RIP, Restraint
A short story by Eve Brash
This story contains: threesome/group, strangers, firsts, anal, cunnilingus, sex party
I was supposed to have attended Morris Manor’s legendary Halloween sex party with a guy. My ex, Schafer. Getting on the guest list was expensive, but lucky for me, one ticket is cheaper than two, and we split up just before my window of opportunity closed.
That’s how I find myself alone in the Gilded Age mansion built by some titan of industry with more money than god. The limestone building looms over a long, tree-lined drive, and on the inside, every room is as ostentatious and incredible as I expected it to be.
Carved stone columns lead up to twenty-foot ceilings painted with slutty little cherubs. Gilt trim edges every possible bit of molding on the walls. Gleaming parquet floors lead to glittering marble ballrooms like the one I’m standing in now, feeling a bit self-conscious as a female guest who’s attending alone.
Schafer would’ve hated the decor.
But he especially would’ve hated the sexual tableau stretching from wall to wall like rides at a carnival, giving the crowd something to feast upon. On one side, there’s a woman running a train with a line of men that hugs the length of the room. On another side, two dommes are walking a group of leashed men who crawl on all fours like a pack of dogs.
It’s chaos, but I love it.
It’s loud. It’s exuberant. It’s messy and joyful and real.
It reminds me of being a kid, before I’d learned the lesson that my own exuberance made me too much and I should hold back for the comfort of those around me. My parents framed it as learning good manners rather than as betraying myself.
To people in my world, it all boils down to status. Restraint and composure are “good manners.” Loud, messy, joyful sex parties are not.
I’d been waiting for the day when all that restraint would pay off. I got a promising degree, started a promising job, and found a promising man. I followed the rules. I thought that would earn me some kind of freedom to explore the other parts of myself.
Like if I were good enough, the universe would reward me with a fulfilling sex life.
It did not.
This event was my last ditch effort to get what I needed without blowing up my entire life, but when I brought up the topic of coming with Schafer, he scoffed and said we were too mature for that kind of party.
And in that moment, I had a startling vision of my future:
Faking orgasms to soothe his ego. Masturbating in the bathroom, alone. Leaning away from his kisses so he wouldn’t try for more; I’d rather wash the dishes than have to put on a convincing performance in bed.
No amount of good behavior was going to save me. The question wasn’t whether we should come to a sex party. It was whether I’d abandon my needs forever in exchange for a life that looked good on paper.
And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t shove my desire down any longer. Not when places like Morris Manor existed in the world, waiting to be explored.
The house is full of mischief and mayhem, and plenty of people are in costume for Halloween. Candlelight flickers from sconces and chandeliers, and the grinning faces of hundreds of jack-o-lanterns ring the room. Even among this opulence, none of it feels cheesy.
It feels like I’ve stepped into another world. One where every sight is further proof I’m not wrong for wanting more.
I walk from each ballroom to the next, soaking it in. In one scene, a naked, blindfolded man kneels submissively with his hands bound behind his back. At his side, another man instructs approaching guests on where they can attach clothespins to the sub's body. With every new pinch he can’t see coming, the kneeling man jumps and whimpers from the pain, but his cock juts out straight in front of him, as hard as a plank.
Down a quieter hallway are smaller rooms where I find people fucking for more intimate audiences. Sometimes the crowd joins in with good-natured heckling. Some rooms are silent except for the soft grunts of the people putting on a show.
I’m eager to join, but I’m not totally sure how to find my way in. Most people not engaged in the scenes are wrapped around the partners they came with and lost in their own private pleasures. A few single men prowl around on their own, but the way they leer makes me uncomfortable.
One man in particular stares at me from across the room. He looks like Schafer, and all his clean-cut friends, so it’s no surprise that his eye contact makes me recoil. I glance back to the scene, where four women are pinning a man down like something from Gulliver’s Travels. I don’t want to encourage this guy. But when I try to step out of his sight line, he gives me a lecherous smile and moves like he wants to intercept me.
That’s enough of this room.
I bolt out into the hallway, turning down a side passage, then another, and duck through an unlocked door. It clicks shut behind me, and I collapse against it with a sigh. I tug my mask off and rub my eyes as I regroup.
Even in a mansion filled with debauchery, I can’t seem to shake off my self-consciousness. I know what I want. But how do I get from here to there?
When I look up, I realize I’m in some kind of sitting room decorated with clusters of plush rugs and artfully arranged spindly furniture. A hint of lemon furniture polish scents the air. And next to a fire flickering in the hearth, two men play cards at a small wooden table.
I can see the face of only one of them. The other has his back turned, but the man in view looks up at me briefly.
“There’s another one. How many interruptions will we bear tonight?”
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