Three-way. Menage a trois, FMF, MFM, MFMF, Four-way. Oh, heck, here we are stuck on semantics again. I call them all them an orgy: 3 or more people having sex together simultaneously, and having participated in a dozen or so, I've earned the right to call them what I want. I like the term "orgy," liked it from the first time I ever heard it and what it meant as a kid. I like the word, but I LOVE being in orgies.
Yes, I love them all, but as far as I'm concerned, the more girls in an orgy, the better. It happened that there were three chicks in my very first group sex encounter--my girlfriend Leigh, her roommate Lisa, and another gal down the hall whose name was Pat. It occurred when I hitch-hiked to New Orleans to visit Leigh during Mardi Gras our freshman year in college, February 1978.
It happened in her dorm room and was totally spontaneous. She, Lisa, and I had been out all day partying in the streets and decided to stay in for the evening. "Dinner" was going to be a pan of brownies with half an ounce of strong black hash baked in them.
I was baking them in the oven up on the second floor of the dorm, and had to share the oven with a girl who was warming up a frozen pizza in it. I couldn't leave my wreaking-of-ganga pan, for obvious reasons, so we sat there and chatted for a while. Turns out her dorm room was just a couple doors from my girlfriend's down on the ground floor, and she knew Leigh and Lisa pretty well.
Pat then told me she was that floor's Resident Advisor. Gulp. But she sure didn't seem anything like the RA back at my college dorm in Atlanta, who'd make a Prussian cavalry officer seem comparatively liberal. Her being the RA and already friends with Leigh and Lisa, coupled with the fact that she was a lot of fun and a braless big-boobed cutie wearing nothing but an oversize football jersey and maybe panties, had me inviting Pat back to my GF's dorm room.
We washed down the pizza and brownies with the remainder of a huge bottle of red wine. The roomie got a bottle of prescription Placidyls--the red, round 500 mg ones--from the in-room frij and we each downed several like candy. I noted that Pat consumed not one of these Schedule II sedative-hypnotics, though she was obviously cool about them.
We smoked some of the Afghani black hash from a bong, and a second huge bottle of red wine was cracked open. Our faces smeared, we got out a big bottle of baby oil to remove the colorful face make-up we'd put on that morning. That's when clothes started coming off.
If you've ever been to Mardi Gras, you know that one of the chief objectives is to collect as many beads as possible as they're being hurled at you from the floats. Well, we very well may have been contenders for the most-beads status, as we had collected enough to completely cover the floor of their entire dorm room in strands of beads 3 or 4 inches deep.
Her roomie Lisa had stripped all her clothes off, and covered in baby oil, was squirming about the floor on top of the beads, oooing and aaahing how great it felt. Lisa was a very cute, dark-complexioned brunette, a small-breasted, cinnamon-nippled pixie of a girl with a tiny butt, dark eyes, and a big smile. Her looks and general demeanor said, "Let's fuck!"
Well, Leigh and I were already naked from the waist up from the make-up removing, so we took off our jeans and then flung our panties and under shorts up onto the ceiling light fixture to join with Lisa's already hanging there.
Sitting on the dresser, Pat was laughing, slipped off her panties from beneath the long jersey, and tried over and over to toss them up onto the light. She was in hysterics, and her heaving, jiggling big boobs, still shrouded by the jersey, had me wanting to see them more than ever. I finally got the rebound and "dunked" her panties on the overhead fixture, slipping on the oily beads on the way down and crashing into the nude Leigh and Lisa.
I poured out more oil onto my blonde-haired, blue-eyed girlfriend Leigh, rubbing it over her nice, rigid, pink-nippled C cups, down her sexy tummy, around her athletic buns, slim, muscular legs, and then up into her big, always-wet pussy.
Across the room, I could just barely see the lips of Pat's pussy beneath the navy-blue jersey as she refilled our glasses with wine. Lisa suggested another round of Placidyls, so Pat tossed them across the room into our mouths like sea lions, and we summarily downed them, accompanied by sea mammal sound effects.
Pat was obviously having a good time, but still had the jersey on and was sitting on the fringe of our naked oil party, so I had to get her involved. "Before you get all good and slippery, put Eat A Peach on the turntable, fill up the Gatling Gun bowl on the bong with that black stuff, then bring a lighter and COME ON DOWN," I said, doing my best imitation of the announcer on The Price Is Right.
Pat carried out the tasks, pulled her beautiful long brown hair back into a ponytail with a rubber band, apparently doing so to keep the baby oil out of her hair--a good sign--then waded across the beads, sat down beside us Indian style, and said, "Well, hello," handing the bong to Lisa.
I could now see Pat's lovely brown bush half-concealing her pussy, but she still had on that damned jersey.
I wasted not a moment and pulled the top over her head. Raising her arms straight up, she made it easy. Wow! Give the best-tits-in-New Orleans award to Pat: Extra firm D-cup flesh jutting out and swooping up into dark pink, pointy nipples. Absolutely perfect boobs and dee-licious!
As Lisa gurgled the bong, I poured out a gargantuan volume of baby oil on Pat's chest and massaged her truly magnificent ta-tas while Leigh slathered it over her back and the tops of her fleshy buns. After we each took another bong hit and a few gulps of wine, we're all writhing in the beads and over each other in sublimely slippery ecstasy.
