NOTE: All of the names in this story have been changed to protect everyone who participated. If you were there and read this story, you will certainly recognize yourself, even under a pseudonym. If you were not there, I hope you wish you were! I partially described part of what follows in "Hiding the Cum," but this is the complete story.
Back in the dark ages when I was in college, fraternities, sororities, and dormitories were required to have housemothers - older women, often widows, who were employed to reside in apartments in the living unit. Basically they were supposed to be chaperones and prevent "bad" things from happening, particularly to "their girls," although they also sometimes planned meals and served as hostesses for formal gatherings. Some housemothers lived year-round in their apartments. Fortunately our housemother had her own house in another city, and she only lived with us when she was required to do so by university regulations.
I pledged a fraternity in August, just before beginning my freshman year at the university. I was interested in the friendships the fraternity provided, and I knew that joining a fraternity would provide me with an active social life. Because I was an inexperienced, eighteen-year-old virgin, I also hoped the fraternity would help me to finally have a sex life. In this it succeeded beyond my wildest expectations!
My first time was at one of our official social events. However it was my attendance at organized social drinking activities, not formal dances, that began my lifelong instruction into learning how to make love to women. That portion of my life remains fresh and vivid in my memories.
My fraternity provided its actives, pledges, and a handful of carefully-selected female guests with truly outstanding outdoor drinking parties, called beer busts. There were several secrets to their success, the most important of which was the location where they were held. Several years before I pledged, somebody in the fraternity had befriended Jake Perkins.
Jake was at least sixty years old. He had a huge, sprawling ranch about twelve miles from town. It took more than twenty minutes to drive there from our fraternity house. Jake allowed our fraternity - and nobody else insofar as we could determine - to call ahead and "schedule" our beer busts on his land. He would arrange to leave a remote gate in his fence open, and we would enter his ranch there, then follow a dirt trail to a grove of trees where we would park. It was a hike of about a quarter of a mile to the bottom of an old riverbed where we partied.
We always built a large fire and set our kegs of beer and coolers full of soft drinks on a dry, flat sandbar about twenty yards wide and at least a hundred yards long. The riverbed was at least ten feet below ground level at this point, and the trees along its edges gave us nearly complete privacy. Jake's house was several miles away, and it was the closest occupied dwelling. No matter how loudly we screamed, yelled, or sang, the sound couldn't reach anyone else's ears. Well, they did reach Jake's because he usually drove up in his truck and joined us for a few beers. He also stood just beyond the light of the fire and watched the sexier side of our parties. I even saw him beat off a couple of times. But I digress. Back to the beer busts.
Before it got dark, several of the brothers would drive to the site in a couple of vehicles. Using a four-wheel drive jeep, they would haul the heavy kegs and soft drinks to the sandbar. Jake always helped by gathering a huge pile of fallen tree limbs for us, and these he left for near where we had our fires. Those who arrived early got everything set up, and then they climbed out of the riverbed and enjoyed a fantastic sunset as they drank a beer or two. Everyone else, including Jake, arrived about an hour later, just after it was really getting dark.
Long before the concept of "designated drivers," our fraternity utilized them. There were usually between a quarter and a third of our members who didn't drink, but they enjoyed attending the beer busts for the comradery, the singing, and, of course, the company of the women. Unknown to me when I pledged, they also enjoyed the uninhibited public sex.
At each beer bust we had an area just beyond the reach of the fire which was officially designated the "Pussy Pisser." Here the women could urinate in relative privacy. The men just wandered off in the opposite direction, unzipped, and let fly. A slit trench, toilet paper, and shovel were also prepared before it got dark. Appropriately called the "Turd Trench," it was available to both sexes, although it usually went unused.
This much I learned before I actually attended a beer bust. Later I learned much more from Big Tom, the active who was my Pledge Father. There were two men named "Tom" in the house, but "Big Tom," also called "B.T.," was over six-feet four- inches tall - hence his nickname. The other was called "Little Tom" or "L.T." Although B.T. was reasonably well-endowed, his nickname did not refer to his genitals. Actually his and mine were about the same size - a fact that was useful later when we shared the same woman.
B.T. explained to me that our fraternity beer busts were organized into three stages. During Stage One, the actives, pledges, and women whom several actives were "seriously" dating were present. ("Serious" sometimes meant "willing to put out," but most of the "serious" women were engaged - or nearly so - to one of the brothers.) We drank beer and soft drinks, sang fraternity and folk songs, but kept everything reasonably tasteful and respectable. A few guys usually got drunk, but that was tolerated as long as they remained happy and funny. Whenever somebody either turned sullen or lost control, one of the drivers would take him back to the fraternity house to sleep it off.
I attended my first beer bust in mid-September, about three weeks after I pledged. B.T. informed me that I would not be able to stay for the entire event, but that once I was initiated I could stay later and enjoy Stage Two - and eventually Stage Three. I was surprised by the number of people standing around the fire. There were more than sixty men and about a third that many women. As people began to drink beer, there was a lot of kissing and some groping, but everyone remained fully dressed. One woman got drunk, and rather than walk to the Pussy Pisser, she pulled her shorts and panties off, squatted, and pissed into the sand in full view of everyone. I had never seen a woman urinate, and I couldn't help staring. Heck, I was a virgin, and I had never even seen a woman's furry crotch before!
As I quickly found out, Stage Two would usually begin around 10:00 p.m. Pledges had to leave, as did anyone escorting women who were attending one of our beer busts for the first time. People "earned" the right to stay for Stage Two by attending at least one prior Stage One. The reason, B.T. informed me, was both simple and obvious: We didn't want to shock any poor, sensitive souls by what we did in Stages Two and Three. So that first time I was among about thirty men and a dozen women who left the party, wondering aloud exactly what was going to happen that we weren't supposed to see. Our ignorant guesses didn't come close to the truth.
I received a hint later that same night about 3:30 a.m. when I left the sleeping dorm to take a leak. The "Woman on the Floor" flag was hanging from the ceiling, warning us that we should not go wandering around naked - as we were inclined to do, particularly in the middle of the night. It was usually hung when our families visited or when we had in-house parties. These were the Dark Ages of several decades ago. According to university regulations there were not supposed to be any women in the house unless our housemother was present. Mrs. Farleigh was gone until Saturday evening, and so I wondered what was going on. I was just a pledge, and I still had a lot to learn!
