Blindfold Party Game: My Raw Anonymous First-Night Fuck

Phone vibrates in my pocket as I climb the stairs to his apartment. Days of filthy chats flash: ‘Come play games, no bullshit, straight to it.’ Heart thuds. Door ajar, bass thumps low. Push in. Dim glow from candles and a pulsing LED spot—reds, blues shifting shadows. Six of us total: him, smirking in corner, stubble sharp, cologne hits raw, woody, finally real after screens. Two couples, one single guy. No names. I’m Anonyme. ‘Blind Man’s Buff, hard mode,’ he says, eyes hungry. Gages from papers: sexy shit. Lights low, music pulses. Adrenaline spikes. No wasting time.

They blindfold the youngest guy first. We circle, dance close, hips brush, giggles mix with pushes. He grabs a girl, hands roam tits, ass—’Sarah?’ Wrong. She draws gage: ‘Suck a nipple blind.’ Room heats. My turn next? No, single guy fails again. Then him. Tall frame blindfolded, stumbles. We weave, tease. His hands snatch air, graze my thigh. Pulse races. I dodge, then let him snag my waist. Strong grip pulls me in. Fabric blindfold stays. ‘Guess who,’ he growls. Fingers trace my neck, down collarbone, cup tits rough. Pinch nipples hard. I gasp. Hand slides skirt up, fingers hook panties, rub clit wet. ‘Anonyme?’ Wrong—don’t care names. Laughs erupt. He keeps blindfold. My gage: ‘Fuck the catcher blind.’ Room cheers.

The Approach

No pause. He yanks skirt off, panties rip. Bend me over couch arm, blindfold tight. Cock out—thick, veined, leaks pre-cum. Smear it on my lips. ‘Suck first, slut.’ I do, deep, gag sloppy. Saliva drips. Pulls out, slams pussy raw. No condom—chat agreed bare. Stretch burns sweet. Pounds brutal, balls slap ass. ‘Tight cunt, been waiting.’ Fingers dig hips, bruise tomorrow. Flip me, legs wide. LED flashes his sweat-slick chest. Blind hands grope tits, slap. I claw back, nails rake. ‘Harder, fuck me raw.’ Grunts animal. Orgasm builds—clit throbs, walls clench. He swells, floods deep, hot spurts fill. Collapse, breaths ragged. Cum leaks thighs.

Pulls blindfold. Smiles wicked. Others clap, scatter to next game. I grab jeans, slip on. Phone buzzes—Uber here. Wipe mouth, kiss cheek cold. ‘Fun, Anonyme.’ Door shuts. Stairs down, night air cool. Stranger again. Phone silences. Homebound, pussy aches satisfied. No texts. Pure hit.