Party Girl

This is one I would not like to live out in real life In fact, even as a fantasy, I found it at least as disturbing as arousing -- and the current version has been revised to meet Literotica posting standards.

But several things jelled at once when I was thinking about story possibilities - and I had to write it to keep get it out of my system.

I have a hard time being objective about this one. But if it doesn't disturb you, I didn't get it right.

Javahead

*

"Was it worth waiting for?"

I turned and mimed applause. Shelly was an image of cool elegance, slender in a snug-fitting black slip dress. No stockings - with her olive skin, she didn't need them.

As I helped her into her coat, I realized that the dress was all she was wearing; the dress was thin enough that I would have noticed bra strap or panty lines, and translucent enough to give hints of her dark nipples and pubic patch.

I swallowed. "Are you *sure* you want to go the party? I could call Rob and give him our regrets, and we could settle down here . . ."

She cut me off with a laugh. "Down boy! Public party first, private party later." She danced lightly out of range of my mock grab, and laughed again.

===

I offered her my arm as walked towards the house. Though we were early, the closer parking was already taken. Laughter drifted around from the terrace in the rear.

"Remember, don't let me drink too much." Her expression was half serious.

Shelly has almost no capacity for drinking - even a glass of wine turns her giddy; it also tends to make her very, very, horny. More than two, though, and she gets sleepy, almost comatose.

I laughed at her. "One or two, no more. I have plans for you, my dear." She made a face back at me as I put on my best leer.

I would keep an eye on her, not that she usually needs it; she'd learned the hard way how little tolerance her body has for drinking.

===

A young man, one of the college boys Rob had hired to help with the party, let us in. After a brief detour upstairs to leave the coats in one of the spare bedrooms, we threaded our way through the mob in the living room to join the even larger mob on the terrace. There must have been over 50 people there already.

Rob waved us a welcome without interrupting his conversation; we waved back, and moved on. Most of the guests were people I didn't recognize.

"Do you want to dance?"

Shelly shook her head. "Maybe later. I'd like to circulate a bit and meet people, first."

Wine glasses in hand, we did just that. Before long, a female friend claimed her, and I wandered over to join the group listening to the band. Looking back, I could see the two women now had several men in attendance.

Somehow, I found myself roped into a heated political discussion, the kind that usually ends with some variation of "I guess they're all crooks!" I didn't get to hear the end of this one, though - just as it started to reach the loud stage, Shelly reappeared and pulled me out onto the dance floor.

Though she was enjoying herself, she wasn't dancing with her usual careful restraint. I took in her flushed expression and raw, almost predatory, dancing style with a frown.

"Shelly, just how much wine did you drink?"

She giggled at my worried expression. "I know, I know - I've had all the wine I need. Don't worry, dear - I only had two glasses, and I'm switching to punch after this. You'd better switch, too - you're going to need all your strength later."

Though she tried her best, Shelly's face isn't really built for dirty leers. Though I was delighted by the sentiment, it took all my willpower not to laugh at her.

Instead, I steered her towards the buffet. She wasn't hungry, but did accept a tall glass of the milky-looking orange punch. She sipped, then took a much bigger drink.

"This is good!"

I laughed at the pleased surprise in her voice, and got a glass for myself. I had to agree with her - it was good: creamy, mildly orange flavored, and slightly fizzy. I sipped mine slowly, then laughed again when I saw that she had finished her first glass and was asking for a refill.

"Ready to go home, Shelly?"

"Let me sit down and listen to the music for a while. And you can help yourself to some of the food that I see you drooling at." She laughed back at me as my stomach gave a rumble.

I walked her to the nearest seat before returning to the buffet. She gave me her empty glass to take back.

"What was in that punch? My wife really likes it."

The bartender gave a shrug. "Nothing hard to find - a quart of orange sherbet, a big bottle of ginger ale, two bottles of cheap sparkling wine."

I suddenly lost all interest in the buffet. Even at that dilution, Shelly had just finished the equivalent of at least three more normal-sized glasses of wine. If I didn't get her home soon I'd have to carry her.

Even in the short time I'd been gone, it had started to affect her. She swayed visibly when she stood, and clung to my arm desperately as I led her back towards the house.

"I need to lie down for a while. I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to make such an idiot of myself." Her voice was muted and more than a little slurred.

"Shh, sweetheart. Not your fault. Can you stay awake long enough for me to get you home?"

"I'll try." Her voice sounded doubtful.

Rob must have a sixth sense - he met us before we'd covered half the distance to the house and took her other arm.

"What happened?"

"Your punch - she didn't know it was spiked. I need to get her somewhere to lie down."

He looked thoughtful. "If we can get her up the stairs, the spare bedroom next to the coatroom is empty. If she doesn't feel better later, you can spend the night there."

Despite our worries, Shelly stayed awake long enough to make it to the bedroom. With a final, worried look, Rob headed back down.

"Will you be all right, honey?"

She managed a sleepy smile. "I'll be fine after a nap, sweetheart. Give me an hour or two and I'll feel better. Just turn out the lights and let me sleep till then." She kicked off her shoes and scooted onto the bed.

When I checked on her ten minutes later, she was so soundly asleep that she didn't even stir when I tugged her dress down to a more decent level; it had risen enough to confirm my guess about her lack of underwear. I gave her a gentle kiss and headed downstairs. We obviously weren't going anywhere for a while.

===

Though I tried, I was too distracted to really enjoy the party. Rather than just wander aimlessly, I took over the indoor bar; it had the benefit of keeping me too busy to brood. Over the next couple of hours, the crowd shifted gradually outside, till only a small, all-male group was left, dividing their attention between the bar and the television in the far corner.

As the demand on the bar slowed, I had time to notice a minor oddity; guys would head upstairs, be gone for a while, then return to the main group. I shrugged; probably just looking for an open bathroom. Seemed kind of a long way to go, though.

Finally, one of the college boys relieved me. I headed up to check on Shelly. At the foot of the stairs, the doorman flagged me down. I paused.

"How's your wife?"

"I was just heading up to check on her."

"If she's feeling better, you might want to get her home. Some of these boys are getting a little raunchy. I heard someone say there's a woman pulling a train in one of the spare bedrooms. If you stay, you'll have to listen to them all night long. Or Rob trying to calm them down."

That explained the back and forth traffic I'd been seeing. But he was right; she'd be better off at home. I started up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, I shook my head wryly; somewhere, a woman was moaning. I passed the coatroom and turned the corner.

I noticed that Shelly's light was on, and the door was ajar. But I was in the doorway before I realized that the moans were coming from here.

After an endless moment of shocked paralysis, I rushed forward. I hadn't the time - or the mental clarity - to form a coherent plan; I was operating on the level of reflex. And it was pure reflex that bludgeoned me to a horrified halt in the doorway.

From the door, I could only see the back of the man who had mounted her, his pants puddled around his ankles. What held me frozen, though, was the sight of Shelly's heels hooked into her favorite position behind his knees, urging him in. Her face was contorted in her familiar, just-before-orgasm rictus; moments later her heels locked in place and her moans changed to the choked whimper that signals her release. Before she had completely finished, a much deeper groan signaled his.

Almost immediately, he was on his feet and pulling his pants up. He showed no surprise when he turned and saw me in the doorway; probably, he took me for the next in line. With a friendly nod, he brushed past me and out before I could get my frozen muscles to respond.

Shelly lay naked on the bed, her dress a wadded-up ball beside the pillow. Her face had relaxed again; eyes hooded, she seemed at least half asleep. Her chest still had a faint, post-orgasmic flush, though, and her dark nipples were erect. I gave a shuddering gasp and stepped forward, closing the door behind me.

Not too surprisingly, the whole room reeked of sex. As I walked closer, I could see a white stream of semen running from the swollen lips of her her vagina. Even now, she didn't seem to be focused enough to realize who I was.

"Shelly!"

"Mmmh, that's me."

"Shelly!"

"You ready for me again?" She mumbled my name, and spread her knees for me.

I began to tremble with rage as I stood beside the bed. I could see it all, playing like a movie inside my head:

The first man stumbling in to find Shelly asleep, her dress above her hips once more.

His embarrassment changing to arousal.

Knowing Shelly, she was probably already wet - and her normal sleeping response is to spread her legs in invitation.

His acceptance.

If she's already aroused, Shelly can respond, even orgasm, without fully waking. Drunk as she was. I'm sure she gave him a great ride.

And since she was so eager, he probably couldn't resist bragging to a friend or two about the hot Asian slut he'd just fucked. Of course, they had to check it out. And brag in turn.

I tried to remember how many men I'd seen make the trip up the stairs. Five? More? I couldn't be sure; some had gone up more than once. At a minimum, her body had been taken by half a dozen men.

I stared down at her nude body. Even now, she was so lovely that it hurt. Her legs were flexed and slightly spread, framing her ravished sex. Though her inner lips were still swollen and slightly agape, the pink of her core was hidden by the white stream that oozed down to form an obscene pool beneath her.

My fists and my jaw were so tightly clenched they were painful. I tried to think of what to do. Tell Rob. Call the police. Try to avoid attacking the men responsible. Thank God she was on the pill. Take her to the doctor.

I thought some more. Could we prove rape? I had only seen one of them with her. And he could claim - truthfully - that she had enjoyed it. Would the police even bother to file charges? Was Shelly willing to deal with the smear campaign their lawyers would hand out?

But what would Shelly want to do? I reluctantly decided that she'd be happier if I kept quiet. She could deal with this - to her, it might be no more than a half-recalled erotic dream; notoriety and a trial we might not win would be the problem.

But that would be her decision. I shook her again, harder.

"SHELLY!"

This time she woke all the way. And looked horrified, and ashamed, as she realized her state, and what had happened, and that I had seen her like this.

"Shelly, it's all right. Not what happened, but I'm here and I still love you. How do you want to handle this? Should I call the police? It'll be nasty, but I'm pretty sure we can prove rape if you want to take it to court.

She said something so quietly I couldn't catch it. She repeated it, in a barely-audible whisper, when I didn't answer.

"No we couldn't."

"What? Why not? You were asleep in your room and they took advantage of you -- raped you! - when you were sleeping. It's not your fault, it's theirs."

"It wasn't rape." Almost whispered, but I heard it

"What do you mean, it wasn't rape?"

Louder this time. "It wasn't rape! I knew he was doing it -- I knew what they were all doing! - and I let them, and I never said no!" Back to the near whisper. "It wasn't rape."

It took prompting, but she gradually filled in the rest of the story.

She'd woken up, alone and horny. When I didn't return immediately, she decided to start without me. She stripped off, and was gently masturbating, so she'd be ready immediately when I returned. Only when the door opened, it was one of the men she'd been dancing with downstairs.

He smiled. And told her that he'd wanted her all night, every since she'd shaken her tits at him on the dance floor. And walked toward her.

"What happened then?"

"He lowered his pants and pulled out his cock. I was so shocked I didn't know what to do. He just got between my legs, and thrust himself inside without asking. I was wet enough it was easy for him."

She might not have been thinking too clearly, but she knew that she shouldn't be doing this, and should be pushing him away, but he was already inside her, and it felt good; despite herself, she could feel herself responding. (I'm not sure she had any choice on this last -- Shelly is always very responsive, even when she hasn't been drinking). She knew it was wrong, but rather than rejecting him or calling for help, she did her best to fuck him into the ground.

The rest was pretty much as I'd imagined, except for the minor detail that she had been awake and aware when it happened. No, none of them asked her for permission, but she'd responded -- eagerly -- when they took her. And my count was probably on the low side -- it was probably at least 8 or 9 times, if you counted the repeats.

But now she was fully awake, I was here, and she was horrified at what she had done, or had been done to her. And she was terrified that I'd hate her, maybe even divorce her -- it wasn't as if I didn't have sufficient cause, even if we didn't live in a no-fault state.

Admittedly, I was furious -- part of me would have liked to hammer the lot of them -- but she was right. She was awake, she knew what was happening, and she'd let them do it without protest. All that taking it to court would do is make sure that everyone knew about it, and brand her as "that woman who pulled a train at a party while her husband was downstairs."

I didn't blame her -- much. I know how Shelly's mind works, and how she can go crazy in the heat of the moment. And I still loved her, and didn't want to lose her. I told her that, and saw her face gradually relax as I held her and stroked her hair. We could deal with the rest in the morning.

"Deal with it? She enjoyed it!" a nasty corner of my mind whispered. Nastier when I realized one of her hands had slipped down and was sleepily caressing her gooey slit. With feeling of self-loathing, I realized that I was erect and throbbing. I turned away just long enough to pull off my clothes.

I could feel the semen being forced out as I thrust into her. I took her four more times that night.