learn more, including exclusive content on my series, Oscar Down Under.


Copyright Jack Ladd 2018


Please, please, please consider donating to Nifty. As a volunteer-run organisation, every penny/cent helps!