A Forest Of Dicks
My body didn’t look that bad. Did it? Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I ran a hand over the vacancy where my breast used to be. The surgeon had done a good job. The scar was a clean seam, not a set of crude stitches like you’d see on a Frankenstein monster, and the left side of my chest was smooth and flat much like a boy’s. We’d talked about reconstruction but I couldn’t stand the thought of more hospitals. Besides, my breasts have always been small so even with one missing I didn’t look lopsided in a blouse. The other was healthy. I touched the nipple and an electric current of desire flowed through my body as if a cable ran directly from breast to pussy. A month after my chemo ended, my sex drive woke from its coma and I’d been as famished as a castaway ever since. I slipped the beige camisole over my head and paced to the extra bedroom Stan used as an office.
He hunched over the laptop while moving icons representing infantry divisions over the map of Asia on the screen. Encircling him from behind with my arms, I pressed my chest against the back of his chair and stroked his chest. When my hands got to his belly, I reached under his T-shirt.
“Give me a half hour, babe. I’m just about to conquer India.” Stan turned back to the laptop when its tinny speaker emitted the sound of an explosion. “Damn! The Japanese sank my aircraft carrier!”
Without Stan’s body to warm it, the bed was cold and lonely. I turned on the radio and listened to Terry Gross interview an author I’d never heard of. Stan didn’t come to bed until after I fell asleep. He’d been using that damn computer to avoid me since my diagnosis. Had all the doctors and hospitals overwhelmed him or had my mastectomy left me unattractive?
I couldn’t blame him. Throughout the chemo, Stan was a rock. He held me when I was nauseous, cleaned up my puke, and even offered to shave his head in solidarity when I lost my hair. I told him that was stupid. It was bad enough being sick but I couldn’t bear to do without the brown bangs that always fell into his eyes.
Oh, the sex we used to have! He could never get enough of my body and I loved his skinny waist, the spiral of hair on his chest, and how he came when I took one of his balls in my mouth. That changed after my diagnosis. Cancer took not only my breast. It took my sex life, too.
“After my illness, I don’t feel like a woman anymore, just some weird sexless creature.” I speared an olive, tomato slice, and piece of feta with my fork. “Maybe Stan’s picking up on that.” I brought the fork to my mouth. The dressing had too much vinegar and not enough olive oil.
“You just need a good pounding to get your confidence back,” Sonja said. With her smooth skin, pixie-cut, and tattoos peeking out from her sleeves, she looked much younger than forty-two. She tasted her falafel while making up her mind to speak. “After I lost my breast, there was one thing that made me feel sexy again.”
“I pulled a train.”
“I had a gang bang.”
A gang bang! Sonja’s tattoos and piercings always made me suspect she was into weird shit. But a gang bang! That was for high-school girls with torn nylons, thick eye shadow, and bad reputations, girls like Maria Vietti who pulled a train for the football team when Alan Souter’s parents were out of town.
The details spilled out of Sonja as I sat stunned. “It was the hottest experience of my life. A dozen guys all wanting me. Cocks everywhere I looked. It’ll change your life.”
“I could never do something like that.” I dropped my gaze to my salad. “I mean, what if people found out?”
“That’s why I went to Germany, where nobody knows me. There’s a swingers’ club near Stuttgart that puts them on. You know Kyle?”
“The gay Tai Chi teacher?”
“Yeah, I took him along for personal security. The Germans were perfect gentlemen but it’s a good idea to have somebody to step in if things get out of hand.”
I tried to put Sonja’s suggestion out of my mind but morbid curiosity got the better of me. What kind of girl would volunteer for such degradation? Someone who did it for the money, no doubt. Clearly, she’d have to have no self-respect. Maybe a pimp or abusive boyfriend forced her but that didn’t sound like Sonja at all.
Before Stan got home from work, I fired up the laptop and turned the sound down. It wasn’t hard to find video online. I expected to see female victims, rag dolls tossed from man to man for their sick pleasure, but many women at the center were warrior goddesses, telling jokes during the orgy and ordering men how to please them. Instead of looking brutalized, faces dripping with semen women smiled for pictures as if proving victory in a competition with their girlfriends. One brunette in pigtails practically attacked the gathered men’s cocks, gobbling each one with her lips around the shaft and her head bobbing like a pumpjack. There have even been world records. Annabel Chong did 251 men in the late 1990s, Lisa Sparxxx 919, and Sabrina Johnson had sex with 2000.
The men at German and Czech gang bangs didn’t insult their women like Americans and Brits did. The website of the swingers’ club, Sonja told me about, posted plenty of details. They met in Freiburg, right in the middle of the Black Forest. The Germans earned their reputation for thoroughness with an application that asked which sex acts would be permissible (vaginal, oral, and/or anal) as well as whether condoms should be worn for any or all. I leaned back in the chair and touched my index finger to the corner of my mouth. If I did it, I’d probably go vaginal and oral without condoms. The risk would be worth it. I wanted to live to the fullest while I still could. No pictures or video, though! Definitely neither of those! Of course, I’d have to bring a certificate showing a clean AIDS test and then there was the cost of the plane ticket. What was I thinking? I was a married woman.
The next night, I made love to Stan, good old reliable Stan. How silly to want to fly off the Germany for sex with a bunch of strangers. Still, I couldn’t get the image of the pigtailed brunette out of my head. Skin slick with sweat and semen, she lay on a lapis lazuli mat like a Sumerian goddess holding a cock in each hand as if they were sheaves of wheat. All that fucking had pushed her beyond reason. Transcendent after hours of intense pleasure, all she could do was moan. Getting an AIDS test wouldn’t commit me. It was cheap and I could still change my mind.
“The captain has turned off the seatbelt sign. You’re free to move about the cabin. However, we suggest you keep your seatbelts on while seated. In a few minutes, we’ll be starting our meal service. Today’s choices are …”
Before the flight attendant finished, Kyle’s shot like a missile out of the aisle seat toward the bathrooms at the rear of the plane. He was a good choice for a bodyguard. Everything about his looks hinted at barely contained mayhem from his massive shoulders to his facial stubble, close-cropped hair, and the wicked scar on the corner of his mouth. Fortunately for the rest of us, the toughest people often have the sweetest natures. Kyle even offered to take the middle seat although his big body would have never fit. He made it back before the flight attendant pushed the cart to our seats.
“Chicken or fish?”
“Just some white wine.” Even though I wasn’t doing anal, I fasted so I wouldn’t fart during my sex marathon.
“She’ll have the fish.” Kyle turned to me. “You’re training for an athletic event. You need your strength.”
I ate the fish and salad but skipped the starches. Despite copious glasses of cheap Chardonnay, I couldn’t sleep. So, while Kyle snored next to me, I spent hours watching sappy romances and lame sitcoms on the LCD screen in front of me. I finally dozed off only to have the cabin lights wake me a half hour later as flight attendants pushed carts of pancakes and scrambled eggs down the aisles. The plane began its descent an hour later. I had to crane my head to see through the window at the fairytale landscape of gingerbread houses all arranged in neat, tidy rows. Kyle and I cleared customs around 10 a.m. local time. After exchanging money, we took a taxi to the hotel.
“Should we take a walk and look for a place to eat?” he asked.
“You go ahead. I need sleep.”
When it comes to jet lag, I don’t try to acclimatize. I sleep when I can. After a shower, I hopped into bed and pulled the thick comforter over me. I don’t know why Europeans used these things. The comforter was too hot but it was too cold to sleep without it. Eventually, I found a compromise by lying on my side with the comforter covering half my body. I woke around 4:00 a.m. to see the message light flashing on the phone. It was Kyle inviting me to dinner. Too late!
With hours until breakfast and Dieter scheduled to pick us up at 9:30, I was alone with my thoughts. Unable to speak the language, I felt isolated and far from home. My emotions were a tennis ball volleyed between terror and excitement. Fairytales can turn ugly. What if they sent me off in shackles to some Arab prince’s harem? Proving itself a contrarian, my pussy got wet. I fingered my clit.
“Stop that!” I told myself. “Save it for the Germans.”
Hours later, I dressed and went to a dining room next to the lobby for breakfast. A family with a teenaged daughter sat at one table and a handful of backpackers at another but I didn’t see Kyle.
“Setzen sie! Früstück!” a heavyset matron ordered.
I took a plate and helped myself to cheese, fruit, and yogurt from the buffet but stayed away from the cold cuts and rye. With a needed cup of coffee, it made a satisfying breakfast. Kyle didn’t show so I went back to my room and packed. He rushed into the lobby just as I was rolling my suitcase out of the elevator.
“Where were you last night?” I asked.
“Oh, I made a new friend at the beer hall.” He blushed. “You can’t expect me to look at all those cocks and not get one for myself. Can you?”
“Kyle, how good to see you again,” A German man walked up and shook Kyle’s hand. With his leather fanny pack and wire-rimmed glasses, he could have passed for a tour guide. He turned to me. “And you must be Stella. I am Dieter and this is Ilse who will act as your, how do you say, fluffer.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Ilse was thin with blazing blue eyes and a nose sharp enough to cut a steak.
“Before we begin, there is the small matter of the health certificate,” Dieter said.
“Right here.” I handed it over and stood by while he and Ilse conferred in German.
“Very good.” Dieter handed it to Ilse for safe keeping. “I made a reservation for you at the Jäger Inn. I hope it will be to your liking. If you come this way, we will drive you.” While making small talk, he led us to a silver-gray Audi. Once Dieter maneuvered through Zurich traffic and headed north toward the German border, he got down to business. “So, your application says vaginal and oral sex are fine without condoms but no anal sex. Is that correct?”
“And no ass slapping, head pulling, and no photos or video?”
Past the border, we entered the Black Forest, an enchanted realm of cuckoo clocks and magical trees. It really was black. Okay, the evergreens were a very dark green. After a half hour Dieter dropped us off at an inn with a half-timbered façade, much like a Tudor home.
“Feel free to look around this afternoon,” he said. “I will pick you up at 6:00 p.m. for the get acquainted dinner.”
“You vill haf a good time!” Kyle whispered as Dieter pulled away.
A half-dozen guys with names like Hans, Fritz, Wolfgang, and I Don’t Remember joined us for a dinner of schnitzel, pickled salad, and lots of beer. Not wanting to gas out the guys at my debut, I steered clear from the cabbage despite Dieter’s encouragement.
“In the south, we call it red cabbage, but in the north, it’s blue cabbage,” Dieter told me.
The conversation was banal.
“Where do you live in America?”
“What do you do?”
“How do you like Germany so far?”
The guys seemed respectful enough given the circumstances. After two hours, Dieter drove us back to the inn and promised to return in the morning.
The morning of the main event, my heart was a bird with a broken wing flapping in my chest. It was a Saturday and the gang bang was scheduled for that afternoon. After a breakfast of fruit and yogurt, I had time to commune with the forest so I found a wooded area, sat with my back against a tree, and let the sun warm my face. On this beautiful day, nature was loving and accepting. I never do this kind of thing in public but I took off my shirt and let the wind caress my chest, scar and all. A blue flycatcher twittered its approval from the branches above.
“You ready to do this?” Kyle wore jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his biceps.
“Yeah.” Heart pounding, breath ragged, and body trembling, I walked with him down the hallway. Wearing only high heels, panties, and my camisole, I entered a gymnasium where a round of applause greeted me.
A dozen cocks surrounded me – short ones, long ones, skinny ones, and fat ones all in various states of tumescence. Some bent up; others down. One had a silver ring through a piercing in its tip. Their owners fingered them to maintain erections through what would for them amount to a lot of waiting. Like the penises, the owners came in all shapes and sizes. Most were naked although a few wore shoes, socks, T-shirts, or black balaclavas for anonymity. Like at a rock concert of film festival, all had yellow wristbands.
The crowd parted for me. All my fear vanished as I strode to the thigh-high, vinyl Ottoman in the center of the room while Dieter made introductions in German. Naked except for stockings and garters, Ilse greeted me with a choice of dildos. I understood that this was to loosen me up for the action. Even though my pussy was already wet as a bucket, I wanted to put on a show.
“I want you to film it.” I took the black dildo. “I want the whole world to see.”
“You are very brave.” Ilse’s eyes told me she understood.
With the possible exception of Kyle’s, all eyes were on me as I rolled my panties down my legs and over my ankles. I put the tip of the dildo to my lips, tasted the rubber, and licked its entire length before inserting it into my vagina.
“Ja! Schön!” the Germans murmured.
I’d planned to shield my ruined chest with the camisole but at that moment, I knew it had to go. While rocking my hips to an internal rhythm, I pulled it over my head exposing my mastectomy scar. There was a moment of stunned silence until an older man with washboard abs bellowed “Schön!”
“Schön! Schön!´the others joined in.
Suddenly I was on my knees surrounded by men presenting their cocks to my mouth. I wrapped my lips around the closets and then pulled my head back to smack my lips on a drop of precum. Still holding it, I ran my tongue down the shaft, sucked one of the balls (glad the man-scaping had left no hair), and turned my full attention back to the cock, rotating my hand on the shaft while bobbing my head up and down. My hair fell in my mouth but a man kindly held it back. Hand still stroking the first cock, I moved on to the next.
“Oh yeah!” I spit on it for lubrication before my hand slid the foreskin down so my tongue could tickle the head.
One after another, Men shook their cocks in my face. I slurped each, making sucking sounds while my head bobbed up and down for brief tastes before moving on to the next. I slapped some on my tongue and motor-boated others. I even sucked two at once, playing them like a panpipe. I took the longest with the pierced man, tickling the silver ring while cupping his balls in my palm. One man came in my mouth. I swallowed, milked his cock for the remains, and licked the last drop out of his urethra before kissing the head goodbye.
Having introduced myself, I lay back on the Ottoman. It started out almost romantic, or as romantic as it can be with a dozen men. Washboard Abs knelt between my legs and teased my clit with his tongue. He spat on my pussy for lubrication but his cock still bent as he tried to push in. I reached down and guided it inside me. He began pumping slowly at first. Someone kneaded my breast. Meanwhile guys surrounded my head and pushed their cocks forward. I chose one and gave it a slow, sensuous kiss. Washboard Abs pulled out and came on my stomach. He reinserted for a few more pumps and made way for the next guy who happened to be wearing a balaclava.
Once Balaclava put it in, he pounded me like a jackhammer. The skin of his thighs slapped mine while the rocking motion caused my breast to jiggle back and forth. This was what I was looking for. Panting to the rhythm of his thrusts, I smeared the last man’s semen on my belly and fingered my clit. Someone shook a cock in my face. I gave it a few, passionate sucks before my body sensations distracted me. My body clenched in a gigantic orgasm and Balaclava spurted his warm seed inside me not long after that.
I had no respite, no warm afterglow, before the next stallion stepped forward to give my pussy the vigorous pounding it craved. Two of his comrades held my legs apart and I felt a drop of sweat tickle the back of my knee. A man pulled his cock out of my mouth, stroked it desperately, and aimed his spurt of semen at my extended tongue. It landed mostly on my cheek and chin. I wiped the glob away, stretched a strand of it between my fingertips, and licked it off.
My body clenched again. I glanced at Ilse working to maintain the men’s erections for me. Kneeling she stroked a cock in each hand while sucking another amid paused to joke and answer questions. By now I was bathed in sweat. The constant thrusting pushed me past the edge and I lost control. To hell with propriety. I was in a primal state. All the mattered was my pleasure. Sex unlocked the primitive part of my brain taking my back to infancy when I sought comfort in sucking. Frantically, I wrapped my lips around one of many cocks waving in my face but my screams shook the rafters even with my mouth full. Fingers spread my labia and I felt the tickle of semen drip toward my asshole.
Strong hands pulled my hips to the edge of the Ottoman and the pumping resumed. A man stood over my face, positioned his penis in my mouth, and squatted to move it in and out. It slipped out and I guided it back. At some point all divisions blurred. There was no me and them. There was only fucking. I remember sitting atop various men and bouncing like a little girl. Then I was on hands and knees. Ilse was lying underneath me and licking my clit while a man entered me from behind. Later I was on my back again with my head resting on her shoulder.
“Spritzen! Ja! Spritzen!”
A circle jerked off their cocks toward my mouth. I sucked and slurped at each but it was so chaotic that all I could eventually do was open my mouth and stick out my tongue as a target. Semen flew wide, splattering Ilse, my face, my hair, and even the Ottoman. When a man finished, I rushed him into my mouth to get the last drop. A glob dripped down my chin. I wiped it away and smeared it on my mastectomy scar.
The guys adjusted their aim and bathed my chest in their DNA. Ilse licked the semen off my face with her slow, sensuous tongue and kissed me to transfer the load to my mouth. Face and body slick and sticky, throat raw from screaming, bleach smell of semen in my nostrils, and smiling, most of all smiling, I blew bubbles with the phlegmy mouthful for the camera and swallowed. I never felt so powerful.
With brown bangs curled over the top of his glasses, Stan looked up from the laptop as I wheeled my suitcase through the door.
“How was your conference?”
I should have said, “Fine,” and gone to unpack but I’d had it with repressed emotions, polite fictions, and tiptoeing around the rhinoceros under our bed. I placed the thumb drive with the gang bang video on the table in front of him.
Jon Wesick has published hundreds of poems and stories in journals such as the Atlanta Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, Metal Scratches, Pearl, Slipstream, Space and Time, Tales of the Talisman, and Zahir. He is the author of the poetry collection Words of Power, Dances of Freedom as well as several novels and most recently the short-story collection The Alchemist’s Grandson Changes His Name.