Stories in orgy
6 stories · Page 1One time, I went to sleep over at a friend's house after her birthday. Her parents were away on a weeklong business trip, so it was just me and her and two of her friends the same age. She'd already invited them when I called and said, "Come over, we're going to have a blast tonight, no holds barred." I decided to wear a short skirt, a crop top, and a thong because I knew what was going to happen. I was free, the alcohol was already in my system, and I just decided to let loose. A friend opened the door; she was really happy I'd arrived and wasn't afraid. She introduced me to the guys—there were three of them. It was clear I was scared, but she assured me they were nice and wouldn't hurt anyone. We immediately went to the kitchen, turned on some music, and poured ourselves a glass. We drank to our new acquaintance. We started chatting, laughing, and dancing in the kitchen. Then I noticed my friend kissing a guy by the window, while the other one had h
Oleg and Nastya moved into their first apartment at the end of August. The renovation was completed quickly, the furniture was arranged, the boxes unpacked—and then Nastya said, "We should invite the neighbors over and introduce ourselves." Oleg frowned at first, but then agreed. The apartment was small, a two-bedroom apartment on the third floor, but the living room had room for a table and some room to spare. Nastya was a short girl with rounded hips and small breasts. Oleg was slightly taller than her, of average build, with a short haircut and a habit of constantly fiddling with things. They had been together for three years, previously renting a room near the metro, and now they had their own place. They knew their neighbors only by sight. Across the street lived a young couple—Denis and Lena, both in their early thirties, unencumbered. Upstairs lived Igor, a man in his forties, divorced, living alone. Downstairs lived Timur, an athletic-looking guy who worked either in
Vera and I are in our early thirties. We've been married for six years. She had two men before me, and I had a few women. Our marriage is like a well-oiled machine: sometimes it creaks, but overall it's a joy. We try not to stagnate in bed: toys, role-playing, light BDSM. But there's one taboo that Vera guards with the tenacity of a border guard. Her ass. More precisely, the entrance to it. My finger—go ahead. My tongue—for God's sake. But my dick—no way. "It's all tight down there, I'm scared, it hurts, let's not do it now." I didn't push. I waited. Sometimes we fantasized out loud before bed: I'd whisper to her how hot it would be if a third person, experienced and patient, took her there for the first time. She'd blush, giggle excitedly, and quickly come from these conversations. But it never went beyond fantasies. And then there was the district clinic and an appointment with a proctologist. Vera had been experiencing discomfort fo
Night. The sound of the surf. Music somewhere in the distance. Liza and I walked away from the fire. The sand was still warm. There were two people nearby: Seryozha and Vlad. They brought champagne. Bitter, bubbling on the tongue. — Are you frozen? - No. - And you have goosebumps. - It's not from the cold. Liza is already kissing Seryozha. His fingers are tangled in her hair, wet from the bath. Vlad looks at me. For a long time. I take a sip straight from the bottle. I hand it to him. His lips are on the same glass as mine. — Do you want to take a swim? - I'm not wearing a swimsuit. - So much the better. We run to the water. The waves lick our feet. He catches up with me, already waist-deep in the sea. The water is warm, almost hot after the afternoon sun. His hands slide along my waist underwater. — You can't see anything here. - Do you want to see something? — I want to touch it. A palm falls on a chest. The nipples instantly harden. Not from the cold. Salt water on th
My name is Oleg, I'm 34. I'm a clinical psychologist by training, but I've been doing field therapy for eight years now, leaving the office. I lead small groups into the mountains, the taiga, and sometimes even the Altai Mountains. I specialize in working with psychosomatics and body blocks. I've long noticed that when you take someone out of their usual context—without mirrors, makeup, or social media—something truly happens to them. Especially with women. Especially with those who've been carrying around a shell of "I'm not pretty enough," "I'm shy," and "nobody wants me" for years. The idea of creating an off-site intensive program has matured. Five days in the mountains of Karelia, offline, focusing on body acceptance and liberation. No offices, hotel rooms, or other frills. Just forests, lakes, tents, and a sauna on the shore. I called the program "Reboot." A month before the start, I launched an ad through my former
Château de Valmont, hidden in the dense vineyards of the Loire, was transformed every April into a temple for the most discerning collectors. The stone vaults of the main hall trembled with hushed voices, and the air was thick with the aroma of aged Cabernet, old oak, and expensive tobacco. I, a twenty-four-year-old sommelier, was working at this private auction for only my second time. My task was simple and honorable: introduce the lots, describe the terroir, pour into glasses, and ensure that not a drop was wasted. None of the guests noticed how I nervously twitched my fingers behind my back as the price of yet another bottle of 1947 soared. The auction proceeded as usual—the gavel banged, the glasses clinked, and I stood at the long table with decanters, smiling and nodding. No one suspected that below me, two floors down, in the ancient wine cellar, a completely different game was already underway. After the last lot, as guests began to disperse to the terrace with cigars, the