Drunk Brit Sex

Drunk Brit Sex or “The Night the Pub Ran Dry.” The invitation said “bring your own bottle,” but by 11 PM, the sticky floor of Clive’s garage smelled like spilled gin and pure desperation. Me and Bev—both pushing fifty but feeling twenty-two—had promised each other: *tonight, we ride the dragon*. “Bloody hell,” Bev slurred, wobbling in leopard-print heels. “Where’d all these fit blokes come from?” They weren’t models. Dave from the chip shop. Gary, the bloke who fixes Minis. Terry, who definitely owed Clive money. But Christ, they were *eager*. It started with Bev daring me to suck off Dave behind the karaoke machine. Then Gary joined. Then Terry. Then it wasn’t daring anymore—it was hunger. Bev dropped to her knees, tugging at belts like Christmas presents. “Take turns, lads!” Clive shouted, sloshing whiskey. “Form a bloody queue!” They did. Eight of them. Jeans around ankles, cocks like a forest of pale, twitching saplings. Bev took three at once—two in her mouth, one rubbing between her tits. I focused on Dave, deep-throating him till tears streamed down my cheeks. “Fuck me, you’re a proper slag,” Terry grunted, grabbing my hair. “Cheers, darling,” I gasped, opening wider. Bev screamed as someone came down her throat. Warmth hit my cheek—Gary’s first shot. Then Dave’s, thick on my tongue. Clive aimed next, splattering my neck. We lost count. Faces blurred. Sticky skin, laughter, the sour-tang of lager mixed with cum. Bev collapsed against a tire stack, legs spread, letting them drizzle leftovers onto her bush. “Still got it,” she giggled, wiping her chin. We did. The garage reeked of sex and sweat when dawn crept in. Empty bottles. Used condoms? Nah. Waste not, want not. Dave helped Bev up. “Same time next week?” She winked. “Bring mates.” Drunk Brit Sex or “The Night the Pub Ran Dry.”