Nessa's 18th Birthday Buae

"Happy birthday, Nessie!" Mrs. Bauer called over her shoulder, departing arm-in-arm with her husband as he shimmied his steps to zip up his fly. The balding deli clerk had impatiently waited for the singing, presents, and cake to conclude so that the real reason everyone attended these festivities could begin. Then he'd hunched over me, sweating and stroking as I knelt in my birthday suit, until he went rigid and drizzled a warm, stringy load over my left eyebrow and cheek.

My singed-caramel skin was already spattered with the underwhelming climaxes of my family's mailman and my old school bus driver, making Mr. Bauer the third "marker" of my womanhood for the day. Some girls were lucky to only have 5 or 10 guys from town show up for their 18th birthday party -- but my dad was the former mayor, and I was cursed with unhideable F-cup tits above my slim waist. So my party was more of a backyard bash, and the streamer-strewn canopy my mother had ordered was packed with half the guys in town.

My little blue cushion at the center of the crowd was from my gymnastics days, and offered *some* comfort while every neighbor and family friend I'd ever met jostled for position around me. Mostly they put on polite faces and offered well-wishes, trying to get my attention before their trembling balls spat runny seed over my shoulders and hair. They'd been dreaming of this day for as long or longer than I'd been dreading it. But it was tradition, and much like at my graduation, my mother was beaming with pride and snapping endless keepsake photos on her phone. I wasn't looking forward to the album she'd eventually compile and share with future boyfriends, if dad ever let me have one.

"H-hi Nessa," I heard a familiar, asthmatic voice stammer to my right, as I stopped a dribble of Mr. Bauer's cum from stinging my left eye. I peered up to see Hatham, a boy who'd graduated with me, unbuttoning his husky-waisted khakis as he reached the center of the testosterone-overloaded ring of guests. He was the archetypal case of lusting out of his league, having asked me out twice over the course of high school. I'd tried to let him down gently both times, but it seemed he'd at least have his consolation prize, anyway.

"Hi Hatham," I smiled weakly. There was no natural place to put my hands. I wanted to cover my tits, but that would just make everything take longer -- most of my party guests clearly thought they made great targets. So I rested my palms on my thighs, which were plumping together over my folded knees as I sat like a mother hen warming her nest.

"Happy... Happy birthday. I got you that N.E.R.D album you like... On vinyl," he mouth-breathed, slipping his little red pecker out as he spoke and starting to stroke it. I'd never felt more awkward in my entire short life.

"Oh, that was from you! Thanks, I'll definitely listen to it later..." I bobbed my head, trying not to look at the stiffening little sausage leaking over his knuckles, or directly into his eyes which seemed to be imagining me in a hundred different positions on my floor mat. I was almost grateful when Mr. Glendale, my dad's old campaign manager, turned my head toward him with one gold-ringed hand and finished himself with the other.

I scrunched my eyes shut as a thick, hard spurt ricocheted off the bridge of my nose, followed by a few wet ropes that ran over my lips and dripped onto my lap. I never imagined how *musky* cum could be, but getting covered in the stuff by dozens of nutsacks was quickly turning me into a connoisseur, of sorts.

Mr. Glendale didn't even have time to shake off his final strands before Bucky, the video store owner, grabbed my thick, dark ponytail to pull my face back and press his slimy cock to my forehead. I let out a little yelp, more surprise than pain, and flailed my palms to the ground behind me so I didn't tumble over backwards. Bucky grunted and bent his knees, blasting a monstrously thick puddle of gooey jizz down the sides of my nose, which coursed over my cheeks and down my neck.

With my head yanked back and my hands flattened behind me, my chest jutted out like an inviting titty platter for all the guys in front of me. I couldn't even see the first guy to help himself to the big-brown-boobs buffet, but somebody straddled my waist and grabbed them, squishing them together so he could rut between them like a hungry mutt. My family's maid, Esme, started to protest, but my mother quickly shushed her.

"It's harmless fun -- everyone here knows her, she's safe. Besides, this is a celebration of *womanhood*, and all that comes with that," my mother's eyes sparkled as she raised her phone to take another photo. Esme creased her old lips, then departed to clear some of the tables.

My father was smoking cigars by the rear property fence with some of his old political buddies, not overly interested in watching his only daughter being turned into a frosted breakfast pastry. He'd attended plenty of 18th birthdays in his time, and wasn't about to break tradition -- he just didn't feel the need to supervise or observe my own turn, if he could avoid it.

Bucky let go of my hair, finally, and I tried to peek through cum-crusted lashes at the gyrating form flopping against my chest. All I could make out clearly was the bright red, curly hair of Ms. Asher's son, Randall. They lived down the street, and as a single mom she'd always had trouble keeping her rambunctious baby boy in check. That's why even at 22, and still living at home, he behaved like a zoo animal most of the time.

"Happy b-day, Nessie!" The freckled man-child was squeezing my tits like a couple of overfilled water balloons, and plowed his nuts against my sternum as his cock rocketed a jet of spunk against the underside of my chin. I felt two more splatters soak my neck before his legs began to tremble and he tottered back, gleefully spent. The rules about "touching" during 18th parties were pretty case-by-case, and my mom hadn't given explicit direction to our guests one way or another. That's why, I think, Randall's enthusiasm may have opened the proverbial floodgates for the rest of the evening.

I was reaching up to nurse the soreness in my tits when I felt another pair of legs, much thicker than Randall's, straddle my hips once more and smush a hard cock against my lips. The surprise jolted my head back, still unable to see anyone or anything clearly, but a strong hand grasped the back of my skull and pulled me toward the muscly frame in front of me.

Hatham watched with his mouth open as our gym teacher, Mr. Clayton, worked his slab of white meat into my mouth until he butted against the tight opening of my throat. I let out a high-pitched *glhrkk* around his dick and coughed through my nostrils, dribbling a bit of clear snot onto his shaft as he pulled back and adjusted his position.

I had no experience trying to swallow 39-year-old cocks half the length of my forearm. Whether Mr. Clayton knew that or not, it was clear he didn't really care. He jutted his hips forward again, stabbing my tonsils and eliciting an ugly gag that shook my tits against his strong thighs. Then he pulled back, and jutted again.

When it was clear he wasn't going to pound his way through my inexperienced throat barrier, he hunched over, hugged the back of my head, and began steadily pressing his hips forward. I started to panic a little as the bulbous head of his cock stretched the opening of my esophagus, but I couldn't escape his grip if I tried -- and a moment later, the first 3 inches of his thick shaft abruptly bulged into my neck with a wet *glomph*.

(To be continued...)