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While there were a few sustained friendships, we were for the most part a disparate group of women in our mid-forties, bound by a single event twenty five years earlier: We’d all been members of the field hockey team at an unfashionable, provincial university, which to the surprise of everyone — not least ourselves — won the national collegiate championship. On leaving Uni, we’d all gone our separate ways and got on with our lives; we’d held a few reunions since, but this time it was special and we’d pretty much got a full turn-out, with a few hangers-on besides.
That unbeaten season being twenty-five years ago was significant in itself, but additionally the anniversary date of our clinching that title coincided with Abigail — our goalkeeper — finalising her divorce. I’d stayed in touch with Abi and met her husband Charles on a few occasions, thus I was able to vouch for the veracity of her assessment: “Charles is a jerk; but fortunately, he’s a very rich jerk!” To celebrate her new-found freedom, Abigail had used a small part of her reputedly multi-million pound settlement to underwrite the cost of this weekend extravaganza.
While it was Abigail’s Party, another of our number, Annabelle, was actually organising it; after college Anna had carved out a career as an Impresario and Theatrical Agent, so she was well qualified and had all the right contacts for the task. It proved a great success: We’d gathered on the Friday evening at a spa hotel in Leicestershire to enjoy an informal get-together and chin-wag; some of those girls I’d not seen since the day I left University. On the Saturday a few of the girls went sight-seeing, but most of us just enjoyed a day in the hotel’s sauna, spa, pool and treatment rooms – Abigail had booked out the whole place! – ahead of our Gala Dinner in the evening.
That certainly fulfilled expectations: The food was first class, wine flowed like water; there was a disco and a live band, both well versed in the music of our heydays, plus a saucy comedian who’d clearly been well briefed on some of the characters and incidents of our college days. Top of the bill and closing out the evening was a male dance troupe, ‘The Full Montys’, whom Anna reported would be: ‘Going All the Way and then a little further’; unsurprisingly, this had generated major excitement amongst we girls.
It was approaching midnight when the Full Montys arrived on stage, I cheered and whistled as loudly as the rest; by good fortune I was at that moment sat at a table almost beside the stage, so was going to enjoy a ring-side seat! Rumour had it that these young men were all students at a local university; though I and perhaps none amongst us, had considered whether it was wholly appropriate or even decent, for a gang off forty-something women to be ogling — and perhaps more — boys who were likely no older than their own kids. A minute later and I had my answer to that question:
There were seven young men and fifth in the line, with the stage-name ‘Spartan’ was a guy called Dylan; my son Dylan! He’s a student, but not in Leicester, Dylan’s campus is a over a hundred miles away; what the hell was he doing here? Nor did Dylan need to work, at this or any other job. To avoid such distractions to their studies, my husband and I cover all the tuition fees, accommodation expenses and provide generous monthly allowances too for both Dylan and his sister Rachel.
I’m unsure as to how long I remained frozen in open-mouthed silence, but on realising that my continued inaction would mark me out in the crowd, I once again, albeit less enthusiastically, rejoined the lewd encouragement and appreciation. It was embarrassment not repugnance which had so discombobulated me; I’m far from prudish or reserved and have even enjoyed the odd casual dalliance. Watching this energetic display of toned male flesh — more of it appearing with each passing moment! – was in the normal course of things, right up my street.
Despite Dylan’s presence amongst them – he’d certainly spent some time in the gym since last summer’s family holiday! – I was still captivated and more than a little aroused by the dancers’ performance; the noise around me suggested that I was far from alone in that. But it was my son up there and if the other girls discovered that connection I’d never live it down; obviously all those young men were somebody’s son, but Dylan was mine!
Save for their Fedora hats, the lads were already naked to their waists when it happened: A roving spotlight settled upon me in the same moment that Dylan looked in my direction; he missed a couple of steps in the routine and the look on his face confirmed that he’d seen and recognised me. Our eyes met and I suspect that my own expression reflected Dylan’s silent plea: ‘Oh Fuck! Please bahis şirketleri don’t tell anyone!’ We each gave a discrete nod of agreement and Dylan was quickly back in step with the rest of the troupe, while I, more shamefully, was again soon whistling and cat-calling along with the other women too.
The performance ran for perhaps fifteen minutes, the boys finishing by ripping away their matching Calvin Klein jockstraps and a millisecond later covering their embarrassment with those Fedora hats. Then and in response to the cacophony of screaming women, those hats were almost casually returned to their heads and the guys posed, hands on hips and stark naked before us. As the men bowed and exited stage left, the crowd — yes, myself included. – to coin a phrase ‘Went wild!’
We only calmed down when Annabelle returned to the stage and promised that after a few minutes rest and refreshment, the Full Montys would be returning to ‘Get Serious’. The floor shuddered and the windows rattled with the strength of applause, cheers and foot-stamping that this news garnered. I managed to hold my own in the conversations and debate which ensued and took great but secret satisfaction in hearing that Dylan was getting marked highly in the fuckability stakes, though judiciously, I adjudged him somewhere in the middle order when asked myself.
We were so deeply engaged in our discussions that Annabelle and the Full Montys were back onto the stage almost before we realised; this time the boys arrived clad in only their black jockstraps and those powder-blue Fedora hats. Having quelled another round of cheering, Annabelle outlined how the Full Montys’ final act would proceed and how the seven ladies which this part of their performance required would be selected. At that stage I wasn’t worried; there were above forty of us to choose from and I wasn’t a close friend of Anna’s.
First-up was Abigail — It was her party after all — to select which of the young men she would ‘assist’. To a backdrop of our rousing cheers and salacious advice, Abi with apparent, though not well faked reluctance climbed onto the stage and chose Trojan. He would’ve been well down my preference list, but in some respects he was a rather obvious selection; Trojan was as black as the ace of spades and hung like a horse!
The remainder, Anna then explained would be selected by ballot; we were all instructed to hold our room keys aloft, whereupon each of the Full Monty boys would pick a numbered ball from the cloth bag which Annabelle held. As each man drew his ball, he handed it to Anna who raised it aloft for all to see, called out the number and the guy dropped down into the baying crowd to haul the lady with the matching key number onto the stage.
The noise level ratcheted ever higher during this selection process and I certainly contributed to the hullabaloo; those women chosen, showed varying degrees of reluctance as they were dragged onto stage, though none really appeared genuinely so. Even as the moment for Dylan to draw a ball neared I remained unconcerned; I work as an Actuary so was comfortable with the long-odds of his drawing my room number and should one of the other boys do so, I’d by then decided that I’d be more than happy to comply. Dylan was hardly in any position to tell his father or indeed anyone else what I’d been up to!
Minutes later, my equanimity fled, when Dylan who’d been the last of the Full Montys to draw a ball, handed it to Anna and an instant later her arm shot high as she shouted “Number five! Whose is that room?” My own arm fell with equal speed, but too slowly to avoid Anna’s sharp eyes; she pointed directly toward me and added: “There you go Spartan, you get Helen to play with!”
I barely heard the raucous cheering of the girls around me, I was concerned solely with Dylan, whose stunned expression was again no doubt perfectly matched by my own. Rather than leaping immediately from the stage like the others, he spent long seconds in a seemingly tense discussion with Anna, though by the time he did arrive at our table his sexy smile had returned; I supposed that to have done otherwise would’ve let the cat out of the bag. But what had they said to each other; surely he’d not told Annabelle?.
Having introducing himself as Spartan, Dylan kissed me with seemingly no less passion than that which the other performers had used when claiming their ‘Slave Girl’, before hauling me back onto the stage. I put up the requisite struggle of reluctance as the other women screamed lewd encouragement and to my relief, it appeared that Dylan’s hesitation had passed unnoticed. I made to speak, but Dylan quelled that with another kiss, whispering “We’re cool, just go with the flow; I’ll never tell if you don’t” as our mouths separated; bahis firmaları thereafter his professional demeanour reasserted itself and the show began:
We ladies pretty much just stood in line while the guys danced around us; despite my circumstances I managed to see some humour in the situation and remember thinking ‘so this is what a pole-dancer’s pole feels like?’ Glancing sideways it seemed that Dylan treated me with a little more propriety than the other boys did their ‘slaves’, but things still got pretty raunchy as the boys rubbed and entwined themselves around us while they gyrated.
Their hands roved and explored us shamelessly too; within just a few minutes, those women whose attire so permitted — myself included! — had their tops unfastened and their breasts revealed, to further noisy acclamation from the women watching. The performance seemed more about providing a spectacle for the audience than in stimulating we ‘slaves’; that said and son or not, I found myself becoming aroused and sideways glances confirmed that I wasn’t the only one!
There was a sudden clash of music and each of we slaves was abruptly pressed to her knees with our allotted Monty immediately ahead of us. An instant later they whipped off their jockstraps and threw those to the baying crowd; Dylan’s semi-erect cock was only inches before my eyes! Another even louder cheer followed, as Trojan thrust his hips forward, pressing his prick into Abigail’s open mouth.
My heart-rate soared as each Monty in turn — like falling dominoes — did likewise; what was I to do? Only as the line advanced did I spot that some at least were faking it. The boy ahead of Dylan had his cock in one hand and was holding Sarah’s chin with the fingers of the other, while his palm lay slightly cupped against her cheek, when the cymbal crashed I saw it was that void between the two which he penetrated.
My racing heart now settled and I sighed in relief; it was that sigh which relaxed my lips and on the next cymbal crash allowed Dylan’s cock to press easily between them! What the Hell! How does ‘We’re cool, go with the flow’ translate into putting your cock into your mother’s mouth? In the full glare of a spotlight and before forty of her friends to boot!
I could hardly debate the point with Dylan’s cock buried halfway down my throat and an effort to pull away proved equally futile; the hand that’d guided his prick into my mouth was now entwined none to gently in my hair. Once again the act seemed geared more towards the pleasure of the baying crowd than of the participants, with Dylan’s cock all but pulling free before each subsequent unhurried but inexorable penetration of my mouth and throat. The women watching were going ape-shit! They were loving it!
I felt Dylan’s prick swell during his assault, it was again bar-hard, so he too must’ve been enjoying his mother’s submission. For myself it was almost peripheral, something happening in the background while I fretted about how far this was going to go and what had been said during that conversation between Dylan how would I have reacted if Dylan had come inside my mouth or even across my face?
The Full Montys executed a few more minutes of graphic dance moves around their kneeling slaves; having my face slapped by a stiff prick — even, or perhaps especially, my own son’s – proved strangely exciting! Until another musical crescendo saw them pause with their cocks just inches from our faces once again; it seemed a little too late for reticence and my lips parted expectantly, but this time in vain.
The boys all executed a pirouette, one leg swinging high over our heads and then they were behind us; pressure between the shoulder-blades and an instant later we were all on our hands and knees with the body of our skirts thrown high across our backs. There followed a slight delay as the two women wearing trousers, were similarly de-frocked; Oh My God! Surely not?
I took comfort in seeing that Abigail and Jane — the other two women who’d not faked their blow-jobs — had lost their panties too; not only had Dylan left mine in place, but I’d the protection of my panty-hose encasing them too. Our audience’s wild cheering morphed into a foul-mouthed and lascivious chant as each man in turn began to fuck his slave, though once again, save for Abi and Jane, those penetrations were faked, with cocks sliding between the ladies closed thighs. As our own moment approached, Dylan gently pressed my thighs together too and I thanked God in my relief, the alternative really would’ve been beyond the pale.
My relief was again short-lived: It took me but a couple of seconds to realise that the jerk followed by a waft of cool air which I felt, had been Dylan ripping open my panty-hose. Those seconds were kaçak bahis siteleri enough for him to pull aside my panties — those were embarrassingly damp! – and feed his cock head between the soft folds of my equally wet labia. By the time I’d begun to struggle Dylan’s hands were gripping me firmly by the hips and he was driving his cock deep inside me.
I yelled in protest but it was drowned-out by the cheers of those watching. Given that scream of objection morphed into one of wanton pleasure in the moment Dylan bottomed-out inside of me, that was perhaps fortunate? Appalled as I might’ve been by Dylan’s assault, I can’t deny enjoying it; at that moment I needed a stiff cock inside me, any cock and as I discovered in that instant, even my own son’s was acceptable, I really was gagging for it!
Dylan pounded into me like a jack-hammer, whether of his own volition, in response to the vulgar encouragement of the watching women, or perhaps due to my own lascivious entreaties I couldn’t say. Similarly, I’m still unsure as to whether my own frenzy was due to or despite it being my own son who was servicing me; our coupling was ferocious, almost bestial and the orgasm which the first discharge of Dylan’s climax triggered in me was perhaps the most powerful of my life!
Our intensity must’ve been equally apparent to those watching — no question as to whether we were faking it! – and only as our shared climax was greeted by the evening’s most ear-splitting outburst of screams and cheering did I comprehended that they’d fallen silent for the preceding minute or so; spell-bound by our performance. That realisation brought me down to earth with a bump, what the hell had I gone and done?
The humiliation of those ladies discovering that my son was one of the strippers, would be as nothing compared to their learning that I’d fucked him before their very eyes; it would be ruinous! I was so lost in those thoughts that I was barely aware of the show’s conclusion; we slaves were lifted to our feet to take a bow alongside the Full Montys, whereafter the men perched those damned Fedora hats on each of heads — our badges of shame? – and made a prompt departure.
We shameful-seven displayed varying degrees of instability — I perhaps being the worst? – as we returned to our seats to a further round of applause, lewd comments, whistles and cheers; once there it was little better, I and no doubt the other six women too becoming the centre of attention and conversation for those around them. I was both physically and mentally drained, just wanting to get back to my room, take a shower and hopefully then escape into sleep; I made my excuses at the earliest opportunity and headed for my room.
Progress was slow, with a dozen more of the girls button-holing me en-route, but I’d almost made it to the door when Annabelle stepped into my path: “Well Helen; you and Spartan were certainly the stars of our show…”
I muttered non-committally and tried to push past as Annabelle continued “… I filmed the whole thing on my phone; the quality’s not great, a bit shaky and with a people intruding in shot from time to time, but his initial penetration and your shared orgasm at the end are both as sharp as a pins; I’ll forward you a copy…”
Nodding in silent assent, I was again making for the door as Annabelle concluded: “…an attractive boy and very well formed for nineteen; or is Dylan twenty now?”
I stopped in mid-stride and stared at her. “You know; did Dylan tell you? After he drew that ballot ball?”
“Nooooo, I’ve known since the first time I saw the Full Montys perform. I called on you when I was staging that production up in Manchester a couple of years ago; I met Dylan then. He’s certainly matured, but not really changed very much; it’s an important part of my job to remember names and faces.”
My legs were now trembling. “So what… what were you talking about on stage?”
“Oh, Dylan was trying to make feeble excuses as to why it shouldn’t be you, or whether he could at least swap slaves with another of the guys…” Anna smiled archly. “… I told him that he was exactly who you wanted; that you’d asked especially and so I’d rigged the ballot for you.”
I was for a few seconds dumbstruck, I had to grab the door frame to stay upright. “But I… he… we… you mustn’t tell anyone, or show them that video; not ever!”
Annabelle’s wicked smile never wavered. “I’m sure we can reach an agreement on that; come to my room when this shindig’s over, where we can discuss it in a little more privacy…”
Annabelle’s acquisitive gaze made her meaning clear: “It’ll be a discrete meeting Helen, I’m in room four, right next door to you own; there’s even a connecting door between our rooms and that’s already unlocked on my side.”
Capitulation was no doubt clear in both my eyes and posture as Annabelle licked her lips before concluding: “And don’t you dare to clean-up or change those panties; I want to taste Spartacus as well as you Helen.”
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