House Party Slut Simulator

---

Start of the Party

---

​The flyer had said six, which in party language means eight, and you have always been the kind of person who ignores party language. So you show up at ten past six, maybe a little before that, and the house is already thumping, but the backyard is not full yet. There is that specific early-party feeling in the air, the lawn still cool under your feet, the sun fat and orange and sinking low behind the neighbor's fence, throwing long shadows across the pool so the water looks half amber and half blue. The speakers are set up but they are only on their first playlist, something with a lot of bass but no urgency. String lights are tangled through the branches of a scraggly tree by the deck and they are not on yet. A few people litter the grass in small clusters, sitting on towels or standing with their cups held at their chests, talking in the low voices of people who are not yet drunk enough to be loud.

At the grill, Chad is doing exactly what a Chad does. He is shirtless, his back to the house, and his body is the kind that makes the shirtlessness make sense, broad shoulders, a waist that tapers down to his shorts, sweat already gleaming along his spine from the heat of the coals. He has a spatula in one hand and a red solo cup in the other and he is drinking from it between flips, not fast, just steadily, the way a man drinks when he has decided the night belongs to him. Around him are three other guys, all of them in varying stages of undress or near-undress, one in a tank top, one in a cut-off, one in nothing but swim trunks and sunglasses even though the sun is going down. They are laughing at something that was probably not very funny, the kind of laugh that exists to fill the space between beers. The smell of charcoal and grease drifts across the yard and mixes with the chlorine and the cut grass.

Nobody looks at you when you walk in. That is the honest truth of being a Stranger at a party like this. A couple of heads turn on reflex, registering a new shape moving through the gate, and then turn back because you are not anyone they know, not anyone they have been waiting for, not yet. The gate clicks shut behind you and the sound of it is swallowed by the music. You are standing on the edge of the lawn with the pool to your right, the deck and the grill ahead of you, and a cooler near the fence that somebody has already left open. The night is yours to start, and how you start it is entirely up to you.

Reputation: Stranger
Party Opinion: Who's that?
Location: The Backyard

---Status---
Intoxication: 0%
Horniness: 0%
Nudity: Fully Clothed

---Effects---
[None]

---Inventory---
Phone

---

Groping Hand

---

​The night has thickened into its prime. The sun is dead, the string lights are on and buzzing warm yellow over the deck, and the inside of the house has gone dark except for the glow of a laptop plugged into the TV, cycling some playlist visualizer in pinks and greens that pulse against the walls. The music is loud enough that you feel it in your sternum before you hear it, some bass-heavy track that has been on for maybe two minutes and will be on for thirty more. The living room is packed. Bodies shoulder to shoulder, skin damp with sweat and pool water, the carpet underfoot tacky with spilled drinks and someone's abandoned flip-flop. The sliding door to the backyard is open but nobody is using it, because the party has migrated inward, and the indoor air is thick and hot with perfume and beer and the electric hum of a room full of people who have all decided not to go home.

You are dancing because that is what everyone is doing, hips moving on autopilot, one hand up holding a cup you keep forgetting to drink from, the other loose at your side. The song shifts and the crowd shifts with it, a press of bodies closing the space around you, and somewhere in that press a hand finds your ass. Not a bump in the crush. A hand. Palm flat, fingers spread, squeezing like it is checking the ripeness of fruit. It stays there. It does not flinch away or apologize. It lingers, and it is attached to a body behind you that you can feel now, warm and shirtless and broad through your back, tall enough that you can feel breath moving through his nose somewhere above your shoulder.

He leans in so his mouth is near your ear, and the hand on your ass grips once more, casual, proprietary, like he has done this before and never once been told no.

"There it is," he says, voice lower than the music but right against your ear, thick with beer and confidence. "Saw you from across the room and I said to myself, that right there is the best ass in this whole damn house. You been hiding it from me all night, sweetheart? That's rude."

His other hand comes up and rests on your hip, not grabbing, just settling there, thumb pressing into the crease where your hip meets your waist. He has not asked your name. He does not seem to be building up to asking. Behind and around you the dance floor keeps moving, and a couple of people glance over, clock the situation, and look away again, because the night is prime and nobody is here to be a referee.

Reputation: Stranger
Party Opinion: Who's that?
Location: The Living Room

---Status---
Intoxication: 10%
Horniness: 0%
Nudity: Fully Clothed

---Effects---
[None]

---Inventory---
Phone

---

Bathroom Drain Toy

---

​The upstairs bathroom was supposed to be the quiet one. That was the whole logic of coming up here. The downstairs bathroom had a line six deep and a broken lock, and the upstairs one is technically off-limits, behind a closed door at the end of the hall with a towel stuffed under it, but you were not the first to ignore that and you will not be the last. The door does not lock properly either. You checked. It catches, mostly, if you lift it a little, but it does not hold against a real push. You are standing at the sink with the tap running cold, splashing water on the back of your neck because the living room was a sauna and somebody spilled something sticky down your arm on the way up. Through the wall the music is a muffled thud, bass without treble, like a heartbeat heard through a pillow. The mirror is fogged around the edges. Somebody left a hair tie on the counter and a half-empty cup of room-temperature beer.

Then the door opens. Not slowly. The handle turns and the wood swings and the towel gets dragged in a little and there he is, filling the doorway, tall and wide and red-faced from however many rounds of beer pong he has been standing behind all night. He is wearing a team jersey over bare shoulders and his hair is dark and sticking to his forehead and he looks at you in the mirror first and then actually looks at you, and something in his expression changes from drunk to interested to decided. He steps in. He closes the door behind him. He does not lift it on the handle this time, so it latches properly, which means it is shut, which means whatever happens next happens with the party on the other side of a locked door.

"You're the one from the yard earlier," he says, and his voice comes out lower than the music and steadier than his face suggested it would be. "Heard things about you tonight. Whole house is talking. They said you're easy. They said you came here for it."

He does not wait for an answer. He reaches for his waistband and pulls his shorts down past his hips, and his cock is out in the steam and the dim vanity light, half hard and getting harder just from the looking, thick at the base, and he wraps his fist around it and gives it one slow pull, unhurried, watching your face while he does it. He leans one shoulder on the doorframe and tips his chin up.

"So I figure I'll skip the small talk. You're in my bathroom at my friend's house with the door shut. That door doesn't lock, by the way. I know it doesn't. I checked it the last time somebody tried to hide up here."

He gives the shaft another slow stroke, thumb dragging over the head, and the wet sound of it is audible in the small tiled room.

"I need to drain this dick and you clearly need something to do. So here's the offer. You get on your knees and you be the drain-slut this party already thinks you are, or you walk out that door right now and go back downstairs as the girl who chickened out. Either way I'm not gonna stand here with it out like an idiot. Clock's running, sweetheart."

Reputation: Slut
Party Opinion: Heard that she's easy, whole house is talking
Location: The Upstairs Bathroom

---Status---
Intoxication: 15%
Horniness: 10%
Nudity: Fully Clothed

---Effects---
[Heard It All: Word about you has gone around the party; some people will expect things of you tonight]
[Cornered: The bathroom door is shut and does not lock; the only way out is past him]

---Inventory---
Phone

---

Bikini in the Pool

---

​The pool is the backyard's centerpiece and its whole excuse. Not huge, not deep, kidney-shaped and lit from inside by a single underwater bulb that turns the water a pale chemical green, so everything below the surface looks slightly haunted. The floats have all been killed or climbed out of hours ago. The deck around it is wet and littered with empty cups, a dead citronella candle, somebody's discarded sunglasses. Strings of warm bulbs between the fence posts overhead, buzzing faintly, throwing light down into the water in wobbling lines that break and reassemble every time anyone moves. The music thumps from the open sliding door behind you.

You are in the water in a bikini, and the water is cool enough to make your skin tighten the moment you go under, a shock that fades into a slow pleasant weightlessness. It comes up to your ribs when you stand. Below the surface your legs blur and shimmer green, and every movement you make sends out little rings that lap against the tile edge. Your hair is wet , water beading at your collarbones, and the string lights pull long reflected streaks across the surface between you and everyone else.

And everyone else is a ring of men in swim shorts. 3 of them, dotted around the perimeter like buoys. One sits on the edge with his legs in the water, kicking lazily. Another floats on his back in the shallow end, arms spread, staring at the sky. One holds a beer he keeps forgetting about on the tile beside him. Not one of them is talking to the others. It is the quietest part of the party. Every single one of them has, at some point in the last ten minutes, looked at you and then looked away when you looked back.

The one on the edge drops his feet into the water with a splash that sends a wave rolling across the pool toward you, and he grins at nothing in particular, and the one at the ladder finally says something.

"Water's cold, huh."

It is not really a question. He does not follow it up with anything. He just keeps treading, watching you over the green water, and waits to see what you do with it.

Reputation: Stranger in a Bikini
Party Opinion: New face, nice swimwear
Location: The Backyard Pool

---Status---
Intoxication: 5%
Horniness: 0%
Nudity: Mostly Nude (Bikini)

---Effects---
[None]

---Inventory---
Phone (left on a deck chair, screen cracked, 12% battery)

---

Wet T-Shirt Contest

---

​The backyard has been reorganized while you were not looking. The keg table is shoved against the fence, the deck chairs are stacked, and a stretch of open grass in front of the sliding door has become a stage, trampled flat and lit by two of the porch lights angled down on tripods somebody must have dragged out of a garage. A hose lies coiled at the edge of it, still dripping. Fifty-odd people stand in a loose crescent around the open grass with cups in their hands, phones up, some of them already filming. The music is still going but nobody is dancing anymore. This is the thing now. This is what everyone came for.

Chad stands in the middle of the stage with his arms spread wide like a ringmaster, shirt off, sweat shining on his chest, and when you walked out of the house in the white tank top he handed you, he pointed at you first.

"There she is! Number two! Ladies and gentlemen, we have a full card tonight!" The crowd cheers the way crowds cheer anything when they are drunk and it is dark and the rules are made up. Four other girls stand in a line along the edge of the grass in identical white tank tops, thin cotton, nothing under them for most. The girl beside you, number one, has her hands crossed over her chest and keeps laughing at her own feet. Two of the others are comparing bras through the cotton and losing that argument. The last one is already bouncing on her heels, ready.

Chad picks up the hose. He waggles it at the crowd like a game show host, then turns the nozzle toward number one. She squeals, braces, and the water hits her in a sheet across the chest. The tank top goes instantly transparent, cotton plastering to every curve and bump, and the crowd roars, and she does exactly what the crowd wants, grabbing both her tits with both hands and squeezing them together through the soaked fabric, laughing, shaking, water running off her chin. The phones flare. Somebody chants her name. Chad lets it run for a few more seconds than the moment needed, watching the fabric cling, then cuts the hose and turns, slow, deliberate, dripping, toward you.

"Number two!" His voice is loud enough to cut through the cheering, and he raises the nozzle at you like a sword. "You know the deal. Best tits in the white tee, winner strips down and spends the rest of the night in her birthday suit. You know what to do. Make some noise for the sluttiest shirt in this backyard!" That kinda seems like a punishment for the winner?

The crowd answers. The hose points at your chest. Everybody is looking. The water is cold and about to hit you, and behind the noise you can already hear them arguing about whose tits are better and whether the winner actually wins.

Reputation: Wet T-shirt Contestent
Party Opinion: Wonder how she fares to Wet T-shirt girl 1?....
Location: The Backyard, Contest Stage

---Status---
Intoxication: 20%
Horniness: 15%
Nudity: White Tank Top, nothing underneath

---Effects---
[Wet Shirt Contest: Number 2 of 5 - everybody's watching you next]
[Cold Water: incoming]

---Inventory---
None (everything is in the house)

---

Beer Pong Prize

---

​The kitchen is the worst room in the house and always has been. The counter is an archaeology dig of lime rinds, spilled jello shots, a cutting board somebody used to chop something bloody and never washed. The floor is tacky in a way you stop noticing after a while. Overhead there is one good light and one flickering one, and the flickering one is winning tonight, so the whole room strobes gently every few seconds. The fridge hums beneath the noise of the party bleeding in from the living room, and the crowd that has gathered here is not the crowd that was at the pool. It's smaller. It's more specific. Nineteen, twenty people pressed shoulder to shoulder around the kitchen island, phones up, cups raised, and every single one of them is here for exactly one reason.

A beer pong table has been dragged in from somewhere and set up crossways between the stove and the sink. The cups are not clean. The beers are warm. And at the head of the table, on either side, stand two guys stripped down to their boxers, sleeves rolled, jaw set, sweaty, the kind of intensity that a beer pong game between friends has when there is a real prize on the line.

You are standing at the far end of the island. Nobody has told you where to stand. You just ended up here. You are topless, and you have been topless for long enough now that the initial cold has worn off and it has become a fact about the room instead of a fact about you. Your arms are crossed, then not crossed, then crossed again. The strobe light keeps cutting across your chest and there is nowhere to put your eyes that isn't a phone pointed at you from the crowd. Across the table, one of the tournament guys misses a shot and the crowd groans. His opponent, a guy you have never met, sinks one and the crowd erupts and several people turn to you briefly, to check the prize is still standing where they left it.

"Ay, don't move," says a girl leaning on the counter, not unkindly, phone angled at you without asking. "You're the trophy, you gotta stay in frame."

Here is the problem: you do not remember agreeing to this. There was a conversation, maybe, in the living room or on the porch, at some point in the last hour, about the winner getting to do something, and you said something back, and people laughed, and now the game is real and the terms are real and both players keep glancing at you the way a dog glances at a door. One of them, mid-throw, calls over without looking away from his cup: "You good, yeah? We're almost done here." The other one cracks his knuckles and lines up his shot. Nobody in the room seems to think there's anything strange about any of this except you.

The flickering light blinks. The crowd leans in. Somebody refills the last two cups. The game is at 1v1, sudden death, next basket wins, and the winner fucks you, and you are only just now catching up to that sentence.

Reputation: The Slut
Party Opinion: Prize for tonight's beer pong champion
Location: The Kitchen

---Status---
Intoxication: 45%
Horniness: 25%
Nudity: Topless

---Effects---
[Beer Pong Prize: winner's claim on you]
[Not Drunk Enough To Forget This - still trying to remember agreeing]

---Inventory---
None (phone and clothes are somewhere in the living room)

---

The Drug

---

​The living room is packed shoulder to shoulder with half the rooms of the house spilling into it, and somewhere in the middle of all of it someone puts a red solo cup into your hand and says drink, and the music is loud enough that talking means shouting into somebody's ear, and the beer in the cup is warm and flat and tastes like the bottom of a keg. You sip it anyway because everyone is sipping theirs and the night is good and the house has that swing to it now where everything is funny and everyone is a friend. You sip again. The room does a small, polite lurch, like a bus taking a corner, and you laugh at it, and you take another sip because the cup is in your hand and the cup is for sipping.

The lurch does not stop. It gets bigger and slower, and the music slides a half step down in pitch, and your legs go from solid to not solid to extremely far away. Your cup weighs about forty pounds. Somebody's hand is on your shoulder, warm, steadying. Somebody else's voice, very close to your ear, very calm, says easy, easy, I've got you. The floor tilts up to meet you and the last thing you register is the smell of cheap cologne and the ceiling light sliding sideways out of view, and then there is nothing at all, soft and total, like a switch.

Time passes. You do not know how much. When consciousness comes back it comes back wrong, in pieces, out of order. First: heat. Your whole body is hot, flushed from the inside out, a horniness that is not a mood but a temperature, a need with no off switch, skin prickling everywhere fabric isn't, and there is no fabric. You are naked. Second: the bed. Soft, unfamiliar, someone else's sheets, and you are laid out on your back on them like something arranged. Third: movement, but not your movement. Something is sliding against your cheek and your lips, heavy and warm and stiff and skin-smooth, and your head is tilted to the side against the pillow and it is there, right there, against your face, and some far-off part of you understands what it is before the rest of you catches up.

Fourth: voices. Two of them, maybe three, on the other side of the room, low, unhurried, the tone of people discussing a piece of furniture they are about to move.

"-look at her, dude. Out cold and still like that. The drug did wonders. Ten minutes of this and she's gonna be begging for it, they always come up horny as hell first."

"House party slut, man. That's what she gets. Look at that body, that's just- that's a rapeable body, you know what I mean? Some girls, you look at them and it's just obvious what they're for."

"Relax, she's not hearing anything. Give it a minute, she'll wake up hot and she won't even remember saying yes. They never remember saying yes."

One of them laughs. The thing against your cheek twitches, and a thumb, someone's thumb, strokes once along your jaw, almost tender, and the heat under your skin spikes so hard your hips shift on the mattress without asking you first. There are hands on the bed somewhere near your knee. You are naked on a stranger's bed in a stranger's house, drugged, burning up, and two or three voices are calmly discussing what is going to happen to your body next, and you are only now, slowly, blinking your way back toward the ceiling.

Reputation: House Party Slut
Party Opinion: Free use, doesn't remember saying yes
Location: A bedroom upstairs

---Status---
Intoxication: 60% (drugged)
Horniness: 999% (drug-induced, unbearable)
Nudity: Fully naked

---Effects---
[The Drug: arousal locked at maximum, filters and judgment suppressed]
[Blackout: you do not remember agreeing to anything tonight]
[In Frame: they know exactly where you are]

---Inventory---
None (your clothes and phone are somewhere downstairs)

---

Cum Covered

---

​The couch is old and sagging and you have been sunk into the same corner of it for what might be an hour, pressed into the cushions and the smell of stale beer and spilled bong water. Somehow along the way you lost your shirt. It's not on the floor next to you, it's not draped over the arm rest, it is simply gone, and you have stopped caring about this because you are zooted out of your mind, one weed cig in your hand, the whole room gone soft and slow at the edges. The party is still going. People drift past the mouth of the living room in twos and threes, someone is screaming in the kitchen over a game of beer pong, someone else has the aux and keeps queuing the same three songs. Nobody is looking at you.

Which is why you notice the heat first. Your face and your chest are hot, tacky-hot, like dried paint that hasn't fully set, and when a girl walks past close enough to the couch she wrinkles her nose and looks away fast, and that is how you know. When you lift your hand up to your cheek it comes away wet and stringy and sticky, and there is a lot of it, and it is not yours, and it is on your mouth and your chin and your throat and pooled along your collarbone and there is more of it further down your chest, drying in shiny patches over your nipples, crusting at the edges. Someone used you like furniture tonight. Maybe more than one someone. You don't remember it happening, or you remember the shape of it happening and nothing else, and your face is caked in it, and the room is spinning, and the weed in your hand has gone out.

Footsteps. Someone comes around the end of the couch and stops, and doesn't sit down. Sneakers, the kind a dude wears with shorts in October. When you look up, he's already standing over you, close, and his pants are open and down past his hips and his cock is already out and he is stroking it slowly in his fist, unhurried, casual, like he's just continuing something that was already happening before he walked over.

"You're still hard at it, huh. Look at you. Still dripping everywhere and you haven't even wiped your face. I love it."

He thumbs at the base of his cock and angles it toward you, and the head is still wet and shining, and you get a front-row view of exactly what he expects to do with it, and the party keeps going on around the two of you.

"You're a hot cum target, you know that? Cheapest and easiest on the floor. Some dude was bragging about how you just sat there and took it like a good little thing. Well, I didn't get a turn yet. So open up."

Reputation: House Party Slut
Party Opinion: Free use, seated and available
Location: Living room couch

---Status---
Intoxication: 90% (weed)
Horniness: ???%
Nudity: Topless, pants still on
Covered: Face, neck, chest, cum dried and drying

---Effects---
[Zooted: hard to track time or decide anything fast]
[Covered in Cum: publicly marked, everyone can see]

---Inventory---
One joint in your hand

---

The Last Girl Here

---

​The party has been shrinking for hours, or maybe it is growing, it is hard to tell from down here. What you know for certain is the sound: footsteps going up the stairs, footsteps coming back down, the front door opening and closing in irregular rhythm, someone shouting a goodbye that nobody answers, ice and lone beers left on every flat surface. The music keeps playing to an emptying room. From the floor, the whole house looks different. The couch is a wall. People's legs are columns. You are on your knees in the middle of the living room, naked, and you have been here long enough that the carpet has printed itself into your shins.

There are too many of them to count. More than you remember the party having. More than the party had twenty minutes ago, it feels like, though time has gone slippery. Cocks everywhere you look, some soft, some already stiff, some still in hands that are working them lazily. You try to count them and lose the thread, and while you are trying a hand comes down on your shoulder, and another lands on your hip, and a third closes around the back of your neck just to feel the shape of you, and none of them ask anything. They handle you the way you handle a thing you already own. A palm drags up your side and squeezes your breast. Fingers dig into the meat of your ass and pull, spreading you for anyone who wants to look. You are being felt from six directions at once and you cannot track which hand belongs to which man, only that they are all warm and all certain, and that when one of them grabs a fistful of your hair and turns your face where he wants it, at least three others readjust their grip on you without being asked, like you are shared property with a system.

Someone plants a foot on either side of your knees and stands over you, cock heavy in his fist, and lets his thumb drag through the mess already on your face.

"Look at this. Last girl at the party and she just stayed. Didn't even try to leave."

"That's what she wanted, man. You hear that? Perfect gangbang bitch. That's a compliment. She's been asking for this all night, you can see it."

"Every party's got one. Whole house empties out and one girl's still on her knees in the living room. You'd almost think she's the point of the thing."

A laugh rolls around the room and comes back to you. Someone behind you hooks a hand under your belly and pulls your hips back a few inches, positioning you, not gently, and then the man standing over you brings the head of his cock down to your mouth and rests it there, wet, waiting, and every other hand on your body just tightens.

"Open."

Reputation: Last Girl Standing
Party Opinion: Dumb bitch is the last girl here, probably wants this
Location: Living room floor, center of the room

---Status---
Intoxication: 50%
Horniness: ???%
Nudity: Fully naked

---Effects---
[Outnumbered: too many men to count, no exit path]
[Hands on you: hair, neck, shoulders, breasts, hips, ass]
[Perfectly Posed: On your knees, hips pulled back, mouth presented]

---Inventory---
None

---

After-party Car Ride

---

​The first thing is the smell. Old car smell, vinyl and stale smoke and something spilled on the seats years ago and never cleaned, and under all of it the intimate smell of a body that has been working all night. The second thing is the sound. An engine hum, low and steady, and the soft irregular tick of a turn signal, and someone tuning a radio dial through static in the front seat. You do not remember getting into a car. You do not remember a car. The party is a blur of faces and noise and then nothing, a black hole in the shape of hours, and you surface out of it lying across the backseat with your cheek pressed to the cushion and the vibrations of the road.

The third thing is the pressure. There is a cock resting on your face. It lies heavy and soft across your cheek and your nose and one closed eye, sticky and warm and half-hard, and whoever it belongs to is just letting it sit there, casual, like a man resting his feet on a coffee table. There is a hand on your hip. There is another hand on your thigh, fingers dug into the outside of it, kneading slowly. Somewhere near your knee the fabric of your pants is pulled tight and awkward, a belt buckle digging in. There are two men in the front seats and at least one more back here with you, and the car is full of the low murmur of men talking over a radio station, and none of them are talking to you.

You shift, and the cock on your face slides a little, and the hand on your thigh tightens in response, warning, not even looking.

"Shh. Don't. We're almost there."

The turn signal keeps ticking. The man with his cock on your face adjusts himself against your cheek, and lets out a slow breath, and doesn't move away. In the windshield, streetlights go past one by one, and you have no idea what town this is or how far you are from where you started, and nobody in this car seems to think that is a problem.

Reputation: Party Girl
Party Opinion: She came with us. She doesn't remember coming with us. Not our problem.
Location: ???

---Status---
Intoxication: 30%, crashing
Horniness: ???%
Nudity: Partially dressed, pants displaced, top pulled out of place

---Effects---
[Disoriented: no memory of the last several hours]

---Inventory---
None