‘’You’ve just missed the party, love! Shame you weren’t in the middle of it!’’ A breathless, anonymous man drenched in a layer of sweat quipped as he flooded out of the bisexual orgy room of the notorious Northwich Sauna in a column of other men, women, and transsexuals who moved like a worn-out, retreating army.
One woman who had just been in the thick of the action was jelly-legged and being carried by her strong-armed male lover. A soaking wet G-string still hanging disgracefully around her stocking-clad ankle while a solitary pleaser heel bounced helplessly alongside her naked foot, all with a perverse smile on her face.
I hadn’t missed anything. I’d seen 100 orgies before and had my slutty little brains fucked out in just as many. I know how it feels. A smorgasbord of cock, tits and cunt, random jets of sperm that can fly out of the darkness at any moment, the guttural moans of brutal anal from the woman next to you, taking what you want from men and pushing their spend bodies away before they try to make dull conversation, and rolling around in puddles of feminine ejaculate, some of which is yours, others isn’t.
”Almost every single one was full to the brim, meaning she had only spread her legs for the prime stock of the orgy and not for the incels or wallflowers.”
But, today, I simply wasn’t in the mood to be crammed amongst fifty bodies and battling for space and my next sexual adventure. No, today, I wanted to revel in the aftermath of this sexual battlefield. And, oh my, what an aftermath it was. Stepping into this dim room, painted in that “sexy dark” that landlords love because it hides stains. Mirrors on the walls for people to watch themselves fuck and be fucked. A gigantic vinyl play bed in the middle, dulled from endless wipe-downs and punched with holes from audaciously sharp high heels.
For the last four hours, this enormous room that revolved around the huge bed in the centre was pure carnage as four women had taken on a force of around fifty men in the kind of uninhibited sex that would make some pornstars blush.
How did I know? I hadn’t seen it, but I have a knack for reading the evidence of the sexual relics left behind. And, it wasn’t in the form of the married, mid-40s nymphomaniac straggler who was still spread out on the mattress in torn lingerie, gently writhing in the sexual aftermath with her thighs apart and sharing a deep kiss with her husband, who only interrupted the kiss to tell her how much he loved her and lovingly stroked her sex sweat drenched hair. Now, let me tell you precisely what I mean when I say sexual relics.
Table of Contents
The Scent of Sin
The first thing that hit me was the smell. No, this wasn’t some crude stench that normies would imagine from an orgy, but rather a layered scent that told a story in and of itself. Cheap lube blended with expensive perfume, the scent of latex condoms, and matching latex outfits slicing through that unmistakable smell of sperm. All of it complemented by a faint trace of incense fighting for authority, like someone had tried to bless the whole debauched event retroactively.
Aside from the exhausted swingers still sloppily kissing passionately amongst the mess, this orgy room had a hush that didn’t feel empty in the slightest. It felt packed with invisible witnesses; every surface was still vibrating with what had happened. Like, an orgy can leave behind silence the way machine gun fire leaves behind smoke.
The glide of sweat-drenched skin on skin. The lustful moans of women hungrily jumping from man to man and impaling themselves on the quivering fuck rods of guys whose names they don’t know, slathering spit onto their pussy as makeshift lube when the former struggled to keep up with the inhuman levels of sexual carnage. Pre-op transsexuals riding men in the cowgirl position, reenacting their favourite pornstars as their cock slaps loudly onto the stomach of the well-endowed stud pounding away beneath her. The loud gagging as random red-eyed lovers stuffed inches after inches of cock down their throats before hungrily sticking their spit-soaked tongues out and getting their faces painted with sperm.
I could hear it all, even though this perverse symphony had long come to a filthy crescendo.
The Sperm Angel
Unless you’re all too Gooned out of your mind on porn, I’m going to go ahead and assume you can remember what a fuckin’ snow angel is. The variant I witnessed in her, though, was far from conventional. On one corner of the enormous playbed was something that I can only define as snow angel art made from sheer sin.
It was the divine shape of the female form cutting a path for itself upon an almost intact, aside from the patches of sexual sweat, stretch across the easy-to-clean surface. Around it, forming a sordid border, were copious jets of sperm whose perverse trajectory vanished mid-flight, caught by her naked skin. She’d taken enough sperm to potentially change her ancestry test results.
I couldn’t help but wonder what the scene must have looked like as this anonymous woman lay back for a Bukkake show to remember. Roaring like a cum-addicted whore for men to empty the contents of their balls on her body, writhing in the sordid mess, and basking in the fact that she was now a sordid canvas for a perverse form of art. Little did she realise that the real canvas was what she was lying back on and would leave behind.
The Condom Alley
Few types of sexual shrapnel are as potent as that of the used condom. It’s blunt but sharp, crude, and in your face. There’s no denying what it is or what it was used for. Conventional sex that’s ‘’acceptable in the face of society?’’ Fuck that, my darlings. Those using a condom are doing so out of lust. They want to fuck, they want to cum, and they most certainly don’t want an unwanted surprise down the line in nine months’ time. When they’re done, it’s seen as a thing of shame and is cast aside as something neither side wants to deal with. Isn’t it wild how a cheap bit of latex can hold such raw sexual power?
That’s not all that’s wild. Do you wanna know how to spot the wildest whore at an orgy? The one who had every man in the room fighting amongst themselves for the chance to fuck her? She’s the one surrounded by a sea of used condoms in the same way a formidable dragon will be surrounded by mountains of gold.
There were condoms all over the fuck bed, sure. But I had an eye for this. One corner in particular was covered, and I mean covered, in them, albeit for the empty spot where her sprawled out body had been. Whoever was here had been the star of the show, spreading her legs and milking men left, right, and centre before spitting them out and goading whoever had the balls to enter her next to step up.
Almost every single one was full to the brim, meaning she had only spread her legs for the prime stock of the orgy and not for the incels or wallflowers. ‘’Oh, you can’t get it up, babe? Fuck off into the corner and jerk off or something, I need a real man!’’ I can almost hear her now.
‘’Anal-Only’’ Tape in a Puddle of Squirt
As the cheap disco lights bounced across the room, I watched it catch the shiny exterior of pussy pink tape with black writing over it. The colour was fitting because, moving closer, I saw it emblazoned with the text ‘’anal-only.’’ This had been slapped unceremoniously over a woman’s pussy who, for whatever reason, had no intention of conventional sex and demanded solely anal sex from all of the men around her.
That wasn’t all, either. The pussy tape was floating disgracefully in a pool of female ejaculate, telling me that this was a woman who could gush uncontrollably from the taboo aspect of anal and, judging from small mountain of discardable lube packets and condoms flanking said puddle like some kind of porn-grade security detail, it was a sight to behold and one that goaded a mob of horny men into her forbidden hole.
Oh, if that tape could talk, I thought. If a used condom was a symbol of unconventional sex where the aim was pleasure and sin over reproduction, then what the fuck did this represent? It had barred men from even attempting mundane, ordinary sex and was no doubt pounded by the swinging balls of everyone who was lucky enough to step up and fuck her in the ass just above.
The Lone Pleaser Heel
I knew exactly who this discarded pleaser belonged to from the moment I’d seen it. I’d initially spotted her being carried out of the aftermath of the orgy, jelly-legged from relentless orgasms and smirking like a woman who’d been thrown clit-first into the kind of ecstasy most women will never see. Pleaser heels aren’t cheap, my darlings. The fact that this smirking nympho had decided to leave hers behind is a testament to how her sordid pleasure took priority over material items.
Picking it up, the smell of her expensive perfume forced its way into my brain and made my knees weak. The hardy pleaser heel ankle strap that was built to withstand hours of grinding on stripper poles? It was bent out of shape and snapped. I’ve met men for sex while I was wearing the sluttiest heels I could find and have promptly found myself being fucked so hard that the momentum and overall sexual carnage take them off my feet mid-fuck hands-free. Yeah, I mean literally fucked out of my heels while wailing like a proud whore and beaming like a woman possessed.
If you’re gonna stroll into an orgy dressed as a whore, you’d better be prepared to be fucked like one. After all, that’s what we’re all here for, isn’t it? Judging from the perverse grin spreading across the blushed cheeks of the girl missing her pleaser heel without a care in the world, I’m going to go ahead and assume she was seeking precisely that.
Beyond Observation
If you thought I was only here to observe, you clearly don’t know me well enough by now. The sights, smells, and the ghosts of the sordid sounds of the orgy had sent thunderbolts to my clit. Like a magnet to steel, I found myself spreading myself out on the gigantic fuck mat of this perverse event and feeling the ocean of sexual fluids kiss my naked back as I did.
Emptying the used condoms onto my tits and smearing it in with one hand like human moisturiser, I reached down to my bubbling slit and slid finger after finger inside, only taking them out to grind my palm into my clit before I succumbed to orgasm. I released a gutteral moan as my painted toes crunched into the soles of my high heels, gushing forth jets of my juices all over the mat, adding my own contribution to this filthy spectacle.
As I lay there softly strumming myself to recovery, the sound of a bin bag rustled through the thick, sex-scented air. It was the all-seeing, but equally nonchalant, cleaner of this sex club coming to dump all of the sacred sexual detritus into a bag and discard it. Thus leaving the sleazy walls and the participants’ memories as the only witnesses to what had happened.
