My husband and I have always had an unconventional marriage—long-distance by design, rooted more in intention than proximity. We lived in different countries, met in borrowed cities and hotel rooms, and made space early on for an open dynamic that suited us.
Winter, however, had dulled my edge. Workouts slipped, grief hit hard after my dog died, and I felt heavier, quieter, less myself at 52 years old.
So I reset. Cardio, discipline, sobriety. My body responded—solid thighs, lifted ass, broader chest, strength that felt earned. I looked awake again. A desirable and fuckable daddy. Travel kept my sex life steady, and I rarely played at home, but that night, back home, after martinis with a visiting friend in the city, I found myself scrolling Grindr with an easy confidence.
I had no expectations that night - open, curious, and unforced—and surprised by how easily the right connections found me.
Messages stacked up fast. Invitations were made. A couple invited someone. Another said and he a buddy were looking. Suddenly I was prepping the house—black sheets replacing white, supplies out, lube, new bottles of poppers, toys, anticipation humming.
The first knock came early, then another. The house soon filled with strangers carrying a feral, barely leashed energy—wary at first, then circling closer, coats dropped, eyes tracking one another with sleazy interest.
Music pulsed. Drinks appeared. The air warmed with cologne and expectation. I moved through it calmly, hosting in the most intimate sense, catching my reflection—barefoot, flushed, grounded. By the time everyone arrived, conversation had softened into touch, and the night opened wide.
We drifted upstairs, clothes came off. The bed became a gathering point, bodies shifting instinctively, attention flowing easily. There was no competition—just abundance. Time blurred. The house was filled with raw sex.
As the night tightened, the focus of the group quietly converged on me. What hadn’t been planned or negotiated simply happened, a collective decision without words and I was the designated cumdump bottom.
I surrendered fully to it. Spine arched, gripping the sheets, on all fours, jock strapped ass, sensation took over—fragmented, overwhelming, deliberate. Every movement, every cock slapped against my face, each raw slam into my ass, all affirming the role I’d slipped into. Control fell away as sensation and attention took over, my body responding instinctively, the moment unfolding with an intensity that felt both overwhelming and inevitable.
My castle, my rules. Fuck me, gag me, cum in, cum on me. That was the new rhythm to the night. Each of the men took turns. I stayed like this for what seemed an eternity submitting myself to their every whim. I did stop short of being pissed on, not because I didn’t want it, but I didn’t really want to buy a new mattress.
The night crested late, leaving the room heavy with heat, fatigue, the smell of poppers, the raw scent of man-to-man sex. I’d gone into it expecting nothing, and now I lay spent, my body humming with sensation, cum bubbling out of my ass, eyes burning slightly from the loads sprayed across my face, ass cheeks marked by the excess of the evening. It felt less like an ending than an aftermath—quiet, disorienting, and satisfying in its totality.
By four a.m., long after the house had emptied, I was alone in the quiet aftermath, p-spot still pulsating, jerking off, sliding a dildo into my cum filled ass, riding the last waves of sensation until my load shot up to my chin, the night finally letting go.
I lay there afterward, spent and still, the silence heavy. What lingered wasn’t excess, but satisfaction—not just in what happened, but in how completely I gave myself to it, without apology or reserve.
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