My three week stay in Barcelona, where I had been studying Spanish at a language school, was coming to an end. I was still commuting in from Monjuic by Metro, though sadly there were no more ‘rush hour ravishments’.
Many of my fellow students on the course were ‘swots’; they’d been sent by their firms back home and were determined to succeed academically. One exception was a German lesbian named Greta, invariably wearing a mini-skirt, ‘commando’ underneath. She clearly had the ‘hots’ for me. In classes we usually sat together and I’d often feel her hand ‘wandering’ up my thigh. I wondered how long it would be before I let her get inside my sari.
During a coffee break mid-way through our final week, Greta asked: “Are you planning to go to the party our course tutor Carlos is organising?”
I fluttered my hand indicating my indecision. “Oh please, schatz, let’s go together. I’ll wear my black leather biker’s gear and you could go in one of your revealing saris. With no bra!” As the final sentence was delivered, I felt Greta’s fingers sliding up my leg. I blushed and hastily clamped a hand on top of it before it explored any further!
Greta and I decided to go to the party venue by taxi. We’d been told it was taking place in a disused nightclub down in the docks area at the bottom of La Rambla. She arrived looking stunning in an all-black leather outfit, with a leather mini-skirt which stopped about two inches below the bottom of her black lace panties. Chrome chains with skulls and crossbones hung from her neck. “Change of plan!” she giggled as we climbed into the taxi, calling to the driver: “Las Diablos, por favor.”
Clasping my hand, she whispered: “It’s a dykes’ nightclub, liebling. You’ll love it. Lots of topless disco dancing.” Thoughts of getting to our end-of-term party had now been consigned to the back burner!
The club’s dark sweaty basement interior was raked by strobe lights, with deafeningly loud disco music. Greta removed her biker jacket: she was already topless! She pulled me onto the crowded dance floor. I nervously slipped my sari from my shoulders and we snuggled together, our breasts touching, with Greta sensuously kneading my buttocks. We rocked together like this for two or three numbers before I whispered that I needed to visit the ladies. “Let’s go together!” she said excitedly.
The scarlet Ladies Room was as crowded as the dance floor – though things were even more uninhibited in here, with much intimate kissing and pussy fingering going on. “Here,” said Greta, “let’s go into that vacant stall.” She eagerly pushed me forwards into the tiny tiled space and bolted the door. “I so want to eat you, liebling,” she announced. I dutifully pulled up my sari (I wasn’t wearing panties), allowing Greta to kneel on the floor to ‘eat’ my cunnie and give me a glorious orgasm.
After a couple of reviving cocktails at the bar we headed upstairs to take a taxi to the party.
“What kept you, ladies? We were getting worried,” announced a sulky Carlos. We’d arrived late at the party venue – a down-at-heel ex-nightclub which looked (and smelt) as if it hadn’t been cleaned for months. Our fellow language students (from Italy, France and Britain) were imbibing the free Sangria as if there was no tomorrow! Standing in the centre of the old club’s dance floor, Carlos clapped his hands for silence.
“I thought we should celebrate the completion of your studies with something a little special,” he began mysteriously. “Now, who here has ever done bukkake?” The lads all looked at each other vacantly. Our only Japanese student raised his hand. “So, Kim’s done it. No-one else?” A bewildered silence. “Right, lads, just move those straw bales into the middle please; three will do, side-by-side,” Carlos ordered, snatching up a couple of table cloths and draping them over the bales, to form a sort of low platform.
“OK,” continued our Master of Ceremonies, “here’s how it works. You guys are going to perform an ancient Japanese fertility right.” Staring at Greta and I he added:” But we need a female volunteer.” Greta squeezed my hand and whispered: “You do it, schatz; I wanna watch!” I blushed and dropped my head – a sign which Carlos took as my acceptance. He patted the straw platform. “Come and lie on these cloths, will you?”
Carlos carefully rolled my sari up around my waist. “Now open your legs for me? Wider!” From his pocket he took a pair of small seashells and handed them to me.
“What are these for?”
“To prevent spunk going in your eyes and so you can’t see when we cum. Right guys, form a circle around the lady and drop your slacks and briefs, please.” I turned my head to see, at close quarters, some lovely stiff cocks, several being stroked excitedly. “We’re going to give this lady a lovely cum shower!”
I gave Greta a nervous smile and she blew me a good luck kiss. Carlos unzipped and got out his cock, which I was gratified to see was huge – at least eight inches long, with a solid girth and a lovely hood.
The only noise in that silent echoing space was of men furiously masturbating.
The first load plopped onto my navel, followed immediately by twin volleys across my breasts. Then the torrent really began until my naked body was drenched with delicious warm semen. The onslaught went on for several minutes.
I rolled onto my side, elated but spent. “Want to go on, Harleen?” Carlos whispered.
“Wasn’t that the end?”
“Just the horse d’oeuvre, darling. Now you’re going to be spit-roasted!”
“Who by?”
“I’ll stand by your face so you can suck me off – once I’m hard again – and Greta’s going fuck your ass with a big black strap-on she’s brought.”
