Dream Party (2005)

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This story contains content that is definitely NC-17. It is not for kids.. enjoy!

We arrived at the party around 9:30pm. There was a decisive frat-boy feel to the whole affair; one that I always found slightly offensive. Sure there were beautiful women, lots of alcohol and a decent share of illicit drugs- but the frat-boy attitude was pervasive. And frankly it made me a bit anxious to be done with the whole thing. It occurred to me that I should have been happy for the aforementioned party favors but somehow I just wasn’t.

The house was huge- truly an architectural wonder. In all of the time I was there I never really got a handle on just how many rooms there were- but it was a lot. The décor ranged from early Victorian to Post Modern. Sometimes in the same room. It worked though; the lighting was unlike any I had ever seen. Subtle changes in the colors that washed through each room made it feel like you were crossing through the center of a prism.

There were rooms covered in wood paneling, and others painted to suggest the old Gothic feel of the original Frankenstein movies. Each one unique in its own impressive way.

Ornate fixtures were the standard and, oh yeah, the place was littered with blades. Lots and lots of blades of all shapes and sizes. There were short swords, long swords, hunting knives, pocketknives, razor sharp daggers, a respectable collection indeed. They were not behind glass, mind you, they were lying about. Anywhere you looked you could easily lay hands on something.

I am no expert in swords but I was certain that I encountered at least one sword crafted of true Damascus Steel. Recognizable from the unique wavy pattern known today as ‘damask’ or ‘damascene’ that decorated the surface of what is commonly considered to be one of the sharpest, finest blades ever created. If memory served it was only recently that blacksmiths of our era cracked the mystery of the amazingly strong steel that the ancients (of the Bronze Age no less!) had mastered nearly four thousand years ago. An impressive collection indeed! How odd that our gracious Host would just leave them lying about.

Along with the blades there was a vast contingent of other surgical looking implements that seemed to have body piercing as their main functionality.

I remember walking from room to room- barely talking to anyone. My friends had split off early on to find booze and drugs- so I just kind of wondered through the museum-like corridors, stopping at times to peer into rooms where strangers laughed and cavorted.

I never met our “Host”. I was a ‘friend of a friend’ – tagging along to the party because I had nothing better to do that particular Friday evening. So I would not have known him or her even if I had come face to face with them.

As the party progressed it slowly became apparent to me that something was a bit off about the whole affair. The frat-boy feel cranked up a notch after I saw a woman, a girl really, quickly exiting a room crying. Could it have been an argument with her boyfriend? Or something more sinister? The last time I had encountered the ‘frat-boy’ phenomena a girl was ‘date-raped’ and a buddy of mine and I had broken the whole thing up and had taken her to the hospital. And then we had to endure all the questions the police had asked, and ultimately had been ostracized by the same classmate/fraternity dicks who had perpetrated the whole thing to begin with. So I guess I was a bit more sensitive to that type of shit than some.

I walked into the room she had just left to find a bunch of women having sex. Despite the room full of beautiful women, something about it was very ugly. Something about it was seriously wrong.

I decided to leave. I tried to find my friends but they were nowhere to be found. I hung out in a large living room area for a while hoping that one of them would perhaps cruise through but they never did. As I sat there pondering my next move a guy walked over and sat on the couch next to me. His disarming smile caught me off guard. He asked me if I was having a good time. I replied politely in the affirmative. He invited me to have a drink with him- in his left hand he held a bottle of Arak- a Palestinian liqueur that was strongly reminiscent of licorice. I said, “Sure – what the Hell.” I guess I wasn’t totally ready to ditch my friends, leaving them without a ride.

After some small talk regarding the house, artwork etc. he kind of chuckled to himself in a strangely self-deprecating sort of way and asked if I had any interest in some acid. Naturally, having a bit of a past in the use of that particular hallucinogen- I found myself compelled to acquiesce. I mean shit- here I am in a beautiful house, surrounded by some truly hot women, and one of the nicest art collections I’ve ever seen. I would be stupid not to take advantage of a little LSD to really round out the experience. There really was little choice for me.

He held up what appeared to be a pointed steel rod of some sort. I remember the light glinting off of the tang of the miniature sword-like design. On the very tip, barely visible was a small, gray piece of paper. “So it was to be blotter”, I thought to myself, “that works.”

I licked the tip of my finger and reached over to receive the unexpected bounty. In an instant he grabs my wrist in a death-grip. A split second later my arm is fully extended and he has thrust the steel rod into the inside of my left bicep. The pain was quite unbearable, but only for a second, because he slaps a heavy dark gray band-aid onto it and the pain immediately subsides. He disappears with the same disarming smile he arrived with.

The whole encounter was no more than 5 minutes- but in the end I am more than a bit freaked out. I decide that maybe it is time to go. Fuck my friends, I think to myself. “Where the Hell did they get off to anyway? Serves them right for leaving me hanging by myself”, I figure.

I head out to the car, my plan being to get home before the acid really kicks in- shouldn’t be too hard. We were only about twenty minutes from my house to begin with. But as I’m pulling out of the one-lane road that leads off the property, a cop who has positioned himself right at the end of the driveway stops me. He shines a light in my face and taps the ass-end of his flashlight a little too hard on my window.

He quizzes me as to my state of mind and destination. I had only had a couple of beers and that shot of Arak over a period of like 3 hours – but I was anxious to be done with him before the acid started kicking in. So when he, rather forcefully, suggested that maybe I head back to the house for an hour or so to “let the alcohol settle a bit” I was not inclined to argue. I guess it occurred to me that

((House of (Chicks + Artwork)) * Acid) was definitely equal to or greater than ((Cop + Intent) + DUI).

The last thing about the encounter with the cop that I recall rather vividly was the way he laughed when he suggested that I “go get myself a little strange” and “leave the drunk driving to some other dumb-shit out there.” Actually it wasn’t the laugh that I recall- it was the way he touched my hand. It was gentle – almost like a mother- patting it condescendingly while he spoke.

Anyway- I was convinced. Fuck getting arrested when I had a perfectly good place to trip.

By the time I got back to the party the ‘creeping madness’ had started to kick in. I could feel the acid slowly taking hold. And the party – oh man! The party was in full decadent swing!

Naked people were everywhere. Walking slowly through the various rooms I was assaulted by moans of ecstasy and cries of pain from people who apparently liked their sex a little rougher.

I had just started pondering whether I should take my chances with the kindly police officer when a stunning woman (who appeared to have been crying recently) approached me and makes what I would consider to be an extra-ordinary attempt to engage me in a sexual encounter.

At this moment I guess the drugs and alcohol had begun to tip the scales because somehow I find myself licking her neck. Tasting the salt of her sweat. Her body is putting off heat unlike anyone I’ve ever been with. I can feel her radiating heat, and I can smell her. She smells like sex.

I’m aware of people wandering into the room, and I am slightly conscious of my self-consciousness regarding my own nudity- and hers. But soon I am lost in the moment- as is she. At one point I felt a slash of searing pain across my back and somewhere in the depths of my drug-addled, sex saturated mind, I register that she has cut me quite deeply across the muscle of my back. But just as the pain crescendos so does my orgasm. I think I came about three times when it was all said and done.

The couch we are on is covered in the blood from my back, which feels as if it has been sliced open numerous times. I stagger to a bathroom to splash my face with water and survey the damage- and find myself oddly unsurprised to see my back completely unscathed in the many mirrors.

My lover is gone when I return to the room. The couch is occupied by two new people- and the blood has somehow been cleansed in my absence.

At that point I was so buzzed that I just kind of wrote the whole thing off to heightened senses due to the drugs. It was only later that I began to see how fucked up I really was.

As is usually the case for most men after sex- I am now truly ready to leave. I have had my fill of the sensuous bounty of a beautiful woman- so it’s time to get some food and sleep it off. The thing is- my head is still completely buzzing. The acid hasn’t diminished at all in the hours since I was dosed. In fact it seems as if the effects have only gotten stronger. As I’m leaving yet another truly stunning woman approaches me. She takes my hand in hers and asks, nay begs, me to follow her into a room somewhere deep in the house. Almost as if she knows the exact right button to push she promises to show me a “special piece of artwork.”

We arrive in a room bathed in green light. At the center there is a pedestal draped in cloth. It would appear that it is a statue of some kind but when she pulls the cloth from the hidden shape it reveals a live woman of uncanny beauty.

My arousal is immediate and nearly painful. Odd how those two sensations are so closely related, yes?

My guide approaches the woman on the pedestal and begins to use her mouth in ways I have only imagined. The ‘statue’ beckons me to her and as I draw closer I see she is holding a steel rod not unlike the one that was used to administer the fateful hit of acid that began this Alice in Wonderland-like tumble into madness.

I can feel her drawing it across my ass but the wetness and heat of a mouth on my penis only accentuates the pain and brings it into a focus I have never experienced prior to that night.

When she drives it through the meat of my upper thigh, the tip edging up against my hardened organ I come again for what seems like minutes. The mouth, wet and ready, receives my orgasm eagerly.

The pain is excruciating- but the orgasm is unlike any I’ve ever had.

I try to leave again (for a 3rd time?) but again something stops me.

There is something wrong with this place and these people.

There is something wrong with me.

The party goes on seemingly for days but every time I try to leave it is still night outside. The same night? I can’t tell. I don’t wear a watch, there are no clocks amongst the artwork, and my cell phone seems to be without a signal. I begin to suspect that I am being repeatedly dosed with acid- or maybe something much stronger. I’ve never had a trip that lasted this long or was this intense. I am aware of things happening around me- but staying focused on thoughts for any length of time is difficult- especially when beautiful women continue to be willing partners for sex.

And there is food too- some of it is used for nourishment- more often than not though it is incorporated into the sex acts. And pain. I recall at least one occasion where a chocolate sauce, scalding in its heat was poured down the stomach of one of my many partners by the third member of our ménage a trois. I remember burning my face and tongue as I dove to lick it off her clitoris and labia.

I would be remiss in my duties if I did not mention the fact that I was not just a recipient of the pain. There were times I vaguely remember when I became the instrument of the pain (as well as the pleasure) for someone else. In one hazy encounter I recall the woman I was with reaching into a drawer and bringing out a device not entirely unlike a strap-on dildo. Only it was more of a sheath for my penis- made of leather, and covered on the outside with tiny steel points. She put it on me then positioned herself on all fours in front of me. Only the head of my penis was exposed.

I knew that those sharp points would tear at the inner walls of her vagina if I were to penetrate that sacred orifice. She sensed it too I guess, because instead of guiding me there– her hand slowly directed me to the other option. She held her tongue- I’ll give her that. Not a single sound did she utter as I pushed slowly into her. Just the rough breathing of someone in intense pain. It became easier once there was enough blood to lubricate her torn flesh.

And still she cried out in ecstasy. Her grunts of pain becoming first a moan of intense pleasure and later a howl of contentment.

And when I pulled out to survey the damage I must have done to her- I found none.

Despite the fact that I was having a hard time focusing- I slowly started making connections with regards to my situation.

First- I knew I must have been there for a many days at least. I have always had a fairly uncanny sense of the passage of time. I can’t remember the last time I used an alarm clock to wake myself up. Rather, as I lay in bed, I think to myself exactly which minute of which hour I wish to wake up and for some reason, unknown to me, I always do. But here in this place there was no sleep to speak of. Short lapses into unconsciousness after the sex yes, but as far as “night and day” I could only guess how many it had been and it began to frighten me that my estimation was moving well into the realm of imagination.

The other fucked up thing- once you were in the throes of the sex- everything else became secondary. Nothing else mattered. So it was even more difficult to stay focused on solving the whole mystery and finding a way out.

I felt like I was beginning to understand the underlying energy that was fueling this whole ordeal though. I posited that some form of intelligence must be behind the whole thing- pulling strings and jumping myself and other guests through the bizarre hoops for some reason beyond our comprehension. Well- not entirely beyond understanding though. Maybe they were just getting their jollies by watching us fuck and hurt each other. Hell, isn’t that what television is all about? I love to watch boxing. And porn. Kind of the same thing I suppose.

The whole pain aspect was fucked up though. I mean a few shots to the head in a boxing match are a bit different than jamming a spiked dildo up someone’s ass, yes? And the sex always involved pain. Initially, it was not so bad. But as the encounters progressed the thresholds became higher – as did the tolerance.

I required more and more pain to achieve satisfaction. Bizarrely, despite some extremely intense (and damaging) interactions, the memory of the pain faded almost as quickly as the physical damaged that had been incurred.

I know I have been sliced, punctured, burned, and choked. But I have no scars or bruises- and frankly it’s hard to even conjure up the faces of the people who inflicted these grievous wounds upon me. I find it difficult to even revisit the memories of these injuries. I wonder how many injuries I have endured that I do not even remember at all.

The pain factor led me to believe that our “Host” must be something more supernatural. Maybe some sort of Demon- or possibly an alien from outer space capable of manipulating us all.

And I never saw the same people twice. That was somewhat startling to realize. At first I thought they must be escaping somehow- but then a more sinister thought rose to the forefront of my mind. Maybe they were being killed. Though neither of these notions carried any real weight in my mind. I mean I was slowly gathering awareness of the situation and I had yet to escape. Then there was the super healing of the injuries right after the sex was finished. There was no way someone could have survived many of the encounters I had been through without that. So death wasn’t the goal of our “Host”. It was the pain (and the pleasure I suppose) that seemed to motivate the mayhem.

I was almost raped at one point- my only encounter with a man. This guy, big enough and strong enough to force his will onto me, got me into an arm lock from behind and proceeded to try to fuck me. The whole thing happened in slow motion from my perspective. He would try to maneuver one way and I would counter to stop. I would break his grip only to lose the advantage to his leverage. Then a set of huge blades- surgical steel- slipped up between my legs. I grabbed a ninja sword from a nearby table and crossed it over my lap. I held the advantage for a short while because I was able to lock my elbow down and trap his blades right at the tang. But he had this weird strength that seemed to be limitless. The blades had inched slowly closer to my crotch. I felt a sting as the steel cut into my groin. Out of desperation I spun as forcefully as I could and swung my blade at his throat. I was lucky to have caught him off guard- he certainly did not react as if he expected me to do that. In that moment of hesitation on his part I pulled my blade back across his chest. Exposing the bone of his sternum. He dropped his weapons and went straight to his knees. Then he laughed wildly and I saw that he was ejaculating on the carpet in front of me. I looked down to see my own penis hanging by a few gristly tendons of flesh. Then it began to reattach itself.

I have no idea when or how long it took but at some point it occurred to me that each of the encounters was always preceded by someone touching one of my hands. I discovered that the time between the bizarre sex/pain encounters could be lengthened just by avoiding the initial contact with others to begin with.

I began to avoid all contact. A difficult thing to do in a house as crowded as it was; especially with people who seemed intent on doing so. I was careful not to ‘appear’ to be avoiding contact though. That would have tipped off my “Host” that I was aware of the fact that something was definitely wrong. Instead I would make eye contact then duck at the last minute towards a tray of food that I had “just” seen.

I spent time locked in a bathroom at one point, pretending to shit just in case my “Host” had cameras all over the place.

Then my eye caught the dark gray band-aid still plastered on the inside of my arm. I had totally forgotten that was even there, but now that I was looking at it I realized that I had been seeing them for days or maybe even months. Everyone had one of those… that was when this all began. If I could dig out that ‘hit of acid’ which was clearly much more than that, maybe I could escape the spell it had kept me under. But how to do that without tipping anyone off?

I left the bathroom with my plan still half formed. I had to believe it was a one shot deal because if I got caught I would almost certainly be dosed again (or worse). So I began to make my way through the maze of the house towards what I hoped was the front door. There was a long hallway right in front of it that I knew I would recognize if I got close.

My idea being to minimize the distance I would have to travel once the ‘hit’ was out of my arm.

It seemed like hours (or days) before I got close to what I recalled being the main front hall. And it was not without some serious pain coupled with some insanely intense sexual encounters.

I began getting more paranoid about the escape. I knew it needed to happen soon. I was worried that at any moment our “Host” would realize what I was doing and somehow stop me. I positioned myself right near the path to the hall. I was immediately approached by two women who both took a hand. Now I guess I should clarify- when the hand touch happened it was almost like a switch was being thrown. There was no real fighting it after the contact was made. And the most bizarre aspect of it was that once the contact happened- I didn’t care about escape. I got caught up in the sex act as much as my partners. More so in some cases. But this time around I had an idea- if I could just maintain the plan in my head. I figured I’d take a dominant role with the women, then right before everyone orgasmed I would grab a blade and do what I had to do to get the ‘hit’ out of my arm.

My plan pretty much went off as I had hoped- I took the Bowie knife I had just used with extreme prejudice on the nipples of the nearest brunette and waited for the distraction of the orgasm to pull their focus. Then just as I was coming I sliced deeply into my bicep in a kind of V-shape. Taking out a chunk of meat about the size of a slice of apple. I knew immediately that I had gotten the “hit”- because the pain was excruciating. The blood began to spurt and there was definitely no sign of the immediate healing I had witnessed so many times before.

The second I had the chunk out of contact with the rest of my body my head cleared. Everything suddenly was all very clear. I had been here for months perhaps. I remembered all kinds of things that to this day I wish I could forget.

I grabbed a towel I had been careful to place before the encounter- and wrapped it tourniquet-style around my upper arm to help staunch the blood flow. My lovers were already moving off – apparently they were either not aware of my actions or not concerned.

So now it just became a matter of getting to my car. Amazingly after all this time I still had my keys with me- I had not allowed myself to think about what would happen if my car had been moved or would not start after sitting unused for so long. I was okay with running my ass off too if I had to. All the sex had trimmed me down quite a bit too. A fact I took note of in a mirror that very same day. I was kind of hot as a matter of fact- not something I would have ever called myself but I was none-the-less. I guess a steady regime of “sex-ercise” and little food can do that for you.

There were probably seven or eight women between the door and me. I was going to have to play it cool and avoid their touch. I started down the hall, deftly sidestepping the first few. My arm was screaming in pain, and I could feel the blood running down the inside of my shirt. But I kept moving casually forward so as not to raise any suspicion.

Out of nowhere a petite figure stepped in front of me, she reached for my hand, which I quickly moved as if I was waving to someone up near the door. All she caught was air. But at that point it became apparent that I had run out of luck because suddenly there were a lot more people in front of me than just a second before. Where did they come from?! A man moved in from my left and I brushed past him- then another from my right. I knocked him over out-right. They were definitely on to me now. Two men were directly in front of me moving rapidly to intersect my path to the front door. I was only a handful of steps away when they both lunged at me and managed to grapple my wrists. I knew it was now time to go all out. This was my last opportunity to break free. I yanked one hand free and used it to land a solid blow to the nose of the other guy still holding me. There was a satisfying crunch as his nose exploded into a bloody mess. He fell back on his ass. The first guy was recovering though and I saw him reaching for a steel rod similar to the one used to administer the initial dose of acid. Apparently it never occurred to him that I was just as comfortable on the offensive at this point. He underestimated my speed as well because instead of running- I stepped into his chest, grabbed the arm with the rod and promptly broke it with a sharp blow to the back of his elbow. Then before he could recover I wrenched his flopping lower arm around and drove the steel rod into his face. He staggered and fell. I guess the magical healing properties of whatever they had injected everyone with didn’t work so good on brain damage.

I knew the getting didn’t get any better so I broke and ran. Blowing past at least four other men and two women. At least twice I felt the grasping hands hit mine, but now that the thing was out of my arm the contact did not have any effect because I was able to still keep moving forward. I smashed through the beveled glass of the huge front door, slicing a million little cuts into my arms and legs. But this time the pain was almost a relief. It kept me grounded long enough to spot my car, exactly where I had left it! I fumbled with the keys (like any good horror movie). Thank God for keyless entry- the car was unlocked well before I got to it. Now it was just a matter of getting the car started. If this had been a movie I would have expected it to crank over a couple of times and not start- giving my pursuers just enough time to get to the car and begin pounding on the windows. But it was not a movie- and the old Honda was not some crappy movie car- it fired up as if I had just turned it off moments before.

I ran up the engine and popped the clutch slamming full on into one of the guys hell bent on bringing me back.

The cop at the end of the driveway looked up at the sound of my car approaching but I guess he had not been alerted to my escape yet because I ran him down where he stood. Sending a jet of blood up my windshield that was definitely right out of a movie. I heard his skull crash into my hood but when I looked back in my rear view mirror he was already getting up and preparing for pursuit.

I sped off turning wildly in a seemingly random pattern figuring I might be able to lose them. But it turned out to be unnecessary. No one ever came after me.

Eventually the pain in my arm and the loss of blood forced me to find a hospital. I totaled my car crashing into an ambulance next to the Emergency Entrance. I woke up with a group of emergency personnel surrounding me. The police were brought in, causing me a great deal of distress initially, but they turned out to be real police. I related the events of the last months. But when they went back to the place I was certain was the location of the house- of course it was not there.

I, and my three friends, had been listed as missing nearly seven months before! Everyone thought we were dead for sure. No one believed my story though. There was some speculation that I had perpetrated some crime relating to their disappearance- but eventually the lack of evidence cleared me.

These days I wonder if it ever really even happed to begin with. I have no physical scars but emotionally I’m kind of broken. Two or three times I have seen people that look like someone I might have fucked. But each time I make eye contact with them they quickly look away- do they remember it too? Or are they just freaked out by the pretty boy with the haunted look on his face staring at them from across the fruit aisle?