The scent of stale beer and cheap cologne still clung to Vicky's living room carpet fibers like a ghostly imprint of debauchery, a visceral reminder hitting Stacey whenever she visited her sister's house. Stacey traced a finger along the wine stain on Vicky's sofa arm, imagining eighteen pairs of hands, eighteen mouths, eighteen bodies converging in accidental chaos�Vicky's breathless retelling over brunch ("They just kept coming in, like puppies!") igniting a slow burn low in Stacey's belly. She didn't want polished orchestration; she craved that raw, sprawling collision of flesh beneath open sky, beneath the gnarled oak by Miller's Creek path where swingers gathered after dusk. The fantasy crystallized: damp grass under bare thighs, anonymous hands parting her, the tree's bark scraping her shoulder blades as laughter and groans tangled in the humid air.
Mark's workshop smelled of sawdust and turpentine, sharp and grounding. Stacey leaned against the doorframe, watching her husband sand the edge of a walnut cabinet�muscles shifting beneath his flannel shirt, sweat dampening his temples. "Vicky's planning another party, " she began, her voice deliberately casual. "Outdoors this time. Miller's Creek oak." Mark paused, sandpaper hovering mid-stroke. His gaze flicked to hers, a slow understanding blooming in his eyes�not surprise, but recognition. He knew her hunger for spectacle, for being devoured by eyes and hands under moonlight. A slow grin spread across his face. "Need help sourcing... attendees?" he asked, the rasp in his voice sending a shiver down her spine. "Or just logistics?" His thumb brushed sawdust from her collarbone, lingering.
***Stacey*** traced the curve of the workshop doorframe, her knuckles white. The scent of Mark’s sweat mingling with turpentine, grounded her. "Not attendees, " she breathed, stepping closer until the sawdust coated her bare toes. "Blindfolded. Like Vicky. Under the oak. Whoever walks Miller’s Creek path�strangers, Mark. Dozens. Hundreds maybe." Her voice dropped, husky with the image: cool night air on exposed skin, the rough bark at her back, unknown fingers tracing her jaw, her throat, lower. "Dad knows the regulars. The risks. He’ll make it... safe chaos." She pressed her palm flat against Mark’s chest, feeling the hard thump of his heart accelerate beneath her touch. "Help me build the stage where I vanish. Where only sensation remains."***Linda***’s laughter echoed in Stacey’s memory�bright, unashamed�as she’d described Dad leaning against their own oak years ago, bourbon in hand, eyes darkly intent as Linda arched under a bearded stranger’s thrusts. "He likes the unraveling, " Linda had sighed, stretching languidly afterward. "The surrender." Stacey understood now. Dad wouldn’t orchestrate; he’d witness. His presence wasn’t intrusion but sanction�a silent nod to the primal pulse beneath civility. He’d ensure the dark beneath the oak stayed velvet, not jagged.
***Dad*** answered on the third ring, the faint clink of ice cubes audible against crystal. "Stace?" His voice, graveled by decades of cigars and command, held no surprise. Only readiness. She pictured him in his leather armchair, twilight painting the study’s mahogany panels. "Full moon’s next Thursday, " she said, the words rushing out like creek water over stone. "Miller’s Creek oak. Blindfolded. No names. Just... bodies. Will you?" Silence stretched, thick with the unspoken�Linda’s ghost, Vicky’s laughter, the raw hunger Stacey couldn’t name. Then, a slow exhalation. "I’ll bring the good bourbon, " he rumbled. "And keep the coyotes at bay." Not protection. Vigilance. His watchful stillness would be her anchor in the storm.
***Stacey*** turned to Mark, the phone still warm in her hand. The workshop air crackled, thick with resin and anticipation. She didn’t ask; her eyes held the command. *Watch*. See me unmade. His jaw tightened, knuckles whitening around the sandpaper block. A possessive growl vibrated low in his chest, warring with the dark thrill she saw ignite in his pupils. He nodded once, sharp and final. The carpenter would build no stage tonight. He’d stand sentinel. Witness the deconstruction.
Dad, I want to have you there to watch over me, and watch me. It would be a treat for you, watching me sucking cock and taking strangers deep inside me. I want you to watch your daughter be used. Will you help plan it daddy?
Dad answered with a resounding yes. His bourbon glass clicked sharply against the mahogany desk�not hesitation, but punctuation. "Miller's Creek oak, " he repeated, the words thick with decades of cigar smoke and unspoken permissions. "Thursday's moon'll be fat enough to see the sweat on their backs." He paused, ice shifting like bones in the glass. "I'll bring the folding stool. And binoculars." The admission hung, obscene and practical. Not just watching. *Studying*. The way he'd once tracked market fluctuations, now attuned to the shudder of his daughter's hips beneath strangers.
Stacey's breath hitched�not fear, but the electric jolt of being *known*. She pictured him perched like a weathered hawk on that stool, bourbon warming his palm as the night unfolded. His gaze wouldn't be protective; it would be *appraising*. Cataloging the arch of her spine against the oak's bark when the first anonymous hand slid between her thighs. Measuring the tremor in her voice against Linda's remembered cries. He'd note the precise moment her blindfolded mouth slackened around a cock she couldn't see, the way Linda's chin used to glisten under moonlight. His vigilance wasn't safety. It was the curator's eye, ensuring the performance met the family's exacting standard of raw, messy artistry.
Rich arrived under a bruised pre-dawn sky, the air tasting of damp earth and last night’s decay. Miller’s Creek path was deserted, silent except for the creek’s low murmur and the rustle of unseen creatures retreating into the underbrush. He moved with the quiet efficiency of a hunter�not for game, but for evidence. From his canvas bag, he withdrew two high-resolution game cameras, their lenses cold and unblinking. He mounted them high in the surrounding pines: one angled down at the gnarled oak’s base, capturing the clearing where bodies would converge; the other trained along the path’s approach, ready to record every arrival. Next came the shotgun microphones, slender and deadly precise, nestled deep in ferns near the oak’s roots. Their parabolic dishes would vacuum every gasp, every wet slap of skin, every choked plea Stacey might utter. His fingers adjusted the sensitivity dials�calibrated to catch whispers across twenty yards. Satisfied, he wiped dew from the lens hoods. The stage was set. The audience would be intimate, hungry: Linda’s ghost flickering on the screen, his own sharp anticipation, and later, Stacey’s flushed review. Once home, Linda would be fascinated watching it all unfold. Watching Stacey perform as she did on that exact spot.
The thicket he chose was twenty paces northeast of the oak�a snarled fortress of blackberry vines, young cedars, and poison oak. Rich hacked silently at obstructive branches with a collapsible pruning saw, sweat darkening his faded denim shirt. He cleared two narrow sightlines: one perfectly framing the oak’s trunk where Stacey would be pinned; the other angled toward the path’s entrance. He tested the view, crouching low. Perfect. The oak’s bark, fissured and ancient, filled his vision. He could already imagine the pale curve of Stacey’s spine pressed against it. Beside him, Mark would have an unimpeded view of her face, her blindfolded expression slackening with each intrusion. Rich packed the saw away, his movements economical. He then laid down thick rubberized mats over the damp, leaf-littered ground�silent footing for their vigil. Finally, he unfolded two compact camping stools, their legs sinking slightly into the soft earth. He positioned them side-by-side. Close enough for elbows to brush in the dark. Close enough to share the bourbon flask without a word.
That afternoon, Rich dug through the linen closet’s cedar-scented depths. His fingers brushed past embroidered pillowcases and starched guest towels before finding the worn cotton bundle tucked in the back. He unfolded it slowly: Linda’s picnic comforter. Decades of grass stains and spilled wine mapped its surface like constellations. He traced the bold, blocky letters stitched along one edge in brilliant white thread�Linda’s favorite phrase, his own design. **PLEASE FUCK ME**. The fabric still carried a ghost of her perfume, mingled faintly with the scent of damp earth and crushed clover from that last afternoon beneath the oak. He remembered her sprawled on it, laughing, the white letters stark against the dark wool as strangers knelt between her thighs. He’d watch from the shade then too, bourbon warming his hand. He shook the comforter out now, the words flashing defiantly in the dim closet light. It smelled faintly of detergent, but beneath it lingered the musk of memory. This would be Stacey’s altar cloth.
He arrived before dusk, the fading light painting the oak’s bark in long, bruised shadows. Rich moved with silent precision, unfolding Linda’s comforter directly beneath the lowest, thickest branch�the one Stacey’s spine would grind against. He smoothed the **PLEASE FUCK ME** stitching facing upward, a silent, obscene invitation glowing against the dark wool. Then he checked the cameras. The trail cam mounted high in the pine hissed softly as its infrared LEDs flickered on, bathing the clearing in an invisible wash of light. He pulled the remote from his pocket, thumbing the joystick. The second camera, mounted lower on a sturdy maple limb overlooking the comforter, whirred softly. Its lens panned smoothly across the wool, zoomed in tight on the stitched plea, then pulled back. Rich adjusted the focus until the weave of the fabric was sharp, the white thread painfully clear. Satisfied, he tapped the shotgun mic receiver clipped to his belt�a green light blinked. Every gasp, every wet slap, every choked syllable Stacey uttered would be crystal clear for Linda’s later viewing. He pictured his wife leaning close to the monitor, eyes wide, reliving it through the lens.
The crunch of tires on gravel announced them. Mark killed the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the creek’s murmur and the rustle of wind in the high branches. Stacey emerged first, the robe a shimmering cascade of dark silk slipping from her shoulders like water. The dusk light caught the perfect arch of her brow, the meticulous sweep of eyeliner accentuating her wide, emerald eyes. Her long, dark hair was coiled into an intricate knot at her nape, not a strand out of place. Beneath the robe, she wore nothing. Her skin glowed pale against the encroaching twilight, the athletic lines of her body�the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the powerful taper of her thighs�rendered starkly beautiful. Mark followed, his gaze locked on her, a possessive hunger warring with something darker in his eyes. He carried a simple folding chair. Stacey turned slowly, presenting herself fully to the hidden thicket where Rich watched. Her hands slid down her own flanks, drawing attention to the absolute smoothness between her legs. Not a hint of stubble marred the perfect, vulnerable swell of her mound, the lips beneath gleaming faintly in the fading light�a meticulously prepared offering laid bare for the night.
She looked down as she approached the oak’s massive trunk. The familiar, worn wool of Linda’s comforter lay spread beneath it like a sacred cloth. Her eyes traced the bold, blocky white stitching stark against the dark fabric near the edge closest to her bare feet. "You brought mama's comforter, " she breathed, her voice husky with a sudden, visceral pang of memory�Linda’s laughter echoing, the scent of bourbon and crushed clover. It was perfect, the message loud and clear on the bottom: **PLEASE FUCK ME**. A tremor, part anticipation, part profound surrender, rippled through her. She leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss onto Rich’s weathered cheek. His skin felt cool, smelled faintly of pine resin and old leather. "All was ready, " she murmured, the words thick with meaning. The blindfold, a simple strip of black silk, lay folded neatly atop the comforter beside a small bottle of lubricant. Her gaze flickered towards the dense thicket where she knew Mark waited, unseen. Her father’s silent nod was her benediction.
She lowered herself onto the quilt with deliberate grace, the rough wool scratchy against her thighs. The dusk air kissed her exposed skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and tightening her nipples into hard, sensitive peaks. She arranged herself carefully, spreading her legs wide, knees bent slightly, feet planted firmly on the comforter near the stitched plea. Her dark hair, released from its knot, fanned out around her head like spilled ink against the wool, framing her face. The rising moon, a pale disc low in the indigo sky, cast its first silvery light directly upon her. It glimmered on the smooth, oiled planes of her stomach, highlighted the taut swell of her breasts, and caught the slick, vulnerable sheen of her completely bare pussy lips, glistening like dew on a flower petal. Below her spread thighs, the white stitching screamed its invitation.
The first couple emerged from the path's gloom � a man and woman holding hands, their steps slowing as they saw the tableau beneath the oak. The woman gasped softly, her fingers tightening on her partner's arm. The man stared, his gaze raking Stacey’s prone form, lingering on the stark message stitched below her splayed thighs. He pulled out his phone, the camera flash a sudden, blinding stab in the twilight. It illuminated the droplets of moisture clinging to Stacey’s inner thighs, the way her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. The woman whispered, her voice carrying clearly on the still air, "God, look at her... so exposed. That *quilt*..." Her partner murmured back, low and hungry, "Imagine just... walking up. Taking what's offered." They lingered, taking several more pictures � close-ups of her glistening sex, the curve of her hip, the blindfolded face tilted back � before melting back into the shadows, their excited whispers fading.
Another group arrived � three young men, laughing and shoving each other until they saw her. Their laughter died instantly, replaced by a charged silence. One whistled low under his breath. "Holy shit, " another breathed, stepping closer. "Check the blanket." They circled her like predators, phones out instantly. The flash popped repeatedly, freezing moments: Stacey’s fingers unconsciously curling into the wool near her head, the subtle flinch of her abdomen as a cold breeze ghosted over her oiled skin, the way her slick labia glistened obscenely under the artificial light. "Fucking perfect, " one muttered, zooming in on her face, obscured only by the silk. "Blindfolded bitch just begging for it." Another chuckled darkly, "Think she means it? Right there for anyone?" Their voices, hushed but thick with arousal, washed over her � discussions of her breasts ("Bet they bounce nice"), her shaved pussy ("Looks so tight"), and the delicious vulnerability the blindfold created. They took pictures from every angle before one finally, hesitantly, reached out a hand to brush his knuckles against the inside of her knee. She jerked slightly at the unexpected contact, a soft gasp escaping her lips.
The touch ignited something. The boldest boy knelt suddenly between her spread thighs, his shadow falling over her exposed sex. "This can't be real, " he muttered, his voice thick with disbelief and lust. His fingers hovered inches above her glistening folds, trembling slightly. "Someone that looks that fine... just waiting..." He trailed off, staring at the stark white plea stitched onto the wool beneath her. The other two crowded closer, phones forgotten, breathing ragged. One boy nudged him. "We can't disappoint her, man. Look at her. She's *asking*." His voice held a desperate kind of certainty. The kneeling boy looked back at Stacey’s blindfolded face, her lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He swallowed hard. "Yeah, " he rasped. "Let's do it." His fingers, calloused and warm, finally touched her � not tentatively, but with sudden, rough purpose, parting her slick folds. The sensation was electric: a blunt invasion of heat against her cool, oiled skin, the scrape of his knuckles against her inner thigh. She arched instinctively off the quilt, a choked sound catching in her throat.
"You two, " the kneeling boy commanded, his voice tight with urgency as he buried his face between her legs, his tongue finding her clit with startling precision. "Do her tits!" The other boys scrambled to obey, dropping to their knees on either side of her shoulders. Their hands, eager and clumsy, grasped her breasts roughly, squeezing and molding the soft flesh upward into taut, conical peaks. Their thumbs found her nipples, hardened into tight buds by the cool air and adrenaline, and rolled them firmly. Then came the hot, wet flick of tongues � one boy lapping at her left nipple like a kitten at milk, the other sucking the right deep into his mouth before swirling his tongue around the tip. The sensation was overwhelming: sharp pulls, wet suction, the rasp of stubble against her sensitive aureoles. Stacey gasped, her back bowing sharply off Linda’s quilt, the rough wool scraping her shoulder blades. Her hips bucked wildly against the boy’s mouth feasting on her clit, the dual assault on her nipples sending jolts of pure, molten pleasure radiating through her chest and down into her belly.
His fingers plunged inside her next, thick and demanding. One knuckle-deep, twisting, then a second stretching her entrance wide. The friction was intense, almost painful, but the frantic rhythm he set � in and out, curling against her inner walls � coupled with the relentless suction on her clit, ignited a desperate fire. She couldn't stop her hips from pistoning upward, chasing the pressure, trying to force his fingers deeper, faster. "Fuck yeah, " he grunted against her mound, his breath hot and damp. "Hump it, slut." His words vibrated through her clit. Then, impossibly, a third finger breached her, stretching her unbearably. She cried out, a ragged sound muffled by the silk blindfold, her thighs trembling violently as the fingers pistoned � one, two, three � in a blurring rhythm, knuckles bumping her cervix with each deep thrust. The boys at her breasts intensified their efforts, biting gently on her nipples now, pulling them taut, the sharp sting merging with the deep, internal ache and the exquisite torture on her clit.
"Hell, fuck her man!" The boy sucking her right breast pulled off with a wet pop, his voice thick with saliva and lust. He stared down at her arched body, her mouth slack and panting. "We'll all fuck her!" His declaration hung in the cooling air, a challenge met by eager grunts. The boy between her legs pulled his slick fingers out with a lewd squelch. She felt his weight shift, heard the frantic rustle of jeans being shoved down. Then the blunt, hot pressure against her entrance � not fingers this time, but the swollen head of his cock. He didn't hesitate. He slammed into her with a single, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The invasion was shocking, overwhelming � a thick, burning stretch that stole her breath. Her inner muscles clenched instinctively, gripping him impossibly tight. He groaned, a guttural sound ripped from his chest, and began pounding into her with rough, piston-like strokes. The slap of his hips against her thighs echoed sharply in the clearing. Her breasts bounced violently with each impact, the boys still pinching and sucking her nipples, anchoring her upper body as her hips were hammered relentlessly against the rough wool beneath her.
The boy fucking her mouth was next. He straddled her chest, knees pressing into Linda’s quilt beside her shoulders. His cock, thick and veined, slapped wetly against her cheek before he gripped her jaw. Her blindfolded mouth was forced open wide. He shoved himself deep, hitting the back of her throat instantly. She gagged violently, tears springing beneath the silk. He pulled back only to thrust again, deeper, grinding against her palate. Saliva pooled, dripping down her chin onto her own bouncing breasts. The rhythm was jarringly out of sync with the boy pistoning her pussy � a brutal counterpoint. Her throat spasmed around the invading thickness, her nasal passages burning with the scent of precum and sweat. The boy on her left nipple bit down harder, the sharp pain a bright flare amidst the suffocating fullness in her throat and the deep, pounding ache below.
They had drawn a crowd. Twenty, maybe thirty college-aged figures clustered on the path’s edge, phones held aloft like votive candles. Their murmurs formed a low, excited hum beneath the sharp slap of skin on skin and Stacey’s choked gurgles. The glow of screens illuminated rapt faces � girls biting their lips, boys adjusting themselves through jeans. She felt the weight of their stares like a physical pressure, a hundred unseen eyes tracing the arch of her throat around the cock, the violent bounce of her breasts, the slick, stretched lips of her pussy swallowing another brutal thrust. Her hips surged upward instinctively, meeting the boy’s deep plunge, a raw, answering rhythm that drew gasps from the watchers. Her tongue, as Linda had taught her years ago on a sun-drenched afternoon, flicked desperately against the underside of the cock invading her mouth � a frantic, wet caress against the pulsing vein. A girl’s voice, high and breathless, cut through: “God, look how she *takes* it!”
The boy fucking her pussy leaned back, panting, his cock glistening pink-white as he withdrew almost completely. He grinned savagely at the ring of phones. “Get this!” He slammed back in, hard enough to lift her hips off the quilt, the wet *thwack* echoing. Instantly, a dozen spectators surged closer, jostling for the best angle. Phones dipped low, lenses focusing inches from her spread thighs. She felt the heat of their proximity, smelled cheap beer and sweat, heard the frantic clicks and whirs of digital zooms capturing the obscene detail: the swollen clitoris peeking from its hood, slick folds clinging to the shaft as it withdrew, the glistening ring of her entrance stretched taut around the invading girth. A boy crouched beside her hip, filming the rhythmic clenching of her lower belly muscles with each inward thrust. Another knelt near her feet, aiming upward to capture the deep, dark tunnel of her pussy swallowing the cock whole, framed perfectly by the **PLEASE FUCK ME** stitching beneath her ass. Their commentary was fragmented, hungry: “Fuck, look at that grip...”, “Zoom in on her hole...”, “She’s dripping everywhere...”
His rhythm became frantic, desperate. Each thrust drove the air from her lungs in a choked gasp around the cock stuffing her throat. His hips pistoned wildly, slamming against her pubic bone with bruising force. She felt the telltale swell deep inside her, the pulsing heat radiating through her core. He roared, a raw, animal sound that silenced the murmuring crowd. His fingers dug into her hips, lifting her pelvis off the quilt entirely as he slammed home one final time. He buried himself impossibly deep, grinding against her cervix. Then came the explosion: thick, hot jets flooding her core in pulsing waves. She felt each distinct spurt, a scalding liquid pressure filling her, stretching her inner walls. His cock throbbed violently against her deepest, most sensitive flesh, triggering involuntary clenches that milked him, pulling more seed deep. A shudder ripped through her, a silent scream trapped behind the cock in her throat, her body instinctively arching to take every drop as warmth pooled low in her belly.
As he fell backwards out of her, his softening cock trailing sticky ropes of pearly seed down her inner thigh, his partner kneeling on her breast grinned savagely. "My turn!" he declared. He scrambled over her sweat-slicked torso, knees digging into Linda’s quilt beside her ribs. Without preamble, he gripped his thick, flushed cock and shoved it inside her with one brutal, fluid motion. The invasion was immediate and overwhelming � a fresh, burning stretch replacing the sudden emptiness. Her pussy, already swollen and slick from the first boy’s pounding and his spend leaking out, yielded with a wet, sucking sound. She gasped around the cock still lodged deep in her throat, the vibration making the boy above her groan. This second cock felt different � thicker at the base, hitting slightly different angles. She instinctively clenched around it, the sensation of being filled anew sending fresh sparks through her abused nerves. She was starting to love it � the relentless succession, the sheer impossibility of being continuously occupied.
**She redoubled her efforts to bring the boy in her mouth to orgasm.** Her throat muscles rippled deliberately around his shaft, creating a tight, rhythmic suction Linda had once demonstrated with a popsicle stick. Her tongue flattened against the sensitive underside, pressing hard and flicking rapidly against the swollen ridge beneath the head. She swallowed convulsively around him, creating a pulsing vacuum. The boy above her gasped, his hips stuttering against her face. "Fuck! Swallowing my dick!" he choked out, his fingers tangling painfully in her hair. She felt his cock swell impossibly thicker, the veins standing out like cords against her palate. Pre-cum flooded her mouth, salty and thick, mingling with her own saliva dripping onto her bouncing breasts. She hollowed her cheeks, drawing him deeper still, the head bumping the entrance to her throat. She wanted him to erupt down her gullet, wanted to feel that hot pulse against her clenched esophagus.
**The command sliced through the humid air.** "You girls need to suck her tits. Help her out!" It came from the edge of the crowd, a male voice rough with impatience. Instantly, two college girls detached themselves from the ring of watchers. They weren't hesitant; they moved with a predatory eagerness, pushing past the boys still filming Stacey’s ravaged pussy. One girl knelt beside her left breast, her dark hair falling forward as she leaned in. Her lips, glossed and cool, closed over Stacey’s aching nipple with surprising gentleness at first, a soft, experimental suckle. Then her tongue flicked out, broad and wet, swirling around the hardened peak before drawing it deep into her mouth. The sensation was electric � softer than the boys' rough suction, but intensely focused. The other girl, blonde and bolder, mirrored her on the right breast, but added teeth � a sharp, thrilling scrape against the hypersensitive flesh before settling into a firm, rhythmic pull. Their combined suction was exquisite torture, a counterpoint to the deep pounding below and the throat-filling invasion above. Stacey moaned around the cock in her mouth, the vibration sending a shudder through the boy fucking her face.
**The boy straddling her chest suddenly stiffened.** His cock pulsed violently against her tongue, thick and insistent. "Gonna... gonna..." he choked out, fingers tightening painfully in her hair, forcing her head deeper into the quilt. Then it hit � a scalding jet of semen erupted against the back of her throat, thick and salty-sweet. It flooded her mouth, triggering an immediate gag reflex. She swallowed convulsively, trying to clear the sudden deluge, but he kept spurting, relentless torrents coating her tongue, filling her cheeks, threatening to choke her. The two girls paused their sucking, lifting their heads slightly to watch, mesmerized. Their eyes, wide and dark in the moonlight, were fixed on Stacey’s face � on the desperate clench of her jaw beneath the silk blindfold, the frantic working of her throat muscles as she fought to swallow the overwhelming flood. Droplets escaped, pearly streaks tracing paths down her chin and onto her breasts, mingling with the girls' saliva. Stacey’s nostrils flared, her chest heaved against the weight pinning her, but she kept swallowing, gulping down the thick, viscous warmth until the last shuddering pulse emptied into her.
**One of the girls watching Stacey’s throat work**, her lips still glistening from sucking her nipple, leaned closer to her friend. Her whisper cut through the wet sounds of swallowing and the rhythmic slap of hips from below. "Holy shit, " she breathed, her voice thick with awe and a strange kind of envy. "Look at her *take* it all. Like she was born for it." Her friend nodded silently, eyes glued to Stacey’s straining throat, the visible bulge traveling down her neck with each convulsive gulp. The first girl’s gaze softened slightly, a flicker of unexpected admiration in her expression. "You go, girl, " she murmured, almost reverently, her fingers unconsciously tracing the curve of Stacey’s collarbone slick with sweat and escaped semen. It wasn't mockery; it was a raw acknowledgment of the sheer, brutal endurance on display.
**Just then another boy stepped from the crowd**, pushing past the kneeling girls. He was leaner than the others, his eyes fever-bright in the moonlight. With a sharp tug, he yanked his zipper down, freeing a thick, flushed cock already slick with precum. He gripped the base, letting the heavy shaft bounce against Stacey’s chin where trails of semen still glistened. "Think you got room left in that throat, slut?" he rasped, his voice tight with challenge. "Can you handle my meat?" Before she could react�before she could even draw breath around the softening cock still lodged in her mouth�Stacey’s head lunged forward instinctively. Her lips parted wide, sealing around the hot, salty head with desperate suction. She sucked it into her mouth like a starving child finding sustenance, her cheeks hollowing violently as she pulled him deep past her teeth, her tongue flattening against the rigid underside. The sudden invasion forced the previous boy’s spent cock out with a wet *pop*, leaving her mouth instantly, impossibly filled anew. The new boy gasped, staggering slightly at the ferocity of her pull, his fingers tangling in her hair as her throat muscles rippled hungrily around his invading girth.
**She remembered Linda’s voice**, sharp as bourbon on a winter night: *"Breathe through your nose, baby girl. Deep breaths. Feel it slide all the way down."* The memory crystallized�Linda’s own throat working beneath moonlight, Dad watching silently from the shadows. Stacey flared her nostrils wide, dragging in cool, pine-scented air as the boy’s cockhead bumped the entrance to her esophagus. She didn’t gag. Not a tremor. Instead, she tilted her chin upward, pressing her face harder against him, her nose crushing into the wiry curls at the base of his cock, inhaling the musk of sweat and skin. Then she swallowed�a deliberate, powerful contraction of her throat muscles�and felt him sink deeper, the thick shaft stretching her esophagus open in a smooth, burning glide. Her throat opened like a velvet sheath, swallowing inch after inch until his balls pressed flush against her lips, her nose buried completely in his coarse pubic hair. The sensation was profound�a total, airtight envelopment, the heat of him radiating deep into her chest, the pulse of his femoral artery thrumming against her upper lip.
**She worked her tongue magic on him.** Flattening it against the rigid underside of his cock, she applied pressure�not frantic flicking, but a slow, undulating wave that traveled from root to tip and back again, mimicking the deep, rhythmic pulse of fucking. Her cheeks hollowed further, creating a vacuum that pulled him impossibly deeper. She timed it perfectly: each inward pull of suction coincided with the subtle flexing of her throat muscles around him, a rippling massage Linda called "milking the snake." She felt the precise moment his control shattered�a sudden, violent tremor racing through his shaft, a choked gasp above her. His fingers spasmed in her hair. She held him there, buried to the hilt, her throat a slick, clenching vise. He came in a torrent she didn’t have to swallow�not immediately. The first thick jet erupted directly into her esophagus, bypassing her mouth entirely, a scalding flood hitting her stomach like a punch. She felt his cock quiver in her throat as he came, each spasm triggering another gush, deeper and hotter than anything she’d ever swallowed before. He let out a half-scream, half-growl as he dumped his load into her, the sound raw and guttural, vibrating through the bones of her face pressed against his pelvis. Warmth bloomed low in her belly, heavy and primal.
**She was so concentrated on the one in her mouth**, the exquisite torture of his pulsing release deep inside her throat, the sheer effort of holding him buried while he emptied himself, that she’d forgotten the one pistoning in her pussy. The sensations below�the rhythmic slap of hips against her thighs, the deep, stretching ache�had faded into a dull, rhythmic throb beneath the overwhelming focus required by the cock in her throat. Her entire world narrowed to the heat radiating from her esophagus, the salty tang flooding her sinuses, the trembling muscles in her jaw. Only when the boy fucking her pussy suddenly froze, his rhythm stuttering wildly, did the awareness crash back. She felt him swell impossibly thicker inside her, a final, grinding thrust that pressed her cervix painfully flat. Then came the hot, liquid rush�not pulsing jets like the boy in her throat, but a sudden, gushing flood filling her already-stretched channel. He groaned, low and ragged, his hips jerking erratically against her as he pumped his seed deep. She felt the warmth spreading, pooling low and heavy, mingling with the slick mess already coating her inner thighs. He’d cum while she was swallowing the other boy, utterly absorbed.
**He fell out of her pussy with a plop**, his cockhead slick and glistening, landing heavily in the thick puddle of mixed fluids pooling between Stacey’s spread thighs. The sudden emptiness was jarring�a cool rush of air hitting her swollen, stretched-open entrance. The sensation was immediate and profound: her inner muscles clenched instinctively around nothing, a futile spasm that sent a fresh wave of slickness trickling out to join the mess beneath her. The thick, pearly-white semen leaking from her gaping pussy mingled with her own arousal and the previous boy’s spend, creating a viscous, pearlescent lake on Linda’s quilt beneath her ass. The cool night air kissed her overheated flesh there, a sharp contrast to the deep, internal warmth left behind. She felt impossibly open, vulnerable, the stretched ring of muscle at her entrance throbbing faintly with each heartbeat. The scent�musky, salty, deeply animal�rose thickly around her.
**Another boy detached himself from the murmuring crowd**, pushing past the girl still kneeling near Stacey’s hip. He was lean, with messy dark hair and eyes that gleamed with predatory intent in the moonlight. Without ceremony, he dropped his jeans and boxers to his ankles, kicking them aside. His cock sprang free�thick, flushed, already glistening at the tip. He didn't hesitate. He simply laid down flat on his back beside Stacey, right in the wet patch staining the quilt. The damp wool soaked instantly into the back of his shirt. "Let's get you out of that mess, " he murmured, his voice low and rough. His hands gripped her hips firmly, rolling her limp body onto him like a ragdoll. She landed face-down on his chest, her breasts pressing against his ribs, her slick pussy hovering directly over his rigid cock. Before she could brace herself, he lifted his hips sharply, guiding himself with one hand. His cockhead nudged her slippery entrance, then slid in with shocking ease�a smooth, deep glide to the hilt that punched a gasp from her lungs. He was buried completely inside her, his pubic bone grinding against her swollen clit. Then he went utterly still, a dormant pillar of heat lodged deep within her.
**He was dormant, and still.** The sudden cessation of movement was jarring after the relentless pounding. His cock felt impossibly solid inside her, a thick, unmoving anchor radiating intense warmth against her sensitized inner walls. The heat seeped into her stretched muscles, a profound, grounding contrast to the cool night air kissing her exposed skin. She felt every ridge, every pulse of his heartbeat transmitted through the shaft buried to the root. Her own inner muscles fluttered involuntarily around him�tiny, reflexive clenches against the stillness�drawing a low groan from the boy beneath her. The warmth felt profoundly good, a deep, penetrating comfort settling into her abused flesh. It wasn't passive; it was a claiming stillness, forcing her to feel the sheer, solid presence of him filling her completely.
**Linda’s lesson surfaced.** *"It’s not just taking it, baby girl, "* her mother’s voice echoed, smoky and intimate in her memory. *"It’s making them give it up. Your cunt’s got its own grip. Learn to roll it."* Stacey focused inward, past the ache, past the lingering tremors. She isolated the deep muscles Linda had taught her to control�the ones low in her pelvis, beneath the clenching ring. She visualized them like warm silk. Slowly, deliberately, she initiated a deep, internal ripple starting near her cervix. It wasn't a clench; it was a deliberate, undulating wave traveling down the length of his embedded shaft. She felt the slick inner walls tighten sequentially, then release, creating a slow-motion rolling sensation against his entire cock, from root to tip and back again. It was subtle, almost imperceptible externally, but profoundly intimate internally.
**He gasped beneath her**, his stillness shattering. "Jesus fuck, " he choked out, his hands flying to her hips. "You're�you're fucking *milking* me!" His hips bucked instinctively against the velvet vise, but she didn't ride him. She remained passive above him, her face serene beneath the blindfold, her body a vessel solely for that deep, internal undulation. She felt his cock swell impossibly thicker inside her, the veins pulsing against her sensitive walls. The rolling pressure intensified, mimicking the rhythm of deep thrusts but originating entirely from within her. It wasn't aggression; it was a slow, deliberate extraction, coaxing his release with nothing but the hidden power of her own flesh. She felt the precise moment his control frayed�a tremor racing through his shaft, a sharp intake of breath.
**"You're... fucking me... without moving, "** he stammered, his voice thick with disbelief and rising desperation. His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, knuckles white. The sensation was overwhelming him�the relentless internal massage, the heat, the sheer impossibility of being milked dry while pinned beneath her stillness. His body began to shake violently, a tremor starting deep in his abdomen and radiating outward. "How...?" The word was a ragged whisper lost in the humid air. He arched his back off the quilt, a strangled groan escaping him as her inner muscles tightened in a slow, rippling wave that traveled the entire length of his cock. "Please..." he gasped, his voice cracking. "Marry me." The plea burst from him, raw and involuntary, his body convulsing as the first scalding jet erupted deep inside her, untouched by any thrust but her own hidden rhythm.
**The crowd's murmur swelled** into a chorus of astonished whispers and sharp intakes of breath. Faces leaned closer, eyes wide in the moonlight, tracking the subtle tremor running through the boy beneath Stacey as he came violently. His hips lifted off the quilt in helpless spasms, driving him impossibly deeper into her pulsing warmth with each involuntary jerk. The girl kneeling beside Stacey’s hip�the one who’d admired her swallowing�leaned in urgently. Her breath was hot against Stacey’s sweat-slicked shoulder. "How?" she hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of awe and frantic curiosity. Her fingers brushed Stacey’s lower back, feather-light but insistent. "Teach me! How do you *do* that?" Her gaze flickered between Stacey’s serene, blindfolded face and the boy shuddering beneath her, his release painting her inner walls without a single outward movement from either of them.
**Stacey turned her head slightly** towards the girl’s voice, her lips curling into a faint, knowing smile beneath the silk blindfold. The scent of crushed grass, sex, and the girl’s floral shampoo mingled thickly in the air. She lowered her voice to a husky whisper, pitched only for the girl’s ears amidst the wet sounds and murmurs. "Do you really want to learn?" The question hung, intimate and charged. She felt the girl’s sharp intake of breath, the sudden stillness in her touch. "Meet me here on Saturday night, " Stacey murmured, her tone dropping lower, conspiratorial. "Alone. I’ll teach you." She paused, letting the invitation sink into the humid darkness. "With a dildo." Another deliberate pause, heavy with implication. "Like my mother taught me." The words landed like stones in still water�obscene, familial, and utterly compelling.
**The girl recoiled sharply**, her fingers jerking back from Stacey’s skin as if burned. "Your *mother*?" she shrieked, her voice cracking high and brittle in the sudden silence. The crowd’s murmurs ceased instantly. Heads turned. Even the boy still trembling beneath Stacey froze mid-spasm. The girl scrambled backwards on her knees, eyes wide with horrified fascination, her gaze darting from Stacey’s serene face to the quilt beneath her slick thighs. "She... she *did* this?" The accusation was laced with disbelief, yet her stare lingered on the bold white stitching�**PLEASE FUCK ME**�now partially obscured by pooled fluids. "Right here?"
**Stacey tilted her head**, a slow, deliberate motion beneath the blindfold. "Yes, Mom, " she murmured, her voice thick with memory and bourbon-smooth certainty. Her hips shifted subtly, a languid roll against the softening cock still buried inside her, grinding her clit against the boy’s pubic bone. "This is her tree." She inhaled deeply, the scent of damp earth, sex, and decades-old wool filling her lungs. "And her Quilt." Her fingers traced the wet wool beside her hip, finding the familiar ridge of stitching beneath the slick mess. The admission hung, obscene and sacred�a lineage written in sweat, semen, and white thread.
**"Now, "** Stacey’s voice sharpened, slicing through the stunned silence. She lifted herself off the boy beneath her with a wet, sucking sound, leaving him gasping and empty on the quilt. Fluid dripped freely from her gaping pussy onto the wool. She rolled smoothly onto her side beside the wide-eyed girl, landing on a relatively dry patch near the edge of the comforter. Her blindfolded face turned unerringly towards the girl’s shocked expression. Moonlight caught the slick trails glistening on Stacey’s inner thighs. "Do you like cum?" she asked, her tone deceptively casual, almost conversational.
**"Yes, "** the girl breathed, her gaze flickering from Stacey’s face down to the glistening mess pooled between her legs. Her own cheeks flushed crimson, but she didn’t look away. Curiosity warred with lingering horror in her wide eyes.
**"Good, "** Stacey murmured, shifting her hips slightly. She hooked one leg over the girl’s thigh, pulling her closer until the girl’s knees pressed against her slick hip. The night air felt cool on her exposed folds. **"Now eat me."** Her voice was a husky command, devoid of teasing, pure instruction. She rolled onto her back, presenting herself fully�the swollen lips parted, glistening strands of cum and arousal stretching between them, dripping onto Linda’s quilt. The moonlight caught the pearly trails running down her inner thighs. She spread her legs wider, an unspoken demand. The girl hesitated only a heartbeat, then lowered her face, her breath hot against Stacey’s wet skin.
**The girl’s tongue touched her first**�a hesitant flick against Stacey’s outer labia. Then, bolder, she lapped upward through the slick mess, gathering thick ropes of mingled semen and Stacey’s own arousal. The sensation was electric: warm, wet pressure tracing the sensitive folds, the rough texture of the girl’s tongue contrasting with the silky-slick fluids. Stacey gasped, arching her back as the girl’s mouth closed over her clit, sucking gently. The girl moaned against her, the vibration sending jolts through Stacey’s core. Fingers parted her lower lips, and the girl’s tongue plunged deeper, seeking the source of the taste�salty, musky, primal. She lapped hungrily at the stretched entrance, her tongue tip probing inside, swirling through the pooled fluids still leaking from Stacey’s depths. The wet, slurping sounds filled the clearing, sharp against the creek’s murmur.
**With that, Stacey spoke.** Her voice sliced through the humid air, thick with exertion and command. "It’s girl time." She lifted her hips, pressing her swollen sex harder against the girl’s eager mouth. "My tits need nursing."
Two figures detached themselves from the murmuring fringe�young women, both blonde, their hair catching the moonlight like spun silver. They moved with synchronized grace, their steps silent on the damp grass. Kneeling on either side of Stacey’s prone form, they flanked her like devoted acolytes. Their eyes, wide and curious, fixed on her sweat-slicked breasts rising and falling with each breath. Without hesitation, they leaned in. One blonde lowered her head, her soft lips parting to encircle Stacey’s left nipple. The other mirrored her, taking the right. Their mouths closed gently, forming warm, wet seals. Then came the slow, deliberate suckling�a rhythmic pull that sent sharp, sweet jolts radiating from Stacey’s nipples down into her belly. It wasn’t frantic; it was a patient, insistent drawing, their tongues flickering softly against the hardened peaks. Stacey gasped, her spine arching involuntarily off the quilt, pushing her breasts deeper into their mouths. The sensation was primal, grounding�a sharp counterpoint to the wet heat still working between her legs.
The crowd surged forward, phones held aloft like digital votives. The sharp clicks and whirrs of shutters mingled with the humid night sounds. A low chant rippled through the onlookers: "One more girl! One more girl!" It swelled, insistent, echoing off the ancient oak’s trunk. Near Stacey’s head, a knot of young women jostled urgently�jeans unzipped, leggings peeled down hips, eager hands pushing rivals aside. A tall figure surged ahead, long dark hair cascading like a waterfall down her bare back. She kicked her discarded yoga pants aside, her movements fluid and decisive. Without preamble, she straddled Stacey’s face, her knees sinking into the quilt on either side of Stacey’s temples. The scent of her arousal�musky and intimate�washed over Stacey a heartbeat before the girl lowered herself fully. Her wet, swollen folds pressed directly against Stacey’s mouth and nose. Stacey’s tongue instinctively darted out, tasting salt and heat as the girl settled her weight, grinding down with a low moan.
Stacey’s mouth opened wider beneath the girl’s slick heat. Her tongue, practiced and knowing from countless nights spent pleasuring Vicky in the quiet dark of her sister’s guest room, surged upward. It traced the girl’s entrance with firm, deliberate strokes�not tentative exploration, but confident mapping. She found the swollen bud of the girl’s clit instantly and circled it with slow, relentless pressure. The girl gasped, her hips jerking forward involuntarily. Stacey’s hands flew up, gripping the girl’s trembling thighs, anchoring her firmly in place. She intensified the rhythm, her tongue flicking rapidly against the sensitive nerve bundle. The girl cried out, a sharp, ragged sound that cut through the clearing’s murmur. Her thighs clenched around Stacey’s head, muscles taut as bowstrings. She began riding Stacey’s face in earnest�frantic, grinding circles punctuated by sharp downward thrusts, seeking deeper, harder friction. Stacey welcomed the assault, her tongue plunging deeper into the girl’s core with each desperate push, her nose buried in wiry curls.
The girl’s movements grew wilder, uncontrolled. Her fingers tangled violently in Stacey’s dark hair, pulling strands loose from its knot as she yanked Stacey’s face harder against her pulsing flesh. Her moans escalated into high-pitched whimpers, fragmented pleas lost against the wet sounds of Stacey’s relentless tongue. “Ohgodohgod�like *that*�yes!” Her hips pistoned, a frantic blur against Stacey’s mouth. The blonde girls nursing at Stacey’s breasts felt the shift; their suckling intensified, mouths working harder, teeth grazing sensitive nipples in sharp counterpoint to the frenzy above. The girl straddling Stacey’s face threw her head back, spine arching impossibly, a silent scream twisting her features. Her thighs shook violently, clamping Stacey’s head in a vise-like grip. She froze for a heartbeat, suspended in ecstatic agony, then collapsed forward with a shuddering gasp, her wetness flooding Stacey’s mouth, chin, and neck.
**This was enough for her.** The girl’s climax, hot and desperate against her tongue, ignited the coiled tension deep in Stacey’s belly. It detonated without warning�a white-hot eruption that tore through her core. Her hips jackknifed violently off Linda’s quilt, lifting the girl still feasting between her legs. A guttural cry ripped from Stacey’s throat, muffled only by the wet folds pressed against her mouth. Then came the torrent�not a trickle, but a pressurized jet of clear fluid that erupted from her spasming depths. It hit the girl’s face full force: her startled eyes, her open mouth, plastering dark strands of hair to her cheeks and forehead. The stream soaked her chest, slicking her breasts, before Stacey’s body slammed back onto the quilt, convulsing. She writhed, hips bucking uncontrollably, squirting again and again�great arcs that splattered the wool beside her hips, drenching the kneeling girl’s hair and shoulders. Each spasm wrenched another choked sob from her throat, her muscles clenching and releasing in violent, involuntary waves.
**The cameras saw everything.** The infrared lens mounted high in the pine captured the pearly arcs against the dark backdrop�liquid moonlight erupting from Stacey’s shuddering form. The lower cam, trained tight, recorded the precise moment the girl’s face vanished beneath the spray, her features dissolving into glistening shock. The shotgun mic vacuumed the raw, wet sounds: the slap of fluid hitting skin, Stacey’s choked gasps, the startled gasp from the girl beneath her, drowned out by the torrent. Rich watched from the thicket, binoculars pressed tight. His knuckles were white on the flask. He saw the artistry Linda had taught�the surrender, the mess, the sheer volume staining her quilt. Later, Linda would lean close to the monitor, tracing the screen with a fingertip, whispering, "Look at her *go*, Rich. Like mother, like daughter." The footage would be pristine: Stacey’s blindfolded ecstasy, the anonymous mouths devouring her, the violent release�a masterpiece of raw, public intimacy.
**The crowd dispersed reluctantly**, buzzing with adrenaline and sticky thighs. Phones glowed like fireflies in the dark as they retreated down Miller’s Creek path, fingers already tapping frantically�uploading, tagging, sharing. By dawn, grainy clips titled "Blindfolded Squirter Under Moonlit Oak" flooded niche forums. By noon, they metastasized. Aggregator sites slapped thumbnails of Stacey mid-convulsion, face obscured but body unmistakable, beside headlines like "UNKNOWN GODDESS SOAKS CROWD!" Views skyrocketed. Comments sections erupted: "Who IS she?" "Need GPS coordinates NOW!" "That arc! Fucking fountain!" Her anonymity was the fuel�a masked, primal force unleashed in a public grove. Strangers dissected her technique, her sounds, the sheer audacity. She became "Oak Girl, " a viral specter haunting a million screens.
**Stacey pulled the silk robe** over her trembling shoulders, the cool fabric clinging instantly to the drying trails of cum, sweat, and her own slick that painted her skin. The scent�musky, salty, layered with crushed grass�rose thickly around her. She turned toward the thicket just as Rich and Mark emerged, their silhouettes stark against the moon-washed trees. Rich’s eyes held a familiar, sharp appraisal; Mark’s were dark pools of possessive awe mixed with residual tension. The girl she’d sprayed�face still glistening, hair plastered to her temples�lingered at the path’s edge. "Saturday, " she whispered, voice raw with reverence. "I’ll be here." Stacey nodded once, a silent pact sealed in shared fluids. "Bring the dildo, " she murmured, the promise hanging heavy in the cooling air. The girl vanished into the shadows, leaving only the imprint of her devotion.
**Alone beneath the oak**, Stacey reached up. Her fingers found the knot of the blindfold. With a slow, deliberate tug, the black silk slithered free. Moonlight washed over her face�flushed, serene, eyes wide and startlingly clear despite the night’s frenzy. She held Rich’s gaze first, then Mark’s. A slow, exhausted smile touched her lips. "Do you think Mom would be pleased?" The question wasn’t coy. It was raw, seeking validation in the lineage written on Linda’s quilt, now soaked and crumpled beneath them. Rich’s hand, calloused and smelling of pine, brushed a stray strand of damp hair from her cheek. Mark’s arm slid around her waist, pulling her close. She felt the tremor in his grip�pride warring with something primal, deeper. Before either could answer, her knees buckled. She collapsed backward, not into weakness, but into surrender, her body finding the solid warmth of her father and husband waiting. Their arms encircled her, a cradle of shared witness.
**Rich watched Stacey’s eyelids flutter closed**, her head resting against Mark’s shoulder. The scent of her�sex, exertion, the faint tang of bourbon lingering from his flask�mingled with the damp wool beneath them. He remembered Linda’s final summer beneath this oak, the way her laughter had cracked open the humid air as strangers knelt between her thighs. Stacey’s performance tonight... sharper. More reckless. A deeper dive into the void Linda had merely flirted with. "She, " Rich murmured, his voice low and rough, meant only for Mark’s ear, "in all her times here, never gave a better performance." The words weren’t praise; they were an observation etched in bone-deep certainty. Linda had been a virtuoso of pleasure, but Stacey? Tonight was transcendence. A complete annihilation of self beneath the moon’s indifferent eye. He traced a finger along the wet **PLEASE FUCK ME** stitching beside Stacey’s hip, the white thread darkened by fluids. "Linda played the symphony, " he added, almost to himself. "Stacey became the storm."