The Party Ch. 01

It all felt like a dream.

Joan Woodruff wasn't in the best of moods. It was a Friday evening in late September, and as she got off from work she had a sinking feeling it would be like any other Friday evening, spent alone in her house—the house she had grown up in, and which she now occupied all by herself, as her parents were dead. So after the workday was over and she had wrapped up her affairs as a mid-level executive at a bank, she got a quick bite at a sandwich shop and then began wandering the streets.

But that excursion only confirmed in her the fact that her life was going nowhere.

Here she was, thirty-eight years old, reasonably successful in her career, but a near-total failure in her personal life. The mere fact that she was living in her childhood home seemed a stark indication that she had not progressed much beyond adolescence, even while approaching what some people might consider the threshold of middle age. Was she really that pathetic?

She really wasn't bad-looking. Okay, she didn't do much with her hair, but it was a nice chestnut color and was naturally curly, giving her an unusually youthful look. She had soft, regular features, and—though she blushed as she did so—she thought her "bosom" (lovely, old-fashioned word!) was something that most men would love to get their hands—and mouths—on. And her wide, flaring hips and round bottom were nothing to sneeze at either. She didn't really want to believe that most men were just interested in a woman's bosom and bottom (or, to put it more crudely, tits and ass), but she had lived and worked long enough with men to see how they naturally directed their eyes to those parts of a woman's anatomy.

So why didn't she have a man?

To date, she had had exactly one serious relationship—back in college, when she had fallen for a tall, handsome lad named Todd who seemed quite taken with her. She had let him take her virginity, and was happy when he'd deflowered her. Oh, she had cried a little—not from the pain or the blood, but just because she realized she had crossed a threshold she could never go back from. Todd had held her tenderly and even helped her clean up afterwards. They had gone on for some months—but then she discovered that he had been dallying with at least one other girl at the same time that he was repeatedly plowing into her body. She had actually known the girl slightly, and they both made it clear that Todd was no longer welcome in their beds. But by that time he had already found some other female less scrupulous than they were.

The whole incident with Todd had traumatized her in ways she didn't even fully understand; the end result was that she had shied away from entanglements for years and years. Anyway, she was kept busy in graduate school (where she had gotten a degree in business administration) and then in establishing herself in her chosen career. Banking wasn't exactly the most exciting field in the world, but it paid the bills and she had risen up in the ranks quickly enough.

When she was twenty-eight she had met a guy, Joseph, whom she thought really nice and sweet. She had, to her own amazement, slept with him on their first date, although she was disconcerted to note that he abruptly left after the deed was done. Only after several weeks of frenetic sex and abrupt departures did it finally dawn on her that Joseph might be married. And he was. Even after that, he begged her to remain his mistress, promising to set her up in a nice apartment on his dime. She laughed that idea to scorn—she already had a nice apartment, thank you very much. Imagine being a "kept woman" in this day and age!

There was no one after Joseph. The years had passed almost imperceptibly, and Joan managed to convince herself that she didn't miss the company of men or their invasion of her body. But certain phases of her private life told a different story.

Yes, she played with herself—more and more with the passing of the years. First it was once every two weeks; then once a week; then several times a week. She justified it by regarding it as merely a biological need that had to be taken care of, and she always washed up afterwards—trying to avoid looking at herself in the mirror while she did so. (She always masturbated naked; somehow it seemed even more obscene to do it while fully or partially clothed.)

Every so often she considered getting back into the dating world. But the horror stories her girl friends told of trying to get together with men in their late thirties or early forties were so appalling that she said to herself, "No thanks!" The idea of being (to use that grotesque and old-fashioned term) a "spinster" didn't really bother her. There were plenty of women who remained alone and childless, so why not her? Men were overrated; if she really needed something along that line, her dildo and vibrator were enough.

But then, why was she aimlessly wandering the streets on this Friday night, like a confused streetwalker?

The town she lived in was small, but it had a bustling downtown section with lots of upscale shops and bars and restaurants. As she drifted among the people (always in pairs or groups) who were talking or shouting or laughing or even dancing as they passed her on the sidewalk, her sense of the unreality of the whole episode increased. The bright lights turned everything into a blurry haze, and she couldn't decide whether to go into some establishment or continue walking. The idea of going alone into a bar was unappealing: she didn't welcome the thought of the sort of men who would be attracted to her in that context. So she shuffled on.

She found herself in the university district.

It was a small liberal arts college, whose population—students, faculty, administration—dominated the town. There was a bit of hostility between the college and the rest of the town, although Joan didn't share it. She had gone to college elsewhere, but she had always liked the atmosphere of the place—both intellectually stimulating and full of the carefree fun that only college students can have before they enter the work force.

Here the students were going around in large groups, headed who knows where. The occasional solitary person could be seen, but they clearly seemed to be headed back to their dorms or apartments for a quiet evening. In a sense she felt like an interloper, being almost a generation older than the fresh-faced students who raced by her without so much as a glance in her direction; but in another sense she felt rejuvenated, as if she had somehow been magically transported back in time to her own college days. She really didn't feel too much older than these students—maybe because so little had happened in her adult life.

She was instinctively drawn to a building where a fairly considerable commotion—both loud music and boisterous chatter—could be heard. Usually she hated such places, but for some reason she felt she wanted to be surrounded by noise at this moment, if only so that it would blot out her own lugubrious thoughts. The sense of dreamlike unreality became even more pronounced now, and she seemed to be floating toward the party—that must be what it was—rather than walking on her own two feet.

It was a frat house. She couldn't read the Greek letters on the face of the building, and didn't care one way or the other. She hadn't realized the small college even had fraternities or sororities. Well, such places were known for throwing good parties, weren't they? Ordinarily, the idea of going to a party where she knew absolutely no one would have petrified her; but she convinced herself that she would only be a kind of fly on the wall, watching others as they had fun without participating in the festivities in any way.

So she wafted in through the front door, where the noise was exponentially louder. How anyone could carry on a conversation with the music playing so stridently, she couldn't begin to imagine. As she sidled her way through the crush of bodies toward the back of the large room she was in, she saw a long table with a huge punch bowl, plastic cups, and little plates of snacks scattered all around.

She was reaching for a cup when a young man—he must have been very tall, as he towered over her (she was five foot six)—came up to her and greeted her with anomalous enthusiasm.

"Hey, good to see you!" he all but shouted in her ear. That seemed to suggest he knew her—but how could that be? "Can I get you some punch?"

"Yes, thank you," she said—so quietly that he couldn't possibly have heard. But he was already using the ladle to pour out a generous helping of punch into a cup, and he handed it to her while at the same time guiding her toward a separate room—connected to the main one by an arched opening—in the back.

The noise here was somewhat less intense, and Joan managed to find a seat on a chair against the back wall. The man who had poured her the drink had already left, but now she noticed other men—and a few women—gazing with interest and curiosity at her.

One of the men—an African American with one of the gentlest faces she had ever seen in her life—slipped into the chair next to her.

"Glad you came by," he said in a soft voice, once again suggesting that she was somehow known to him. "I'm Henry. What's your name?"

"Joan," she said.

He put an arm around her and pasted a kiss on her cheek. No doubt he was just trying to be friendly, but the act seemed unusually—and even disturbingly—intimate, and Joan shivered a little. She sipped the drink. It was clearly alcoholic, but she held the cup in both hands as if she were a little girl. It tasted good—sweet, but with a sharp tang that sent a flush of warmth through her as it went down her throat.

Before she knew it, several other young men were surrounding her, talking at once. It wasn't entirely clear that they were talking to her; more as if they were talking about her. One of them actually kneeled in front of her and gazed up at her face in obvious admiration. He placed a hand on her knee, sliding it up to her thigh; but she gently removed it and shook her head.

Time now passed with incredible rapidity, and she lost count of how many times her small cup was filled with punch. She felt obliged to drink it, but wished she could get one of the young men to bring her some munchies to go along with it. The alcohol loosened her own tongue at last, and she started talking with the guys—at first nervously and tentatively, but gradually with greater freedom and even enthusiasm. They were all interesting, whether they were athletes or computer nerds or students of literature or history. They seemed fascinated that she was an "executive" at a local bank, although why that should be, she couldn't begin to understand.

More than one of them gazed raptly at her chest, then at her face.

One of the guys—surely a football player, if his immense size and barrel chest were any indication—asked her to dance. That would have necessitated her going back to the other, noiser room, where other couples could be seen gyrating in a bewilderingly confused manner. She was inclined to say no, but he didn't give her a chance, seizing her hand and almost dragging her to the other room. He held her close, although the music was not anything like a slow waltz. For a while she welcomed his embrace; he was so big that in some way she felt she was a teenager dancing with her father.

Later, the dancing got more hectic, and she found herself being handed from one guy to another in a dizzying fashion. She giggled out loud as she was whirled around from one end of the room to the other, and at times it seemed as if she was the only woman on the floor and that other people were just watching her as each man took a turn with her.

But now, with all the alcohol and dancing, she felt she had had enough. She couldn't see straight, and she was also feeling a bit nauseous. And yet, she really didn't want to go home just yet. She managed to pry herself away from the bevy of men who kept urging her to continue dancing with them. After a few moments outside in the fresh air, her head cleared.

Then she turned around and went back into the building.

She felt she had to get a little rest somehow. Weren't the guys' bedrooms upstairs? Some of them must be unoccupied and available for someone who just wanted a brief nap. She clung to the banister as she struggled up the stairs. At the top of the stairs she found a long corridor with seemingly countless doors on either side of the hall—some open, some not. As she stumbled along the corridor, she could see that some of the rooms were definitely occupied; and the sounds emanating from them—grunts, moans, gasps—didn't need any explanation.

Feeling her face turning crimson, she continued walking and reached the middle of the corridor, where she opened a door at random, almost fearing what she might find there.

But it was empty.

It was clearly a boy's bedroom—well, okay, a young man's. There were silly posters of chesty women on the wall, and the books on the bookshelf suggested that this guy was studying biology. The bed was unmade, but it looked reasonably clean. Surely the occupant wouldn't mind if she just lay down and closed her eyes for a few moments. Then she would figure out how to get home.

Joan fell asleep almost immediately.

When she woke up, she became immediately aware of two important facts:

1. She was entirely naked.

2. A man was on top of her—and in her.

This double revelation didn't alarm or even interest her right away. In her dazed state she just took it in as if it was happening to someone else. The guy was pretty big, and she noticed absently that she had her arms languidly around his back, while her legs were raised and knees bent in the classic female position for sex. He was pounding her vigorously, his face nestled against her own so that she couldn't see it. Every now and then, though, he raised his face up to plant a kiss on her mouth, cheeks, neck, and shoulders; at one point he even kissed her armpit, something she had never experienced before and which sent a pleasurable shudder through her. Meanwhile, he was grabbing at her breasts, back, thighs, and bottom with gusto.

As she lay there, in a preternaturally calm way, he started uttering those sounds that even she, with her relative lack of experience of the male libido, could tell signalled his imminent climax. His grip on her tightened, his mouth became glued to her lips, and as he shot her seed into her she heard a long, almost anguished groan emerging from his throat and going right down her own.

After he finished, he collapsed on her. For a while his weight felt rather nice, but soon she felt smothered by his large frame. In a strangely hesitant manner she whispered in his ear, "Could you please get off me now?"

It took him some moments to respond, but then he slid out of her and rolled off. But as he lay on his back next to her, his organ still quite large and slick with both his and her juices, he cried out enthusiastically, "Gee, Joan, you were great!"

How did he know her name? Did someone downstairs—maybe that cute African American—tell everyone who she was? She noticed her handbag sitting on the dresser across the room. Maybe he, or someone else, had fished through it and looked at her driver's license. She seemed oddly unconcerned—and oddly convinced that no one had really poked through her things. But she wondered where her clothes were.

Why she wasn't frightened or outraged or even worried about what had just happened, she couldn't for the life of her say. The likelihood that she would get pregnant was pretty small; but that, surely, was the smallest part of it. But shouldn't she be upset that this guy had done what he had done without her consent?

But was it without her consent? The fact that, when she had suddenly woken up, she was embracing the guy and otherwise making it clear she wanted him in her was a pretty strong suggestion that she had given some kind of consent, even if she now couldn't remember what it was. Perhaps the alcohol and her general sense that she was in some sort of fantasy world had made her let her hair (and her clothes) down and let him "have his way with her," in that old-fashioned phrase.

The guy got up—and Joan couldn't help admiring his impressive physique, to say nothing of his glistening cock, which didn't seem to be getting much softer—and was heading out the door. As he did so he said, "Are you ready for the next guys?"

The next guys? As she turned her head toward the open door, she noticed two young men—one of whom was that African American (what was his name again?—Henry?), and the other a thin but compact and wiry Asian. Surely she hadn't given her consent for a threesome! But then another physical sensation suddenly came to her attention: there was a dull, throbbing pain in her posterior. And she could feel some thick, viscous fluid slowly leaking out of that nether orifice.

She gasped aloud. Oh, no! She couldn't have allowed two guys to . . . What was the term? "Double penetration"? She cast her mind back to that good-for-nothing married guy. He had once asked her if he could do "rear entry," claiming that his wife wouldn't let him do that to her. "Well, you're not doing that to me, either!" she had replied hotly, and he had dropped the matter—not without a bit of sulking. But had she now thrown all caution to the winds and allowed one of the predecessors of this burly guy to do just that? Why couldn't she remember?

And how many guys had there been?

The current guy, on the door's threshold, seemed to be wanting an actual answer to his question. All Joan could do was say weakly, "I guess."

That was enough for Henry and the Asian, who marched into the room. They were, of course, naked, and they almost leaped into bed, on either side of her. They seemed to want her to rest on her side; Henry was facing her, the Asian guy (who she learned was named Kevin) was behind her. First they fondled her all over—face, breasts, back, thighs, bottom, whatever they could reach. She couldn't deny how nice it felt—two men using hands and mouths to stimulate both her and themselves.

And then they entered her.

Henry went in first, into her pussy, and he encouraged her to drape her leg over his hip—apparently to allow Kevin easier entry into her anus. That orifice seemed already to be adequately lubed (you always had to do this with lube, didn't you?), either from some actual lotion or from some man's emission. Anyway, he seemed to slip in easily there, with no pain for Joan.

She lapsed into an even more dreamlike state than before. This really couldn't be happening. In a matter of minutes, she had had more men than she had had in her whole previous life. On the few times that she had even entertained the idea of two men in her at the same time, she had imagined the procedure to be bizarre, aberrant—and, at a minimum, uncomfortable. But she now found the sensation oddly soothing. There was nothing she need do; the guys were doing everything. It wasn't that she was being totally passive, but most of the work was on their part—whether it be pumping her (not quite in sync, but close enough), or grabbing her breasts (Henry took one from the front, Kevin reached around and seized another from behind), or kissing her (Henry kissed her on the mouth and face; Kevin, using his other hand to lift up her hair, lavished kisses on the back of her neck and her shoulders). She encircled Henry's neck, only for lack of something better to do with her arms—but every now and then she acknowledged Kevin's presence by using one hand to stroke his hip and thigh.

Their pummeling of her was getting frantic now, and Joan felt that she was having an out-of-body experience—looking down upon herself and her two lovers from above, but feeling almost nothing herself. But then, when the guys came (and they did so only seconds apart), she not only felt their discharges flooding her, but found that she herself was experiencing an unexpected orgasm of her own. Somehow she knew that this wasn't her first of the night.