My dairy birthday

I was thirty-three years old and had decided, with almost obsessive clarity, that this birthday was not going to resemble the previous ones in any way. No discreet dinners in restaurants with white tablecloths and glasses of wine that grew warm while someone told a bad joke. No gifts wrapped with a bow that would later end up forgotten in a drawer. No “happy birthday, man” messages accompanied by a slap on the back and a polite smile. I wanted to celebrate it big. I wanted my body to remember it for days, every muscle, every nerve and every inch of skin to keep the memory of what was going to happen. I wanted a raw gangbang. I wanted to feel raw cocks opening me one after another, hot cum filling me until I overflowed, known and unknown hands grabbing my hips, my mouth, my hair, my nipples. I wanted to wake up the next day with my ass burning, my muscles sore, marks on my skin and the absolute certainty of having been used to the limit and beyond.

I organized it with almost military precision over weeks. I searched for and rented a spacious penthouse on the outskirts of the city, far from the noise of the center, with a private west-facing terrace, a huge glass shower with several showerheads, a modular dark fabric sofa that converted into a giant bed and an easy-to-clean wooden floor. I bought liters of lube—the good kind, the thick kind, the kind that doesn’t dry quickly—thick hotel towels, bottles of water, fresh fruit, energy bars, electrolytes and a couple of plugs of different sizes. I also prepared a small first-aid kit just in case: soothing cream, wet wipes, latex gloves in case someone cut himself shaving. I notified eight trusted guys. All of age, all fully aware exactly what was coming: raw sex, no condoms, cum inside, many cocks and my ass as the absolute and undisputed center of the party. I told them to bring only desire, good hygiene and, if they wanted, some toy. I would take care of the rest. I sent them the address the same day, with staggered times so they wouldn’t all arrive at once and the living room wouldn’t turn into chaos from the first minute.

The day arrived cloudy and cool, the kind that invites you to stay inside. I got up early. I showered slowly, letting the hot water relax my shoulders. I shaved my ass carefully, my balls, the hair at the base of my cock and a bit of the trail toward my navel, until I left it all smooth, soft and terribly sensitive. Each stroke of the razor made me shudder. Then I inserted the thickest plug I had—a black silicone one with a wide base—and wore it for hours while I prepared the house. Every time I bent down to place a towel or leave an open bottle of lube in a strategic spot, I felt the weight of the toy inside, pressing, reminding me what was going to happen. The anticipation had me half hard almost the whole time. I put on only a short gray cotton robe that barely covered my ass and waited.

The first to arrive was Marcos. Tall, almost six foot three, bro...