A Happy Bunch Ch 01

Tags: bisexual male, mmf, spit play, piss play, anal, rough sex, squirting

Author's Note:

All characters in this story are 18 or older. A Happy Bunch is an explicit, emotionally intense tale featuring adult themes including

bisexual male-male

sex, group sex (MMF), piss play, spit play, power dynamics, and raw, uninhibited eroticism.

This story explores pleasure, connection, and the complexity of polyamorous relationships through scenes of graphic sexuality, deep intimacy, and emotional surrender. Reader discretion is advised.

A Happy Bunch is a revised version of my own previously published story, A Happy Throuple.

1

Breaking up is never easy, but sometimes it's inevitable--and absolutely necessary. I wasn't happy when Brit and I ended things, but I think we were both relieved. Our relationship had run its course. We were still young, and maybe we'd each go find what we were really looking for. In her case, maybe that was a mature guy, someone who wanted to settle down, start a family--then probably divorce a couple of years later.

Me? I was young. Nineteen. Inexperienced, full of wild fantasies--hot, dirty, sweaty sex. I wasn't looking for someone to boss me around or nag me into monogamy. I just wanted to live my fantasies before I got too old or too tied down.

Sex with Brit had been nice at first. But pretty early on, she let it slip that she wasn't into trying new things. Not into anything "unusual." Meanwhile, I was--and still am--a bit of a freak. Always open to exploring. Always curious. I like pushing boundaries and widening already wide horizons.

Brit was my first. We had sex just a few days after my eighteenth birthday. Only one month later I moved in with her. I fell in love, sure--but I quickly realized that she'd never give me a blowjob or a handjob, and she sure as hell would never rim me, finger me, or peg me with a strap-on.

Yep. That was the sort of stuff I was into. I'll explain more later. But back then, I already knew our compatibility--both romantic and sexual--was off. And when she started complaining that I took "too long" to climax, even when I was only two minutes in? Yeah. That hit hard.

She'd say things like:

"Are you done yet?"

That one sentence shattered my confidence. Four simple words that made me feel inadequate, incompetent... impotent.

Brit was ten years older than me. Already been married. Already divorced. Her ex-husband had been emotionally abusive and cheated on her with one of her best friends. Looking back, I realize I was the rebound. And if I'm being honest, she was too young for me. Because the truth is... I like older women. And older men. Always have. Always will.

My obsession with MILFs and FILFs probably comes from growing up without affection. Even as a kid, I had crushes on my teachers--both male and female. And that's how I met Brit. She was my English teacher my last year of high school.

I admit it--I'm a little messed up. But Brit? She was messed up too--in a bitter, angry way. She needed someone older, someone just as jaded. Someone who matched her energy. Preferably a bitter, prematurely ejaculating cynic.

Okay, I'm being mean now. The truth is: Brit was a good woman. Just not the right one for me.

So why was I with her? Easy. She was crazy. And hot. And crazy hot drama? That's the best kind. You know what I mean? Some of you definitely know what I mean.

Close your eyes. Picture the hottest Nordic blonde you can imagine. Did you do it? Good. Now, Brit is that girl's much hotter older sister.

The night we broke up, I was fingering her while whispering one of my impromptu erotic bedtime stories into her ear. She loved those. Always creamed all over my fingers when I told them. Most of the stories involved a big black guy with a huge dick, and a hot blonde with big tits fucking her in a threesome.

Sometimes it was a full-blown orgy--sweaty, rough, and raw. But even in my own fantasies, Brit never let me participate. I was just there, watching, while she got railed.

"You're such a good storyteller," she used to say, breathless and soaked. "I can feel that big black dick fucking me. Please, make him fuck me harder..."

That night, I held her tight, whispering about how this godlike black stud was pounding her pussy. One arm wrapped around her, my fingers working her hard, my thumb on her clit. I even grabbed a big black rubber dildo from the bedside table and slapped her cheek gently before sliding it into her.

She moaned and writhed, lost in the scene I painted with words and touch.

And then she said something new:

"Is one of them Ellie?"

That caught me off guard. It was the first time she'd brought a real person into our stories. Ellie--her best friend. Exotic. Devastatingly hot. Of course she deserved a place in our fantasies.

"Yes," I whispered. "She's sucking your nipple right now. Do you like that?"

"Oh, fuck yes..."

Brit came hard.

Afterward, as she caught her breath, she surprised me. She said she wouldn't mind trying it for real--being with a black guy and another girl, with me watching.

Turned on, I said I'd love that. But then I added that I also wanted to join in--with the guy. That I wanted to touch his dick, maybe even get fucked by him right in front of her.

She exploded.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Nope."

"You like dicks?"

"Yep."

"Not funny."

"I'm serious."

She lost it. Called me names. Flung the dildo at me--hard. Told me it was over.

Looking back, I don't blame her. I probably should've had the talk earlier. You know, the whole "sometimes a bird wants to do it with a bird instead of a bee" kind of thing. Not that that makes any sense. It's hard enough explaining sex to a child, let alone to a furious woman wielding a dildo like a weapon.

"You probably bought this for yourself!" she screamed, swinging it at my face again.

"I--I bought it for both of us..." I mumbled.

Rubber dildos really hurt when thrown with the rage of a betrayed blonde. And yeah--if she'd known how many times I'd jerked off with that thing inside me while she was out partying... she really would've exploded.

"Oh my god, you're gay!" she barked when she finally calmed down. "I should've seen it! The signs! You're a pretty boy, you dress well, keep in shape, clean everything obsessively, and--you love eating pussy!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Eating pussy makes me gay now?"

"You're too caring!" she went on. "You have to make me come every damn time. And you're good at it. Only a girl--or maybe a sissy--loves eating pussy that much!"

I tried to stay calm. "Didn't you just say you wanted to sleep with another girl? And that you had a thing for Ellie? Doesn't that make you gay?"

"I've done it with another girl!" she snapped. "Right after my divorce. With Ellie. And you eat pussy better than she does!"

'Wait. Ellie?

Holy. Shit.

Brit and Ellie?'

I was stunned. Turned on. A little flattered. And then mad--mostly at myself for being the rebound idiot. But I didn't blow up. I didn't scream. Because by then, I knew--it was already over.

"So," I finally said, clearing my throat. "You're actually bisexual... but you're pissed at me because I think I might be bisexual?"

"Girls are different," she said, lips pouting, eyes narrowing like a spoiled little girl throwing her last tantrum. "You are gay!"

"If I'm gay," I said with a grin, "then you must be a lesbian!"

"No!" she snapped. "Girls are different!"

"Different how?"

"They just are!" she huffed. "I mean... you... you like sucking cock? Taking a guy's dick up your ass?"

"I've never done it," I replied. "But the thought of it really turns me on. I know, and you know, that I love having sex with women--but yeah, I also really want to be with a guy at some point. I want to try it. Sooner rather than later."

"You're just a fucking pretty, sissy... kid," Brit said, voice cracking as she lost her cool again. "My friends, my mom, they all said I was crazy for being with you. Ten years younger. Fuck. They were right."

Of course they were right. What kind of sane woman starts an affair with her eighteen-year-old student and moves him in after just a month?

"What does being younger have to do with me liking men?" I asked, already knowing I wouldn't get a real answer. Brit just scoffed and looked away.

"Suit yourself," I said bitterly. "Go find yourself a straight dude who doesn't give a fuck about you. Or better yet, go fuck Ellie again and pretend that's not lesbian sex!"

"So you confess you're gay?" she asked, slumping down in a chair.

"I'm not gay," I said. "But I'm not straight either. Or maybe I'm both. I want to have sex with men and women--preferably at the same time. That's what I think about when we're having vanilla sex in the dark."

"Wow!" she sneered, with a self-righteous smirk. "Not gonna happen. Not with me. Not in this town. You should move to some gay city or join one of those filthy dating sites to find a girl and a guy to fuck you at the same time."

Honestly? That was the best damn advice anyone had ever given me.

I didn't want to move to a "gay city." What even is a gay city? San Francisco? Sydney? Sodom?

But she was right about one thing: our small town wasn't exactly a hub for bisexual self-discovery. No gay-friendly bars. No swinger clubs. No poly community where I could be open, real, and seen.

Online? That was the move. The realistic option. A path I could start on without needing a plane ticket or a time machine.

It was right there--in the middle of our final argument, when I said it out loud, when I owned my truth--that I realized what I needed to do. No father to guide me. No mother who cared. But Brit--Brit, of all people--had pointed me toward something I never knew I could claim: freedom.

She wasn't a bad person. Just the wrong one for me.

And she knew it, too.

That made the breakup easier.

About an hour after our final fight, I packed my suitcase. I hugged her, kissed her cheek, and left.

And you know what? If you're bi, ambi, poly, metro, pan--or just someone who knows they love pussy and cock like I do--be honest with yourself. Don't worry about the labels or the noise. If someone calls you a sinner or a freak, know that you're not alone.

People struggle to understand us because they don't know where to file us. And that's not our problem.

Right--if you're reading this again, you have my full permission to skip over these preachy, thinky parts. But I needed to say it.

Now, where were we?

Ah, yes. I knew I couldn't change Brit's mind. Couldn't change anyone's mind who doesn't want to open it.

So I walked away.

I left Brit behind. I left the guilt. I left the shame. And I remember the sound the door made when she slammed it shut behind me.

It was the sound of hope.

I was finally free.

2

I moved out of Brit's place and found a small flat near the sawmill where I had been working for almost a year. When still in highschool, I'd already left my mother's house and lived on my own with a bit of help from my grandfather. I worked part-time while I finished high school.

People couldn't believe I lived independently, let alone did physical labor for a living. I never made a fuss about it. I guess I didn't look the part--too soft, too pretty, too clean to be lifting logs and chopping wood. But I loved it. The sweat, the rhythm, the ache in my arms after a long day--it made me feel strong. Real.

I worked out in the gym to carve out some lines on my lean body, ran a few kilometers every morning, and swam laps at the local pool as often as I could. I liked how that made me feel--grounded, focused, real. Not just some twink with big eyes and soft lips.

Brit, and eventually most people I slept with, called me pretty. Never handsome. Probably because I've always been small-framed with a baby face, pale blue eyes, and golden hair so light it practically glows in the sun.

I speak softly. I try to be polite. I tend to listen more than I talk. Not because I'm trying to be charming--it's just how I survived growing up in chaos.

There were no warm family dinners or bedtime stories in my house. My parents were constantly at war, slamming doors, breaking bottles, screaming like animals. Cops came often. Neighbors stared. I learned early on that love didn't always look like love--and silence, books, and tools were safer than people.

When my dad finally bailed, my mom spiraled. Booze. Random guys. Then she settled on a total piece of shit who made everything worse. Fights. Bruises. Screaming matches at 2 a.m.

So yeah, that's my origin story. Not tragic enough for a Netflix doc, but fucked up enough that I should probably be in therapy.

Instead, I found my peace in building things. Fixing things. Giving objects the kind of care I never got. By sixteen, I was making decent money doing odd jobs--repairing furniture, assembling baby cribs, restoring old radios. I even made a few dollhouses that people paid good money for. Hands steady, eyes sharp, always focused.

One of my lovers once laughed and called me a "dynamic genius fucktoy." I mean--rude? Accurate? Maybe both. I took it as a compliment.

Anyway, I know I'm rambling. You probably didn't come here to read about trauma and toolboxes. You want the sex. The moaning. The wet, raw, unfiltered heat. You want to know how I got from fixing lawnmowers to getting spit-roasted by a hot couple and their friends.

Too much too soon? Dragging on with too little? Bear with me.

I promise, if you keep reading, you'll be rewarded. You'll get your filthy little payoff. And who knows--you might even find a few things worth keeping along the way.

Still with me?

Good.

Let's get on with it, then.

A couple weeks after things ended with Brit, I rushed home from work one day, heart pounding with anticipation. I couldn't wait to check my phone. A message was waiting for me in my inbox--and not just any message. This one was special. NSFW special. The kind you don't risk opening at work, no matter how badly you want to.

A few days earlier, I'd joined an adult dating site that specialized in bisexual dating and multipartner swinging. No messing around. Just real people, looking for real, filthy fun. I'd created a profile, uploaded a few nude selfies, and--I'll be honest--put a lot of effort into it. Presentation matters.

Lucky for me, I'm not just cute. I'm photogenic. I've got that soft-but-cut, sweet-but-naughty thing going on, and I know how to use it. Plus, I'm not too bad behind the camera. I used a compact digital cam with a flip screen and remote shutter, set it up on a tripod, and got to work.

Before the shoot, I shaved my chest and trimmed what little body hair I had. Cleaned up my pubes. Shaved my balls. I wanted to look slick, polished, delicious. Then I posed.

The first photo I uploaded showed me leaning against the kitchen counter, abs flexed, cock hard and proud, catching the light just right. The second was... a bit more daring.

Black fishnet stockings. Matching garter belt. No panties. Another hard-on--bigger this time, glistening with precum. I'd bought the outfit from a site that sells lingerie specifically designed for men. And let me tell you, it was a revelation.

I'd never worn anything like that before. But the second I slipped the stockings up my legs and clipped the garter belt around my waist, I felt electric. If you think a guy in sexy lingerie looks too effeminate, fair enough. Not everyone's into it. But damn, you should've seen me.

The way the fishnets hugged my thighs. The way the garter framed the sharp lines of my V-cut. I looked like the perfect fusion of feminine delicacy and masculine edge--soft and hard in all the right places. I looked... fuckable. No two ways about it.

I jerked off a few times that day--before and after the photoshoot. It was that kind of experience. Hot. New. Wild.

I blurred out my face before uploading the pics, of course. Then I filled out the rest of my profile: likes, dislikes, kinks, positions, limits, preferences, fantasies... all of it. Honest and raw. No point pretending to be someone else. If people were gonna want me, I wanted it to be for me.

Then I paid for a month of premium. If I was gonna do this, I was doing it right.

Finally, I started browsing through the couples section--specifically those seeking a man. My heart raced as I scrolled through profiles. I could already imagine the stories behind the faces. The possibilities. The heat.

And then--one of them messaged me.

But I'll get to that.

First... you should probably pour yourself a drink.

Because things are about to get a whole lot hotter.

--

To my surprise, there were lots of swingers near my area looking to hook up with single men. But it didn't take long before the novelty wore off. I got tired of scrolling through endless close-ups of genitals--flesh with no faces, all looking for one thing: a big dick.

Now, for the record, I'm very happy with mine. Size, shape, personality--he's a solid ten in my book. My cock is like a good friend. Always cheerful, never complains, lifts my spirits when I'm down, and frankly, gets me into the kind of trouble that makes life worth living. Sure, he's impulsive. Sure, he's reckless. But hey--I'm young, hot, and full of... well, you know.

Still, I wasn't looking for genitals searching for genitals. I wanted heat, yes--but also connection. Playfulness. Maybe even chemistry. So I tossed my phone on the bed and went to fix something to eat, already half-resigned to the idea that the whole thing was just a waste of time.

And then... my phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then again.

The messages started pouring in.

Two were from single guys who just wanted to suck me off--straight to the point, I guess. Another one wanted me to tie him up and spank the hell out of him. Respectfully... no thanks.

Then there was a "couple" who turned out to be a single, overly hairy dude pretending to be someone else. Classic. Blocked.

Another pair refused to send face pics, even after I'd already sent mine. That's a no from me, darling.

Just as I was about to give up--there it was.

The message.

The profile picture stopped me in my tracks. A couple, mid-thirties, sitting close together at what looked like a tropical restaurant. He wore a tight muscle tank, showing off his sculpted arms. She was glowing in a strappy summer dress that hugged every perfect curve. They were both smiling, eyes crinkled, faces totally visible--no filters, no masks, no bullshit.

They radiated confidence. Playfulness. That kind of natural, unbothered sex appeal that makes you feel like you're being invited into something exciting, even just from a photo.

My heart kicked up a notch.

I opened their message.

The content... was very, very promising.

*

Hi Cutie. I'm Kari. My husband Ken and I have read your profile and absolutely loved it. Looks like you could be a perfect match for us. If you're interested, send me the untouched versions of your hot lingerie pictures. We both want to see if your face matches your adorable body. I see that you like big cocks. Please confirm that you are really willing to let my husband fuck your hot ass with his thick, 24 cm cock as hard and as much as he wants. Once I have your confirmation, you will receive a formal invitation and further instructions for a trial session with us.

Don't keep me waiting too long.

Kari

*

For those of you who call football "soccer"--twenty-four centimeters is about nine and a half inches.

Now, I know some people think it's tacky to give exact measurements of tits and dicks, but I love those funny, squishy, cushy, bouncy things. I love cocks, balls, clits, pussy folds, tits, nipples, perineums, assholes, lips--and yeah, sometimes the smaller ones too, but I mostly enjoy the big cocks.