Score

Hang high within the air, and scanning down you see - a sea of suburbs sprawling, a pattern ever sang.

All ever singing same, under the dusky sky - but lie view somewhat lower, one lives a separate call.

Well. What do we see?

A fair few cars stretching down the street. Lights seem shining inside, but the shades are mostly drawn.

What may we hear?

Some music of some sort. But, from outside, it’s perhaps a bit faint. Faint, too, are the voices within, but clearly quite a few. The collective sound wraps ’round them like a blanket, not some blaring bleating audial assault.

Although…

As we peer closer, we hear laughter, grades of chitter - but, what’s that… whimper?

Take a peek (you cad, you creep) through where the curtains barely crack - oh dear. Oh gosh. Oh wow - far more skin than you’d expect to show.

Ahem. Let’s just… open the door.

There’s a woman on her back upon the floor. Not in distress - but quite undressed.

Swirling all around are other sights and sensual sounds, but that immediate shock of seeing her demands our gazing staying locked. Her legs apart, her wiggled hips - a man before her kneeling. Her giggle taunts, her promised heat - inviting for his pleasing.

A chivalrous sort, this kneeled knight - he knows that when a lady proffers a promise, it’d be rude to make her break it. His hips closen, ready for a joust, but strange departures from the game are plain: His lance, though long, is curious thick, and headed bulbously; his opposite unshields herself, penetration she dares not parry. She stretches as he slides within - her voice a gasp, replies his grunt - and her ankles angle ever up, as his flustered feelings speed his thrust.

Maybe not a basic birthday party - we begin to think.

This couple’s not the only two who couple in the room - in fact, it’s rather rarer seeing those who aren’t a bit engaging. Goodness, shocking! Sets hearts quivering! So, to keep from overloading, let’s sit down while they’re all fucking.

But our seat’s taken, isn’t it? A man sits there. He’s fully clothed, and pretty cringed. In fact, he’s outright miserable, isn’t he? He looks very out of place - and if we place our perspective in his mind, we see inside he knows he is.

Hello Norman. How you doing? What on Earth are you doing here? He wonders that, himself.

A meek and nerdy man - but like most men, inside’s some perverted, steamy core. He tries to hide it (it sure shames him), and he hates the flame’s embarrassment. But very undersexed (as often is his kind), he looked online (as often does his kind), and found an exciting ad.

A house party. An orgy. Well organised so to tantalise, an even mix of girls and guys. How fun (he thought)! How hot (sex sought)! Even a shy guy such as he ought find some whore with which to score.

(Then he admonished himself for the double-you word. Very rude and quite uncalled for, how dare he talk of any woman so disrespectfully)

So he showed up - and quickly went his heartrate up. In his dimming horny brain he’d failed to plan for how social anxiety cripples man. It pushed him down. It was a lot - very, very much a lot. Altogether too, too hot for a meek and skittish man. So as his pulse panicked, he found a seat in the center of a sofa, and tried to calm himself as all around the others fucked themselves.

What had he been thinking? Normally pretty thoughtful - sex always stupids up men’s brains. So here he cringed, within the company of exciting exhibitionistic extrovert perverts.

Miserable - but still a little thrilled. Maybe… maybe he couldn’t partake, but at least a little watch? Although frightening, it’s still arousing (... at least a bit, though perhaps too terrified to let his cock get fully filled). So he decided to be indecisive - like a photon unobserved, he’s of two states, laying in his limbo, neither leaving nor partaking. To be that kind of cat - he consoled himself with that.

The action all around made undulation as the room itself - like some squirming flesh monstrosity, all now consumed collectively. Sure, not all were actively engaging in some sexual activity, but nearly all at least were partly nude, and if not penetrating or softly petting, guzzling or sweetly nuzzling, it seemed each and every one of them had found a partner - one, or two, or more - to flirt with before ending on the floor.

Oh. Except… for her. Right there - brown hair. Sitting bolt-straight in the corner, her own arms hugged tight around her. Norman spied, circling her wrist, a band of purest snow. Each participating person had secured a band of separate hue, which told the rest of what they’d like to do. Norman’d boldly taken one the shade of blush, but after barest minutes hushed his horny head and flipped ’round red, so the only obvious sight was inside’s band of virginal white.

(Then he pondered crying in the loo - but in the end, that, he didn’t do)

So - a woman in the cuck chair in the corner, with a visage overwhelmed like he. Um… perhaps she’d like some company?

Barely had he noticed, but he’d risen and floated off to her. As he approached, eventually she saw him and her face blanched a sign of panic - but then Norman quickly pointed to his white wristlet and upped his hands in submission’s sign. At least as anxiously as her, he choked out his throat a line -

“Um. Uh, may, could… would sitting here be fine?”

The chair beside her - hers had been a pair, but the other empty of a bottom’s press, so sought he make it proper twin.

Her eyes slowly traced to her chair’s sad mate, and even slower said she, “suuuuuure…” with uncertainly a garland.