My Cup Overfloweth

It was the day of the America's Cup Parade. Four hundred thousand people - almost half the population of the city - had gathered on the streets of Auckland to cheer the victorious crew of the Black Magic boats and share the party atmosphere on a warm sunny day. We were all tremendously excited, as our company had been involved in a very small way in helping get some of the smaller sponsors on board early on, so like the other 3.8 million kiwis we really felt we'd had a part in Black Magic's success.

We're pretty good at knowing how to have a good time in our office. The directors had organised a champagne brunch before the parade. It started early, the champagne flowed freely, we watched the video's of the races, and eventually we all strolled down to Queen Street for the parade.

If you were there you'll know what a great atmosphere it was. A bright sunny day, hundreds of thousands of people all in a good mood, and something enormous to celebrate. Even without the champagne I would have been on a high.

A few of us had taken a little collapsible bench from the stores to stand on. We set it up at the back of the crowd and found that, although it only gave us a foot or so extra height, at least we could see over the heads of the tall guys in front of us. Other people later came in behind us but they didn't seem to mind, so we had a reasonable view.

The excitement was building up well before the parade started. Someone had brought down the rest of the champagne from the office, so we went on celebrating in the midst of all the other happy people. It was a great crowd and a tremendously fun atmosphere, and we attracted a few cheery insults about the champagne set in the grandstand, which we returned.

I'd forgotten it was red socks day that morning (lucky red socks had become the motif for the campaign), and had dressed more normally in a little red jacket I'm rather fond of and a short black pleated skirt. It was a nice cool outfit for a warm day.

The first vehicles came into sight and we all cheered. Our little bench was holding rather more people than it should, and the combination of that and the champagne caused us to sway a little bit in the crowd. I almost fell off at one point, and I was glad when a firm hand caught my hip and steadied me from behind.

The hand didn't let go immediately, but slid down the side of my bottom and over the top of my thigh a bit before it was removed, and I thought someone was being a bit cheeky. I glanced behind me but there were so many people there it was hard to tell who had caught me - none of them was looking at me - so I smiled and turned back.

The parade was nearly with us now and my attention turned to the front again. There was the crowd pressure all around and I had been laughing with my friends for quite some time before I realised that a hand was gently pressed against my calf. It could have been an accident, but when the hand started stroking me gently I knew it wasn't. In the crowd I couldn't even look down and see the fingers which were brushing against my skin, let alone who was doing it, but the sensation was not unpleasant and I didn't want to cause a fuss.

There was now a gentle stroking on the outside of both of my legs, perfectly in time, and I knew whoever it was must be right behind me. I accepted a top-up of my glass from Wendy, and as I cheered the first of the cars bearing Team New Zealand I waited to see what would happen next. 'I wonder how far he'll dare to go?' I asked myself.

Having skirted my knees the hands were now low upon my thighs, moving in little circles, almost massaging me, apparently motionless but creeping upwards a fraction with each rotation. 'He'll have to stop soon or I shall say something,' I thought.

I wobbled on the bench again as somebody pushed one end and again the strong hands held me. When I was steady again though I realised he'd taken advantage of the move to firm his hold upon just my left leg. There were now hands on both sides, with the fingers of his right hand moving inexorably up towards my inner thigh. In the crush I was sure no-one could see anything, but I was totally shocked by this blatant groping I was receiving. I pressed my legs together and trapped the hand. He appeared to take the hint for he stopped where he was and just went on stroking away with his free hand.

The parade went on and I returned my attention to it, which was probably a mistake. Some of the crew were in the cars now and we were all waving and shouting and cheering, and I forgot to keep the hand trapped as I went up on tip-toes to see our heroes. The hand rose with my leg, but when I came down again it stayed up there. It had made an extra couple of inches or so, and it was now on the incredibly soft and sensitive part of my upper thigh. I love being touched there and I endured the sensation for a whole second or so before I clamped my legs shut again.

My mind was now much more on my unknown molester than on the parade. Here, in the midst of several hundred thousand people, some man had the nerve to be groping me in the most blatant fashion. The crowd was pressed tight around us and his actions were, I hoped, invisible to everyone else. In my slightly raised position on the bench he could have his hand right up my skirt without anyone knowing - as, in fact, he did. But I knew and he knew, and the situation created an amazing intimacy among the vast throng that I found almost irresistible.

I swear I didn't do it consciously but I must have opened my legs slightly for I found the hand stroking me again in that sensitive area, and this time I didn't stop it. Soon I couldn't, for the fingers were up in the spot where my thighs part, and I was biting my lower lip to hide my excitement. Now I was hoping he would go all the way, barely conscious of the noise and the crowd in front of me, the streamers and the hoots and shouts as I found myself being secretly stroked through my panties by a firm straight finger.

He kept the pressure up, the teasing stroking, until I was totally wet for him and he knew it. I could feel my excitement oozing from me into the flimsy material and he crooked a knuckle so he could better stimulate my opening. I couldn't take much more of this, but even so I was enormously disappointed when the finger left me, leaving me feeling suddenly empty and cold.

I needn't have worried, though, for both hands quickly re-asserted themselves, sliding up the outside of my thighs and hooking themselves over the elastic of my underwear. They started to pull, smoothly, and I thought 'This man is going to remove my underwear in broad daylight! And, oh God, I want him to!' and I wriggled slightly to make it easy for him and stepped out of my panties when I felt them around my ankles. There was still not the slightest sign from anyone else in the crowd that they had noticed anything, and I couldn't wait for his fingers to touch my opening lips for the first time.

The juices were now trickling out of me and I moved my feet to allow him easy access, his finger curving beneath me to touch my throbbing clitoris and his thumb sliding smoothly inside me. I hid my cry in a cheer as we got our first glimpse in the distance of the golden cup itself, but my focus now was totally between my legs as the unknown stranger manipulated my tender pussy.

Suddenly I knew I had to have it all. Being finger-fucked was bliss, but how about the whole thing, experiencing total sex in the middle of this crowd. Could we do it? I had to try - my wild self wanted to be let loose.

I closed my legs, crossing them slightly to do so, then quickly stepped down and back off the bench before he could remove his hand entirely. It must have hurt him a bit but I hoped he would think it was worth it, because I immediately opened up to him again to re-assure him he was still welcome. My friends were so wrapped up in the spectacle in front of them they didn't seem to notice my disappearance, and the space on the bench soon filled as they spilled out sideways. I was now at his level, surrounded by people and in among the crush. No-one would notice two more bodies pressed together in this lot.

I felt behind me and made instant contact with a very firm piece of material. I stroked it as best I could but I couldn't get at the zip. There was a moment's hesitation then a hand pushed mine away. A little fumbling and I was rewarded with the feel of a hot hard piece of flesh against my hand. I felt it experimentally. It was one of those long thin cocks with a distinct curve, and I thanked my lucky stars. I bent forward just a little and the cock fumbled its way between my thighs and towards my waiting pussy. I reached down with my right hand and guided the tip the last few millimetres, over my wet flesh, between my lips and at last into the aching cavern of my vagina.

I can't tell you how good it felt to have it inside me. Our position was a bit awkward and there were perhaps only three inches in there, but as he started to move I felt an enormous exhilaration. I was being fucked by someone I couldn't even see in the most public place in New Zealand, and nobody knew but the two of us. He was moving with very deliberate strokes, containing his own excitement and trying not to draw attention to us, but he was clearly enjoying it as much as I was. I could feel hot breath on my neck and I would have loved him to be holding me but that would have been too obvious. He couldn't penetrate me all the way so he made up for it by pulling his fat tip almost all the way out of me then splitting me again as he slid it smoothly back in, and as he did so my own hand was on my clit, working it with my knuckle in time to his strokes.

Somewhere on Queen Street the America's Cup trophy itself was going past us now, the shouting from all around covering my desperate breathing as I pushed towards the orgasm I wanted, then it all happened at once. I saw Peter Blake's arm raised, a flash of silver, then a great surge from behind as my body was flooded with cum, the release triggering my own climax. I shuddered as the penis within me jerked and spurted again and again, each spasm matched with a quivering response of my own, muscles clamping and relaxing around the living flesh inside me as I came and he came and we came and came and came together. I howled with the relief and excitement of it all and the howl went unnoticed in the general hysteria, so only he and I knew our celebration was of a private and intimate act of passion.

His cock was still within me and I held it there, reaching between my legs to stroke it with my hand in a gesture of thanks for the incredible pleasure, then I felt it gently withdraw, causing me to quiver again as that bulging tip passed between my lips for the last time. A short fumbling then his hand was back, holding this time a large handkerchief with which he proceed to mop up the amazing quantity of cum and juice from within me. I forced as much as I could out as he held it there, then I gently pushed it away as the last of the vehicles passed and the crowd started to move.

My colleagues turned then and noticed I was no longer on the bench.

'What happened, Sally? You missed everything. You look a bit flushed - are you OK?'

What to say? 'Sorry, girls, I've just had one of the most amazing fucks of my life and you and four hundred thousand other people didn't notice.'? I don't think so. I made a feeble excuse about the heat and pressure getting to me, and they were very concerned.

I had to know, though. I turned to look behind me to see who the man was who had just shared himself with me so generously, but it was too late. The crowd was dispersing and there was nobody behind me in the position my delightful assailant must have been in, and nobody who looked a likely candidate close by, either. I wasn't going to know. I had had a truly anonymous fuck. I could tell nobody and nobody would believe me anyway, but I knew I had just experienced my ultimate fantasy. I felt the juices still within me and I knew I hadn't been dreaming. A smile crept on to my face.

My friends slipped an arm under each of mine and supported me as we walked back towards the office. 'Can't have you fainting,' they said, unaware that I was really in a post-coital trance. 'You're managing to smile, though - that's a good sign.'

There was a photo appeared on the back page of the New Zealand Herald the next day, along with a whole load of colour shots of the parade. Peter Blake is waving to the crowd, arms held high, and in the background is a group of girls standing a little higher than the rest of the crowd. And to the left of them is a girl with her head thrown back, mouth open, looking like one of those pictures you see of teenagers mobbing the Beatles in the early sixties.

That girl is me, experiencing the sudden joy of simultaneous orgasm with a total stranger, gasping as his seed pours into her pulsating pussy. But of him, you can see nothing.

Whoever you are, thank you.