Group Sex: Pirates

by Janine Ashbless


It’s time for Group Sex!

Yes, I’m going to kick off a dirty story, and I want you to join in. Yes YOU – there at the back – I can see you trying to hide. Add a paragraph or two in the comments and you can come back later to see where other people have taken it. If we’re really lucky we might actually get to a happy (or at least sexually satisfactory) ending.

Fine literature is not required. Filthy fun is what is wanted. You can join in as many times as you like.

The setting is Port Royal in Jamaica , in a prison full of captured pirates. Our heroine Meg has bribed the warder to let her see her pirate lover Richard one last time before he swings on the gallows tomorrow. Don’t worry too much about historical accuracy – I myself know nothing more about the period than I’ve picked up from Pirates of the Caribbean. Erastes and Madelynne will just have to take me outside later and give me a good spanking for being cavalier with history…

xxx
Janine

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Commenting: ANY reader can comment on ANY Lust Bites post, you know. (I was surprised to learn that some readers think they’re not allowed unless they are official contributors. That’s not the case at all!) See the link "comments" at the very bottom right of the post? Just click on it to get a pop-up screen showing all previous comments (if any) and a box in which to post your own. You can even do it anonymously.

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The heavy door creaked open to reveal a cellar strewn with filthy straw. One side of the room was divided by iron grilles into cages, each of which held one or more men. As Meg stepped down into the chamber a rat ran across her feet with a squeak - and then the room exploded with grunts and oaths and whoops as the prisoners realised that it was a woman walking down the other side of the bars from them: a woman with a pert face and a tight bodice from which two pillowy breasts bulged.

Meg ignored the racket, only wrinkling her nose a little as she paced down the corridor by the cages, swinging her hips to show her derision. The interstices between the bars were wide enough for the men to stick their arms through, but she was not foolish enough to step within reach of their hands. She reached the cell she was looking for; the one where Richard stood beneath the slit window, watching for her. He was on his own, she was relieved to see, and he lunged forward to the bars. His face was bruised and grimy with stubble, but she pressed herself against the iron grille to kiss him and he thrust his hands through to grab her round the waist. They gasped each other’s names.

Slowly the other men grew quiet, wanting to hear what was said. She kissed his battered lips until he groaned.


‘Meg! It’s my last night on this earth. For God’s sake…’ He looked down at the heave of her breasts and suddenly stooped to nuzzle them. ‘Give it to me one last time, lass.’


Over to you...

Group sex: a winter warmer

by Olivia Knight

If you’ve never played Group-Sex-Group-Sex before, here’s how it works: one of us starts a story, and everyone else continues it in the comments. Anyone can join in – so if you’ve never thrown in your penny’s worth before, now’s the time. Devoted long-term readers may recognise this beginning of a story that was never completed, so I’m throwing it to the wolves to finish...

He smiled at me, crinkly and fresh as a crumpled white wool jumper. It was a bit frustrating that his English wasn't exactly up to par, as my usual arch wit and dry repartee were tumbleweeds blown along the desert of his comprehension. Then again, my Spanish consisted of "cheese", "forest", and "dead", so I wasn't in a position to criticise. Nor was I in the position I wished.

Contrary to popular belief, most teachers try extremely hard not to sleep with their students. Teaching English as a foreign language, all to adults, the paedophilia thing isn’t the problem – it’s the sheer awkwardness of it. It's hard to put people in pairs to talk about what they would do if they won a million dollars when you keep having flashbacks of one of them naked above you, muscles standing with strain, thrusting in time to your wild gasps... I didn't know if I were having flashbacks or flashforwards, but I was damn straight having flashes and flushes left right and centre. I did what any teacher would do, in the circumstances. I abruptly graduated him to the next level, where his miraculous eyes would no longer derail my train of thought. (Have you ever tried to explain the future perfect while Spanish eyes promise nails down your spine? Exactly.)

But then - there are always the special students, the ones who get to go to the teachers' pub. Mingle with the natives, as it were. I didn't elect him to our select conclave, but there he was, Friday after Friday, buying bottles of red wine, smiling crinkle-eyed, smooth-cheeked, and as glowing as my eyes as they skittered abruptly over him. And there was I, without my linguistic wit to fall back on, relying only on the never-quite-secure charms of my putative physical beauty. Friday night - eight p.m. (by teacher-time, that's five hours of solid drinking, mind) and everyone's scarpered but me, and him. It's coat time. Walk home time. And all I can think about is that my curves are a bit too soft, and a book I saw in Borders called "He's Just Not That Into You". And maybe if he were interested, he might not be wrapping his scarf around his neck, but might choose to linger...

We both tried to follow each other out the pub, which proved awkward. Outside was dark, exquisitely cold, filled with twinkling little lights and blooming with misty street lamps. I turned to him, where he still stood facing me and smiling. I felt the rushing plunge of my stomach into first fire and then ice, and did what anyone, in my shoes, would have done.
"Cold, isn't it?" I said. "Lovely evening, though. So nice to see everyone. Well, you take care then. Great to see you. I'd better be off. Merry Christmas - oh, and I probably won't see you before, so Happy New Year, as well! Anyway, I'd best get going."
I rattled through my entire repertoire of social parting comments, a one-woman textbook of Functions for Leaving. That he probably caught at best five words of my machine-gun patter hardly mattered. I was filling the silence.
"Well, I'll be off then, hope you have a lovely holiday. Safe trip home!" I continued, "I'm walking this way, where are you headed?"
He looked at me blankly. I took a deep breath and said slowly and clearly, "My house is that way," gesturing southwards. "Where is your house?"
"That way," he said, pointing south.
"Well, no need to say goodbye quite yet then, we can walk together for a bit, it’ll be nice to have the company," I jabbered brightly. Our steps fell into synch along the damp and glistening pavement. I fell silent, a state I detest. My nerves, which usually take refuge in a stream of pacy auto-witter, were left to tear my stomach into little pieces and contemplate endlessly the act of taking his arm.
"So," he said. I'd taught him to introduce subjects of conversation with that word, a few months back. "Where are you going for Christmas?" Present continuous for arrangements - correct social question - I felt a burst of pride alongside the ache that was melting my thighs.

Over to you... Where does their walk take them?