NOTES: This is a stand-alone New Year's Eve story featuring my recurring "Oz Beach Boy" character, Matt: a muscular, extremely well-hung, 25-year-old exhibitionist. This story features CFNM, public male stripping, female-of-male body worship, and two-mature-women-one-younger-man sex scenes. All characters are over eighteen. This is a work of complete fiction.
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It was New Year's Eve in Sydney, Australia. I was passed out drunk in the street...and I didn't realise how profoundly vulnerable I truly was.
I'd spent most of the night at the stylish apartment of a friend who lived not far from Circular Quay on Sydney Harbour, which is the loud, raucous epicentre of the city's New Year's Eve celebrations. The whole area was awash with revellers, and the sky was alive with vivid fireworks and pounding music.
For most of the evening, we'd been drinking, doing loads of coke, dancing (badly), and watching the fireworks from a spacious balcony with the perfect view of the colourful aerial display.
At about 2:00am, my reliably well-supplied friend Jackson Monteith produced a fat, perfectly rolled joint, which we shared outside on the balcony. This very high quality weed, unfortunately, was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.
Already completely wasted from all the booze and coke slamming through my system, Jackson's surprisingly and exceedingly strong weed tipped me right over the edge into messy, drug-soaked oblivion.
Totally hammered, and with the party well and truly winding down, I bid farewell to the equally wasted Jackson -- who was in the process of falling asleep on the couch -- and said goodbye to the small and equally pulverised group of people who sloppily and stubbornly remained.
With my mind buzzing and my limbs disturbingly loose and disobedient, I staggered out of the front door of the apartment, down the corridor, and into the elevator. I took the long ride down to the foyer of the high-rise apartment block.
I checked myself in the large mirrors on the foyer wall. I pushed my longish, sandy brown hair back off my face, straightened out my short-sleeved button-up shirt, and hiked up my jeans a little. My eyelids were drooping, and what I could see of my eyes was bloodshot beyond belief.
I walked uncertainly outside, and the warm night air hit me in the face. With my legs wobbling hopelessly beneath me, I staggered around looking desperately for a taxi. In my drug-and-booze soaked stupor, however, I'd of course failed to recall that taxies are about as rare as hen's teeth on New Year's Eve.
I stumbled aimlessly around bustling Circular Quay for about ten minutes, getting continually bumped and jostled by other revellers. I soon realised that my search for a means of transport home was absolutely futile. I was stranded.
My head was spinning, I was staggeringly tired, and Jackson's bitingly strong weed had made me horribly disoriented and frustratingly confused. In short, I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. I was a complete fucking mess.
With party-goers everywhere and drunken women shrieking and laughing while trundling around uncertainly on their high heels, I would usually have happily inserted myself into the madness of New Year's Eve in the lurid hopes of finding a possibly sexual situation to wedge myself into.
The previous New Year's Eve had turned into a wonderfully raunchy night when two sexy BBWs double teamed me in public while music blared and fireworks exploded above us in the sky. [See Story: "Oz Beach Boy's New Year's Eve Bang"] It was a truly amazing experience, and one that I've frequently jerked off over ever since.
Though not officially diagnosed, I'm a raging sex addict. I'm a 25-year-old narcissistic Aussie male exhibitionist who loves getting nude, preferably with women watching me.
I spend hours training to get my body as ripped and muscular as I possibly can. Though partially for health and fitness purposes, my workout regime is principally designed to get me shredded and attract female attention.
I like to show off and put myself in potentially sexy situations whenever I can, particularly around Sydney's many beaches and secluded coastal bays. I also frequently stroll around at night on busy weekends looking for action wherever I can find it. I am in a near perpetual state of horniness.
I've enjoyed a lot of sordid sex and many kinky hook-ups in my time, but thanks to my truly sorry booze-and-drug drenched state, this New Year's Eve looked like it was going to be a flat bust...or so I thought.
With my head heavy, my eyes bleary, and my legs weak, I was desperate to lie down and rest. In such a frazzled, demotivated state, I didn't even have the good sense to return to my friend's apartment and merely crash out safely on the floor somewhere.
Instead, I spotted a small patch of grass set back from Circular Quay's busy footpath. Dark, empty and dotted with trees, this small grassy reserve looked like it would afford me a little privacy and solitude to catch a quick nap and hopefully sort myself out.
I staggered across the dry grass and flopped down behind a large tree, a sense of calm and comfort enveloping me as soon as I sat on the ground. It felt great to stop moving and finally sit down.
Incredibly tired, I yawned loudly, and then lay down on the grass. Blanketed by relative darkness and slightly away from the crowds, I closed my eyes and quickly drifted off to sleep.
God knows how long after, I was roused from my boozy slumber by the sound of female voices right near me. Though I could distinctly hear sounds disturbingly close by, my body just failed to react.
In some kind of bizarre state of half-sleep obviously wrought by the combination of booze, coke, and Jackson Monteith's intensely strong weed, I was far, far, far from alert, but I could certainly sense sound and movement right around me...I just couldn't respond to it.
"Let's do a bump here, babe," I heard a deep, throaty, obviously mature female voice say quietly. "It's fine...nobody can see us. It's dark and we're hidden by these trees. Come on, Sally...let's go!"
"Okay, okay, Lydia," a second female voice responded, equally mature and measured in tone. "I'll just get the blow out of my purse. Wait a second, darling."
I then heard the unmistakable sound of coke being hurriedly hoovered up desperate noses, followed by giggles, sniffing, snorting, more giggles, and then loud sighs.
Obviously more than a little drunk, Sally and Lydia sounded happy and energised after their sneaky bump. Their coked-up reverie came to an abrupt end, however, when the women saw me lying on the ground only a few feet away from them. Lydia and Sally shrieked in unison.
"Oh, shit," Lydia said with obvious concern. "There's a guy on the ground over there."
"Was he watching us?" Sally asked her friend quietly before raising her voice. "Hey, are you right there, mate? Are you okay? What are you doing?"
Though I could clearly hear the question, I was too dazed and exhausted to answer properly, instead just letting out a series of quiet grunts and moans. I tried to sit up, but only barely managed to slightly lift myself off the ground before slumping back onto the dry grass.