The Party

512 Enfield Court was a twenty-seven room mansion in the middle of a forest exactly thirty miles from civilization. It cost thousands of dollars to cool in the summer, and, even more, to heat in the winter. At full capacity, it could accommodate fifty overnight guests along with twenty members of staff. Tonight, it would host forty-five hand selected guests of all ages, types, and tastes.

The home is an ivory ghost ship in the forest, sailed in from another era. The design is Venetian Gothic, as lavish and pointlessly beautiful as any along The Grand Canal. The anonymous owner insisted on accurate candelabras that melt wax all over the Persian rugs and gold-flecked wallpaper that rips when someone walks by too vigorously. There are curling staircases in white marble, black and white checkered floors, and full sized mirrors on every wall.

On this night, fresh white candles have been lit throughout the home, along with fires behind every curling black grate. From the thick woods outside of the mansion, the windows glow in waning orange light. There will be an extravagant party. Many oysters will be eaten, and champagne is already chilling in silver tubs upon which condensation forms a wet coat. There are plates of escargot, charcuterie, rainbow macarons, and chilled caviar on long tables around the home. Everything is bite-sized, expensive, and beautifully displayed.

8:36 pm. There are no waiters, no servers, no maids. The house is warmly prepared but empty, waiting for the first guests to arrive. The host, in all of his or her ghostliness, is nowhere to be seen. Expensive clocks tick and tock in the hallways and bedrooms. If someone had wandered in from the woods through one of the many open doors or windows, it would have felt enchanted and cursed, like a fairy tale. The home of the Beast.

The stillness does not last; soon cars began to travel down the winding dirt path towards the mansion like a funeral procession. There are shining SUVs, worn out Volkswagens, family vans, muscle cars, and Jettas. They park in the gravel lot to the side of the home and pause, engines running, as if all of the guests were uncertain about the imposing, glowing party.

You are cordially invited to an intimate masquerade on the 12th of October, 9 pm sharp.

No guests, wear your best.

512 Enfield Lane

Kyle was one of the first to arrive, in his dark green Civic. He had received an invitation to the party two weeks ago, after hearing it described in whispers by his friend, Mark, at work. “You have to bring a mask,” said Mark, “it’s weird, but worth it.” The invitation had appeared in a cream envelope on his desk with an authentic wax seal. Anything with a wax seal has to be worth it, he thought. He put on a thin black eye mask and left the warmth of his car for the brisk October night. The driveway gravel crunched beneath his feet as he followed a trail of people walking up towards the house.

Emma was also one of the first to arrive in her red Jeep, filled with empty energy drink cans and old receipts. She spent half the price of her rent on a gold dress and matching mask for the party, eager to look chicer than she knew she was. A smooth-looking-40-something man from her spin class had invited her after a few weeks of flirting by the gym water fountain. She found the invitation slipped through the metal vent of her locker. Please come, he had written in tidy black letters. She was tickled and bought a dress online within an hour of opening the envelope.

Shannon did not respect the 9 pm sharp portion of the invite, and arrived at 9:30ish to find the parking lot crowded. She hopped out of her shining Lexus and walked from the far end of the gravel lot to the house with a firm, familiar step. She wore dark mink and a thick veil over her eyes along with muted red lipstick. Unlike most, this was not her first party at the mansion. The invitation had been delivered at exactly noon by a trim man in a suit three days prior, as expected. She could already smell the warmth of the fireplaces, the hot h'ordeuvres, and the excessive perfume from nervous first-timers. Lovely, she thought.

Guests crowd around the food and murmur between bites. The masks they wear elevate their costumes to heightened formality. Some wear old bridesmaid gowns, some wedding tuxes, and some are dressed in designer apparel. But they are united by the anonymity of these masks, keeping them safe from the truth of their day jobs.

Emma and Kyle are strangers with twin goals. Both are hidden behind the corner of a banquet table, stuffing their mouths with oysters and buttery crackers between gulps of cool champagne. They can’t pick the people who invited them out of the crowd, and each respectively wonders if the party is going to stay so hushed and disconnected.

At this same moment, Shannon opens a window on the first floor to have a smoke. She breathes deeply and assesses the crowd, impatient for no one and expecting nothing. The game won’t start for another fifteen minutes, at least. Between long inhales, she lets her eyes wander over the men who pass by, especially the thick ones. She always loved a man with crushing thighs and a bit of a stomach, something she could gnaw on.

Some of the guests have already noticed the lack of staff or even a clear host. They feel a united sense of anticipation, like waiting for the fireworks on the 4th of July. When would it begin? Would there be a grand entrance? Was it going to be weird?

The clocks in the house chimed ten o’clock, and the guests quieted. The sound of bells tolling distracted them from bites of food and light conversation, casting a spell over the entire house.

As if from nothingness, servants appear in full-face gold masks, all are wearing identical black suits and crisp bow ties. They walk with gloved hands clasped behind them, weaving through the crowd. Shannon rolls her eyes beneath her veil.

“Follow us, please!” they repeat as they walk briskly through the guests.

Eager to escape awkward small talk with strangers, the guests follow. They bring with them crystal flutes of champagne and lick h'ordeuvres crumbs off their fingers, buzzing with excitement. The group is led into the heart of the home, a ballroom, where more servants in masks wait for them.

The ballroom is an octagon, with mirrors lining each wall. The centerpiece of the room is an enormous chandelier flaked with rose gold, wearing hundreds and hundreds of white church candles. It is the kind of piece that would be found in an opera house, but not a residential home in the middle of the woods. Guests gasp at the sight as they file in, filling up the corners of the room. Garlands of fresh branches are draped over the corners of the mirrors, giving everything an outdoor scent. Emma, especially impressed, feels out of place as she pushes her back against a mirror. It is fancier than any wedding she has ever attended, or probably will attend.

Once all of the guests have arranged themselves in the room, the double doors at the front and back are closed by servants. The room is silent with expectation. A single servant moves to the center of the room, and the crowd makes way for him.

“The Pagan Ball will now commence.”

Music starts, from seemingly nowhere. Are the speakers hidden in the garlands? Maybe speakers in the chandelier? The tune is a slow, classical piece. A dance to which anyone could sway. While some in the crowd are distracted by the music, a large number of the guests begin to undress. Kyle and Emma, at opposite ends of the room, are united by their expression. Mouths drop open, and there is silence.

Long gloves are removed; long zippers pulled down. The room is warm and glowing from the fleshy bodies that emerge for the Pagan Ball. Oh, my god, it’s this kind of party, Kyle thinks madly, looking for the exit. Servants walk around the room collecting articles of fallen clothes, whispering to those who have not yet begun to undress. “Come on,” they whisper, “this is going to be fun.” To Emma and Kyle, obvious newcomers, they say, “this is a tradition. It would be rude to the host if you don’t partake.”

At the word “rude,” even the most reluctant guest strips. Emma knows that she has eaten about sixty dollars worth of oysters alone, to say nothing of the champagne. And the candlelight is remarkably flattering, she considers. Kyle is also likewise compelled. He thinks back fondly on his first, and last ever, visit to a nude beach, where he was able to achieve an all-over tan.

Some of the guests begin to pair off and waltz, slowly, formally, as if they were cuckoo clock dancers set to move automatically each hour. Newcomers step back, giving the dancers room and debating whether or not they should join. The bodies are beautiful under the soft light, revealing moles, scars, bountiful curves, and curly hairs.

Shannon doesn’t hesitate to grab a partner from the wall, a gentleman with a huge amount of chest hair and toned arms. He smiles beneath his mask as she pulls him to the center of the room and leads the waltz, like a man. She is a nimble, experienced dancer. Their increasing speed sets the tone for the other dancers as Shannon presses her body against her partner, skin to skin. The temperature of the room increases.

Emma is approached by the man she recognizes from her spin class; the tan, white-haired dreamboat who invited her. He extends his hand for a dance, and she blushes to the roots of her hair while trying not to look at his dick. It is the weirdest first date she has ever been on, and even worse, she doesn’t know how to dance.

“You came,” he says.

“Yes,” she replies. She can’t think of anything else to say.

They are skin to skin, moving throughout the growing crowd. It smells like flesh, like the sweet part of a human temple. She can feel his cock against her leg, and her stomach flip-flops. Why not? She thinks. There must be something in the oysters. That is not a normal Emma-thing.

Kyle is frozen. He doesn’t want to pick a partner, and he’s never waltzed in his life. However, the thing keeping his naked ass pressed against the ballroom mirror is the fact that he has a huge, undeniable erection. There is no way he is going to move from this spot. None of the other dancing men are as affected. He blushes, alone, and thinks of his car waiting for him in the parking lot.

The music increases in tempo and the dancers move closer together. They have become units, moving in sync, warming the room with their touches. And then, as quickly and suddenly as the music began, there is a moan. No one can tell from what corner of the room that it came from, only that the energy has shifted. Someone, male or female, has been touched. It as if the rules of the game have been lifted. Everyone knows what must happen next.

Emma’s partner moves his hand downward as they dance, and she moves closer to him to let him know that it’s alright. He strokes her ass with the tips of his fingers, and she sighs, oh lord that feels good. His arms are strong; he’s almost carrying her across the floor. She feels wet between her legs, but doesn’t feel ashamed; the sound of the moan gave her permission to feel this. She leans up to try and peek under his black mask; his lips are pressed together like he’s trying not to break character. Under the bold inspiration of the expensive champagne, she kisses those pursed lips, and he laughs as if she’s done something funny.

The room expands with the waves of moving dancers, and servants open the ballroom doors to let in fresh air, opening up the house once again to the guests. The volume of the music increases, as does the sound of sighs, kisses, and moans.

“You’re not dancing?”

The voice belongs to a woman with deep brown skin who wears a mask covered in crystals. She has found her way next to Kyle, who looks like he’s about to face a firing squad.

“I just don’t dance, and not like that,” he replied, pointing at a passing butt.

“This is your first time?”

“Yes, god yes, I’ve never been to anything like this before. I’m Kyle,” he said, extending a hand towards her. She laughed.

“No names! That’s the first rule.”

“Where are these rules posted?”

He couldn’t see it, but his new friend rolled her eyes. “Come and dance with me,” she said, “I’ll lead. I have two younger sisters, and I’m great at taking the lead.”

His boner was an outrageous participant in an otherwise normal conversation. He could feel red embarrassment creep all over, but he didn’t want to remember himself as a sad, naked wallflower.

“Alright, you lead.”

At this moment, Shannon has already had enough of dancing. She and her chosen partner are pressed against a corner of cold ballroom glass, kissing each other like teenagers in a movie. She runs her hands over his arms, legs, and torso like an assessment, scratching and pinching the whole way. She loves the anonymity of these parties, the effortless way she can seek pleasure without all of the icebreakers. Her partner is less vicious, and makes a slow effort to reach up to one of her pert nipples and run his fingers around them.

In her real life, she is too intimidating for most men to grab and pinch at will. But now, she’s already so wet that she feels a drop of her juices creep down the side of one leg. She grabs her partner’s wrist and tugs it in the direction of her pussy, indicating a need. He has thick, beautiful fingers and obliges by parting her lips and drawing circles, around her clit.

“That’s it,” she says, encouraging the man. He smells like expensive cologne, and she can tell that he is an outdoor-lover, with his warm tan. Who knows what he looks like under the mask, who cares?! He sinks a finger inside of her, and she moans so loudly that it bests the classical music.

Only a few dancing pairs remain, Kyle and his partner included. Everyone else has wandered out of the room in search of food or comfortable surfaces. The formality of the dance has dissipated into the loving start of an orgy.

Emma has already left with her partner, both in search of another glass of champagne. They fill up in a living room with a roaring fire in the grate and a threesome underway, two men and one woman. The woman is seated between the men, who are both sucking on her breasts. Emma turns towards her glass.

“Have you ever thought about being in the middle of something like that?” her partner asks her. She can see flecks of gray throughout his wavy, perfectly styled hair. Experienced, she thinks.

“I have. It makes me nervous, though,” she whispers back, afraid that the trio might hear her.

“Come on then.” He grabs her elbow and pulls her towards the lengthy red couch. The woman in the center looks up at Emma, moves her head up and down in calculation, and then nods. Emma is trembling, almost too afraid to do anything.

“Sit on the couch, sweetheart.” Her partner’s voice is soothing, much different from their normal banter at the gym. Without his mask, he loves sports banter and boyish jokes. She knew that he was divorced and probably made twice her salary. With the mask, he is a mystery, a Zorro Bandit.

She sat on the couch a little way from the woman and looked expectantly up at her friend. He was smiling and crouched down on his knees in front of her. He nudged open her legs, and she inhaled, her heart sprinting all over the place in her chest. Oh god, this is a first. He moved closer to her and started to lick, slowly, testing to see if she would resist. She didn’t.

His tongue circled, around her clit, which was already wet and swollen from the things she had seen. She moaned, forgetting about the crowd around her. The moan drew the attention of one of the men beside her, who turned her way. The stranger stroked her cheek, then kissed it, then went down to suck on her hard pink nipple while her friend ate her out.

She had never been this far, never felt quite this wonderful. She didn’t want to cum so soon that the room would know she was an overwhelmed, overeager beginner. It was impossible not to; she could feel an orgasm coming to a boil as the stranger sucked one nipple and fondled the other, and her friend inserted a long finger into her pussy. The former threesome beside her had become just a fuck, with the man pounding into the lithe woman from behind.

Emma came with a scream, riding her partner’s face until it glistened. Both of the men that worked on her smiled; a job well done.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, still too polite to break the formality of the event. “That was amazing...I need a drink.”


At this moment inside of the ballroom, Kyle had finally had enough dancing and brushing up against his partner that he feared an embarrassing and premature ejaculation. She must have known that he was both new to this dance and painfully aroused.

“Let’s find somewhere we can cool down,” she whispered into his ear as they took a final turn around the room.

Taking his hand, she led him out of the ballroom and down a hall. A couple was pressed in the hallway, fucking as they stood, and Kyle felt sobered from the sight. He felt like he had finally woken up to find that his fate was decided. His host knew her way around the house; the grip on his arm was strong and a bit terrifying. She knew what she wanted, but he was blindly led.

They entered into a library, dark and warm. Bodies moved on every surface: the floor, couches, chairs. The room had been selected for its cozy darkness, with a fire barely alive in the grate. Kyle was pulled to a love seat by the door, where he sat still holding his partner’s hand like a nervous child unwilling to leave his mother’s side.

“Do you want to start?” she asked, breaking through the sound of bodies pulling in and out of each other around them.

“Sure, I mean, why not?”

“That’s not encouraging. Do you want to fuck me or not?”

“Yes,” he whispered, nodding in sync. “Yes.”

“Can I fuck you back, then?”

“Yes, anything.”

She kissed him, a short peck on the mouth, and said, “I’m rough. I like it rougher than you may be used to. Do I still have permission?”

He nodded. Of course, he was going to let this gorgeous woman do anything to him. But everyone had limits, and he wasn’t experienced enough to know where his were.

She starts by kissing his neck, moving her hands down his chest and stomach towards his cock. Her touch is so soft that he forgets any mention of “rough” as she starts to jerk him off, ensuring that he is ready for her next move. He is thin and embarrassed by his thinness, but his dick is a fantastic, thick thing. She moans as she tugs it; a sign of appreciation.

It’s too dark to see any detail of the couples and trios in the room, but he knows that a few faces are turned towards them, watching him.

“Bend over on the couch, like a dog,” she says to him, and he obeys. She stands up beside the green velvet couch and runs her hand over the straight smoothness of his back. “I like to spank. I like it when people watch me spank.”

He nods at this, a quiet acquiescence, and she starts her blows. God damn, this woman works out. Kyle is surprised by the strength of her hand slapping against his goose-pimpled flesh. She has the arm of a boxer, a bowler, or maybe a tennis player.

“Oh yeah baby, look at that ass turn red for me.”

His ass starts with a tingle and then begins to hurt. He winces as she hits him in staccato, without mercy, in full view of the library audience. She sees his pain and laughs, hitting him harder. There would be bruises tomorrow, and probably a great deal of agony whenever he sat. The thought of this excited him, like a secret, and would have given him more pleasure if the pain hadn’t been so darn distracting.

“Alright, that’s enough for now,” his mistress says, ending the blows. There was sweat on her brow and sweat pooled in the dip of her collarbone. She ran her hands over his ass with a soft touch, checking and double checking her work.

“Are there any sluts in here who want to fuck this first timer?” she announces to the room. Kyle felt hugely embarrassed to be called a first timer and also disappointed that his hostess wasn’t going to “do the honors” herself.

A giggling girl with huge tits and dark round nipples raised her hand. “I love first timers!” she said, a charming thing. Kyle recognized her as one of the people who had watched his beating and convinced himself that her love of first timers wasn’t the reason she came over to the couch, waiting for further instruction. Maybe she just thinks I’m cute?

“Alright sweetheart, bend over on the couch so he can stand behind you and fuck you,” the mistress commanded. Only now did he consider that his partner could be a seasoned domme, a professional even.

The girl’s ass was pale and round as the moon, she was thick and smelled like expensive perfume. Even though his ass still sang from pain, Kyle felt his cock thicken at the sight. He could see, despite the darkness, that she was wet. Oozing with her own juices, maybe even the juices from other partners, other cocks. Beautiful little slut, he thinks.

“Don’t stand there, fuck her.”

Kyle obeys, rubbing the tip of his cock around the outside of her pussy to wet it before pushing in every inch. She moans, and he moans in unison. Her pussy is hot and warm inside, and tight. He knows the only way to keep from cumming will be to fuck her as slow as he can take it. He watches the length of his cock disappear inside of her and braces himself for the rest.

He can’t see that his partner has bent down behind him, looking up at his ass with reverence. She sucks on two of the fingers of her right hand, soaking them in spit. With her left hand, she parts Kyle’s moving ass to prepare him for the next maneuver.

“You fuck her, I’m going to fuck you,” she says. At this point, most everyone in the room is watching them. The mistress has a voice like a thunderclap.

The Domme gets on her knees and spreads Kyle’s cheeks to find his asshole with her tongue. It is tight and sweet tasting, just the way she prefers. She doesn’t hesitate to push her index finger deep inside of him and then teases him with a second finger as he gasps from the first. She kisses one of his ass cheeks to reassure him, and then finger fucks him with the same cadence with which he is fucking the girl.

The three of them move together; each focused on their task. They breathe as one unit, punctuated by moans from Kyle and the girl on the couch. The Domme is charmed by the sight and reaches her free hand between her legs to masturbate. She loves to see her fingers vanish in and out of her prey’s asshole, fucking him just as hard as he fucks his new friend.

“Oh god, I’m cumming,” the girl on the couch says.

The words are like a trigger to Kyle, who has never been fucked in the ass and certainly never been in a threesome. He can hardly take the pressure building and building inside of his cock. He tries to think of non-sexual things to hold off while his partner finishes: moldy bread, overweight pugs, and a toilet with hair on the seat. The charming guest with the beautiful tits is full of him and warm all over, she loves the way he fucks her, she loves to think of his red ass from the previous spanking. She comes with a scream, tightening and releasing on his cock.

Kyle follows her lead, waiting for her to stop wriggling so he can finish. His ass feels full with two fingers, which gives him the strangest sensation of being complete. He lets go entirely, filling the stranger with white cum as he clenches his ass on the domme’s fingers. Kyle has a delightful moan that falls on eager ears in the library as other couples continue their night work.

With that, the three pull apart from each other in the overheated library.


Shannon has taken her prey to one of the many guest rooms in the home. This room is her favorite; it faces the garden in front and has a beautiful view of the forest under the moonlight. She has thrown open the windows and let the cool night air fill the room while her partners lay on the bed.

There is the first man from the dance, of course, a classic Greek type. But the second man she has selected is a wallflower who nibbled caviar on crackers while the guests fucked around him. It was hard to resist newcomers who weren’t sure what planet they had been dropped on during the festivities. He was a tall, thin boy of a pasty hue, covered in freckles. His hair smelled like peppermint, and he said his name was Nick before Shannon had time to scold him about names.

They both sat on the bed, waiting for her to return after opening the windows. Men love to be bossed around, Shannon thinks as she approaches. She sits between them and starts to kiss Nick’s neck as they touch in the dark, both men stroking her softly as if unsure what she wants or where this will go. Her muscle man pinches her nipples and works for a hand down between her legs, where she’s dripping wet. She wraps a hand around Nick’s cock and starts to work it up and down. He trembles.

“Lay down on the bed, Nick,” she commands. The bed is white silk and about to become a cum-stained mess. Not my house, thank goodness. Nick lays down and faces the window, anxious about his curved boner. He shivers, afraid to cum too soon, afraid to offend his dominating friend.

Shannon gets on her knees and takes Nick’s cock into her mouth. It is soft; it tastes like soap. She is charmed by his efforts and pushes his dick deep inside of her throat. She lets him hear the sound of her gag, indicating her good work. Her muscle man lines up behind her raised ass and touches her pussy, telling her without words that he wants to enter it.

“Don’t wait to fuck me, just do it,” Shannon says in response, irritated.

He obeys, cramming his dick inside of her warmth to show that he’s not afraid. She moans with a mouth filled with cock; there is nothing she loves so much as to be the woman in the middle. Giving pleasure, receiving pleasure, full to bursting. The three move slowly towards the headboard on the slippery silk sheets. She can feel Nick’s balls rise to hug the bottom of his dick, nearly ready to burst. His moan is like a cough rising in his throat, sweet and unobtrusive. The man fucking her is the opposite; she can hear his porn star whispers of oh yeah oh yeah behind her.

Nick cums in her mouth, salty mess. He cums a lot, which makes her think he hadn’t been properly fucked in a while. She swallows it all, charmed that he wasn’t able to last even five minutes. Her Greek God continues to fuck her with renewed vigor, and she moans without obstruction. Nick wiggles under her and sucks her tits, feeling for her clit with a free hand. He misses the mark, but Shannon is delighted. Two men, the Devil’s threesome.

Ignoring her partner, she cums with a scream that travels down the hallway when Nick finally finds her clit. It’s heaven to have two men work for her pleasure. She falls onto the silk bedding and curls her arms around the boy, watching the gym addict finish himself with a white-knuckled grip. As he shoots his cum across the expensive bedding, she laughs with happiness. She’ll never see these boys again. 'I love a good Venetian orgy,' Shannon thinks as she falls asleep in the arms of two men.


The house is alive with moans followed by silence in waves. Fire fades in the grates and candles melt down into waxy white pools. The host of the party never reveals themselves, just as the guests of the party have stopped thinking about the mystery. Empty bottles of champagne and crumbs left from macarons litter the banquet tables, and the clock chime away the night hours one bell at a time. The morning comes, as sure as the guests came, and waking guests stumble to their cars during a pink dawn.


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