Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, BiSexual, Swinging, Group Sex, Orgy, Safe Sex, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Cream Pie, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, School,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 3 - A sequel to Weekend at Grandma's. Amber has now gone on to college and sorority life, where she has several things to consider, her love life, her swinging, and her future.
Friday night was a house sponsored social. We had a mixer with two different fraternities; one was a jock house, the other was only sort of one. That meant some of the guys were athletes, but they didn't dominate the membership, not like the Sigmas.
Guys at a fraternity, despite what people see in the movies, aren't wild, beer-swilling collections of per-pubescent boys. That's a stereotype from Hollywood. Better than half of the actives in a frat house are fairly sober and serious. They're the kind of boys parents like, and that girls would like to marry. That is one of the reasons you have Greek houses working together especially in social matters.
The boys I met at these things didn't fit my first requirement in a guy: he had to be a member of the local swinging culture, or agreeable to it. You don't spring that sort of thing on a guy. They get so possessive about such things as girlfriends and sex. But that didn't mean I couldn't flirt and have fun.
Monty was from a small Texas town, and was on a football scholarship. Now coaches like to make sure their players get a good night's sleep before a game. Courtney, our Social Director, knew I had a boyfriend outside of the Greek System, and so I was the logical one to hook him up with.
He was tall, thin, and a really good dancer. I was secretly amused when the music slowed down. When a guy rubs against a girl's body he often gets a certain physical reaction. That's all right, girls have a similar reaction. The music started, and it didn't take long before I felt his dick harden. I was getting turned on, and if we'd been at a party I would have led the way to the nearest mattress.
Ah, that was not to be. I rubbed back against him, and imagined that hardness just a little lower, right where it would do both of us the most good. It's a good thing boys can't read a girl's mind.
That dance ended, and the small band changed to something a lot faster. Monty tried to be cool about it. His eyes widened slightly. My older brother Rick had told me about this. This way he could watch my chest as it bounced up and down. It was much better than staring at it directly, but not by much. That's something you get used to as a growing girl. I'd seen it in high school, not only directed at myself, but at others as well. Guys failed to realize that there was a person attached to the boobs. The only honesty I got was the boys I had sex with.
That wasn't going to happen with Monty. We danced, we talked—he actually had a serious major, and football was just paying for his education—and we danced some, more. At the end of the evening he walked me back to the sorority, accepted that we'd say good-night without a kiss, and went back to his room. I hope he had fantastic dreams and that I figured prominently in them. And I hoped he got a good night's sleep.
Now there are a lot of misconceptions about life in a sorority, about what goes on, and what the girls do when there aren't any men around. Most of those come from stereotypes created in Hollywood, and most of them are flat-out wrong. We don't run around in short, filmy nightgowns, we don't appear half-naked, and, to the best of my considerable knowledge, we don't engage in lesbian sex at a moment's notice.
Instead we do what young women have been doing since time began: we talked about what had happened that evening, and compared notes about the boys. Women have an almost insatiable need to know things, and we satisfy that curiosity bump by talking.
I got upstairs to my room, into something a lot more relaxed—my sleep-tee, robe and slippers—and then down the hall to share tidbits about the guys. We stayed up late eating popcorn, drinking (diet) sodas, and talking.
Guys would be shocked at what they heard. We're fairly brutal in our evaluations. This guy had wandering hands, that guy felt like he had a log in his pants—it turned out to be a rolled-up pair of socks, a girl can tell—and this guy was a computer nerd, a legacy, and was very likely to be either a work-a-holic or a billionaire before he was thirty, maybe both.
We also dished on the girls who weren't back yet. They were probably off in bed with their boyfriends/dates, and some of them had their morals and proclivities hauled out and sliced, diced, and julienned. It was great fun, and one I took to heart: I wasn't going to end up the subject of their conversation if I could help it.
Eventually the popcorn was gone, the empties thrown in the recycle bin, and people were falling asleep. We all staggered off to bed, tired, but curiously pumped up. Social affairs like that will do it for a girl. There's a reason so many young women identify with Julie Andrews in "My Fair Lady" and her son "I Could Have Danced All Night".
Those of us who'd been in school a few years spent the morning doing schoolwork. The old joke is that you can tell someone new to college from someone who's been there even one term: the latter never loses a chance to study. I hit the books pretty hard because I wasn't going to have a chance until late Sunday evening. I'd do it then, too, but no sense in passing up the opportunity.
In the afternoon we all trooped off to the football game. We were playing Alabama, and one side of the stadium was red for the Crimson Tide, and the other half was purple for the LSU Tigers. Monty caught two passes, one for a touchdown. On the second catch he was hit so hard when he went up for the ball that I could feel the impact 30 rows above the field. Still, he got up and trotted of the field.
We and the Deltas got together for a post-game party. We'd hosted the Deltas the last home game, so it was their turn, and they invited a couple of frat houses. A good time was had by all.
It was out in the open, and that's where Wesley found me. I saw him coming through the crowd, and we hooked up without a word. I wasn't the only girl slipping out this way, it was almost an established tradition that those girls with dates for Saturday night would take their leave, while those who didn't, well, this was a great chance to meet boys.
"Have fun?" Wesley asked.
"Not as much as a little while from now."
He nodded and shifted slightly in his seat. I've always wondered if guys get a hard-on before the party starts. If they do, it's got to be awfully uncomfortable sitting or even walking like that. Does a girl get turned on? In a way. We aren't quite so focused on any one part of our anatomy, so but our bodies do prepare themselves for what lies ahead. I was definitely a lot moister down there, and there was an electric feel to the air, as if my skin was picking up everything. Oh yes, I was ready for this party.
Part of the fun is just letting whatever happens, happen. That means that all the old rules go out the window. So when you turn sideways to let someone pass in the hall, it's perfectly acceptable for him to stop and squeeze your breast, and for you to trail fingers over his butt. It's just casual, friendly, and not too serious. Or it can be the prelude to something a lot more interesting; it all depends upon how you both feel.
After a while one swinger party is like any other swinger party. You all get naked, or real close to it, and you have fun trying to put large things into small places. Usually things don't quite fit, so you have to try over and over. Sometimes you get a happy result when all of the built-up tension releases, other times you realize that the process is the important thing.
Some things stand out. There was Carol, who was nursing, and when she came she expressed milk. Fortunately she'd brought a breast pump, so she was able to relieve the fullness her letdown reflex gave her. Most people don't see a woman's milk, so that was highly instructive for everyone.
I think Mike was my favorite. He always produced a lot of come when he popped, and when he did between my boobs, his jet was strong enough to spatter my face. I had his stuff dripping off my chin and boobs. His wife, Suzie, decided to lick it all up, and she really knew how to play with a girl's breasts.
This was something I'd learned when I was still in high school. Guys don't really know how to do it with a girl's boobs. They like to squeeze, but they haven't mastered the feather-soft touch. Kelly did, but to be fair, his wife taught him. He covered my boobs with caresses, touches, kisses, and some dynamite tongue action, and left me panting for more. I also left scratches on his back—Janet was very understanding—and I had a really good time.
At the end of the evening Wesley and I shared a shower. He made sure I got really clean, and I returned the favor. We helped each other get dressed, sort of a tradition we'd adopted to signify that the night was over. By then he was too tired to really get it up, and I was too tired to do much more than just lie there, and what's the fun of that?
One of the ways I keep this part of my social life from my sorority sisters is by not staying out too late. I knew there were people at the party who would be there all night. I was home by 11:00, looking all prim and proper, and something some girls don't really learn, smelling "normal". Nobody can smell a man on you like another girl, and if there was any come involved ... I can't prove it, but I suspect that a woman can smell a man's come. I smelled of perfume—I'd touched it up in the car—and didn't have that distinct odor of a male's sweat or other juices on me.
There's more to it than taking a shower. If a guy comes deep inside you, the remnants of his come will be there for hours. And any arousal you had will leave traces on your clothes. You don't want your panties smelling a certain way. The solution is to carry a clean pair with you. The pair I'd worn to the party went into a baggie. Nobody was the wiser, I was home at a decent hour, and all was right with the world.
I slept very soundly that night. I always do after an evening of vigorous sex.
A lot of the girls are very serious about church on Sunday morning. Of course some of us, like me, don't view certain activities as sins, while others view Sunday morning as an opportunity to repent what they'd done Saturday night, sort of an "instant forgiveness".
After church I picked up my books and headed to campus. I got as far as my car, and returned to the party. I felt all charged up, and spent the afternoon taking a refresher course in male anatomy, and having the most female parts of me admired and explored by curious guys. Did you know there are guys with tongues long enough that they can reach pretty far into a girl? I didn't either, but enjoyed the discovery.
By late afternoon it was time to get dressed again, this time without Wesley's help, and head back to campus. I was a little tender down there and glad I'd worn a skirt. My favorite jeans rubbed that part of me with its seam, and I just wasn't up for that much excitement. That's what a skirt is really comes in handy, and since it was unlined, there was only one way to avoid the dreaded "visible panty line". That was okay, I didn't want any fabric rubbing that part of me anyway.
Of course other girls will notice that sort of thing—it's an automatic reaction—but that's what sweats are for. And on Sunday night, unless you have a study date, it's perfectly acceptable to wear baggy sweats. Sunday night homework is not a social situation.
In high school I'd partied with kids my own age. In college the parties included people from all walks of life, and all ages up to retirement. I can testify that there are men out there with snow on the roof, but they are well capable of making both them and their partner very happy. He might have been in his 60s, but he was still vigorous, and it was with no little surprise that I recognized him on Monday morning.