One thing I see a lot--it still turns me on--is some guy at Raymond's party who suddenly gets "the treatment"--squealing in protest and disbelief as his dick gets popping out in front of the cheering, clapping crowd. Girls freak out, too, but at some level we sort of accept that to be stripped and ogled is our fate.
I get invited to all of Raymond's parties. (I've written about him in previous, he likes taking me to bars in my sexy black dress and just talking, although he keeps hoping for more sex someday.) Raymond is anything but gay, but here in the Hamptons there's a big gay and lesbian community (alternating with life in New York's West Village, of course) and when they are weekending or summering in the Hamptons, they want to find the hottest parties.
People hear rumors of the goings on at Raymond's parties and want to make the scene--so why are they surprised when things happen to them? Probably think visitors just watch what is the antics of the regulars. They are subtly warned, however, with questions like "You have to accept what we are about." And: "Are you really willing to be part of the scene?"
Oh, yes, yes! I'm fine with it! No more needs to be asked.
At a recent party in Sag Harbor in a charming house worth a few millions, there were 20 guys and half-a-dozen girls, including me. Raymond likes that I am cute, funny, bitchy, and, you know, just tell me what to do if you don't hurt me--well, injure me. Hurt up to a point is sexy. And I bring a case. Sometimes wine, sometimes Montauk Ale, sometimes Kings County Distillery whiskey. A welcome guest.
So this night, on a quiet side street in Sag Harbor, in an old whaler captain's mansion now Raymond's, things are going as usual. Introductions, hugs, drinks, a tour of the house.
Tonight, guests are a well-known New York City editor, in his forties. Not sure why he is here, maybe to experience the "authentic Hampton's scene). He has brought his assistant editor, a heavy-set young woman with a massive bosom who talks about books, editing, grammar. And you just know she has a girlfriend ("spouse") and no male hands have ever touched her. What in hell does she think she is doing, here?
The moment comes. Everyone has had a few drinks. The plates of food are fantastic. Lots of seafood as befits Sag Harbor. Some guests have arrived in yachts that are bobbing in the harbor, now, and their wealth somehow clings to them like a scent.
Our host, Raymond, announces: "We have new and very welcome guests, this evening, Walter So-and-So, editor of So-and-So, and his legendary assistant and copy editor, Cynthia So-and-So." He grins. "They are very eager to find out what we do."
Rounds of applause. The two, the handsome male editor and the busty lesbian assistant editor, have no idea what is about go down, here. He is wearing blue jeans, sandals, a short-sleeved shirt that looks pretty good on his chest. She is wearing red shorts and a halter that holds her securely.
And our host says, "Let's have a look at you, Walter."
Yeah, right. Two husky regulars suddenly are behind Walter and seize his arms, holding him. You can guess what happens. He yelps, "Hey, what the fuck?"
And the host says, "You accept what we are about?"
High pitched cry: "Yeah, but..."
Hands are tugging down Walter's trousers. He looks as though he can't belief this. The guys behind him have lifted him so his pants can be whipped off over his feet. Taking away his shirt. Nice looking guy, I think. Good chest and abs, cute legs. Now, he is in his tightly whiteys. And shrieking: "No, please! Please! What is this! No! No!"
He is held, but his belly thrusts forward as he struggle. Guess why? Our gay party goers are hurrying over and reaching down inside his underwear to find out what's there. Hands, hands, hands. All sliding down into his underwear to play with his stuff. I don't try to resist. I step up close to him, my lips close to his face, and slip my hand down in his pants to grab his stuff, balls and all, and give a good squeeze.
I suddenly smile and say: "Wow! Big!" I play for a while with his swollen dick, which keeps getting bigger. He is struggling, twisting, but obviously it must feel good. I put my lips on his and we kiss.
Whoops, sorry. About 10 hands are taking turns diving into his underwear to play with him. Some start swatting his stomach. I see he is getting even bigger, moaning now, maybe in embarrassment, maybe aroused. Both, I would say. He casts quick desperate glances at Cynthia, his loyal assistant, and copyeditor, who is watching aghast. She looks stunned, also scared, and when she sees his expression, she puts her hands over her face. She's not supposed to see this.
Okay, enough stimulation. Walter gives a cry of alarm. Someone with some scissors is carefully cutting off his underwear, snip, snip, snip. It slides off and falls to the floor. His big swollen dick springs free. It is bright red, straight up, tilted a bit to the left, stiff and straight, as though pulling away in embarrassment. He gives a long moan of disbelief that sounds like "Nooooooooo..."
Despair. Sorry, Walter, your dick is now our party favor. Nothing new, to us. People are clapping and cheering. Guys and girls alike are staring at what he's got.
Then, hands are competing to play with the straight guy. Pumping him, playing with the big purple head that has thrust forward out of his foreskin. Suddenly, a guy is down on his knees, holding Walter's cock like an ice cream cone and sucking it. Walter groans louder. The girls are all watching and grinning; none has touched him, except me.
Really nice big dick. So sexy. I strip, now, as I always do at these parties. For a moment everyone watches, waiting to see what I reveal. I walked over and swat away the guy down on him. I stand right in front of him, press against him with my nipples, my cunt with its jet-black fur, my lips. He is so sweet and so whacked out.
I kneel, now, and take him in my mouth. I hear a long moan.
Oops! Surprise. He suddenly cries out: "What about Cynthia? What about her? Am I the only one? What is this?"
I can only figure he thinks that if this happens to him in front of Cynthia, he is never going to feel sane working with her. And who might she tell? Unless of course...
Cynthia, who has uncovered her face and been riveted on what is happening to her boss, cries only, "No!"
Sorry, Cynthia. Two girls seize her arms from the back, holding her. She screeches: "No, please! Please! Please! Don't you fucking dare!"
Our host says, in a calming tone, "You said you accepted what we are about, Cynthia?"
"Yes! No! Please! No! Please!"
By now, they already have her dress off. She gives a cry of disbelief, despair, and wild protest. Her bra is unhooked and whipped off, freeing her big spreading pendulous boobs, freckled, with big orange nipples, now getting stiff.
"Oh, no!" she sobs, struggling. I'm only a 32B, with breasts like a marble sculpture and little dark red nipples that always stick out, too much. I love this ample spreading flesh of real boobs
