The Legend of Marty Ketchum

I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that a century from now, the good folks at Staghurst College will still speak in revered tones about Marty Ketchum’s infamous Halloween party back in 2013. Everyone who was there and saw it with their own eyes will be ‘pushing daisies’ by then of course, but the legend will live on for generations.

I knew the sonuvabitch better than anyone, so I guess I’m the best guy to tell you the story. You’re probably not going to believe it—hell, I wouldn’t believe it either, if it was you telling me. It was the sexiest but also the scariest goddamned thing I’ve experienced in my entire life. Or ever heard of, for that matter.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a prude about the kind of shit I’m going to be telling you about. All bullshit aside, we all like to get a little rubbin’ in the dark from time to time. But there are not many of us who enjoy being so utterly scared shitless that a few years are whittled off the end of our lives because our goddamned hearts nearly exploded from pure, outrageous, arsehole-puckering, mind-fucking terror!

That’s what we got from Marty that night.

For any of this to make sense, I’ve got to back up some and tell you a bit more about Marty before I get into what happened at his fucking party.

We first met years ago at Staghurst college, both of us there on football scholarships we’d won back in our respective hometowns. Marty aspired to be an NFL quarterback and was built like one, although maybe not quite as tall and a few pounds lighter than ideal. But he had a hell of an arm—I’ll definitely say that for him.

I was a middle linebacker which means I’m a big, mean sonuvabitch, and a damn good runner. I was part of our team’s defensive line and my job was to anticipate the opposing team’s next play, run into the middle of it, mow down any poor bastard who got in my way, and destroy their quarterback. I loved nothing better than steam-rolling some arrogant fucking quarterback before he got rid of the ball and pounding his sorry ass into the ground. If I managed to fuck him up so bad that he had to limp off, or be carried off the field, so much the better.

Football wasn’t my only sport—I’d also won a bunch of local mixed-martial-arts competitions back in my home state and was being scouted by the UFC league. If this football gig didn’t pan out, I was going to try out as an MMA fighter. So you get the picture—I was not a guy that people normally fucked with.

As fate would have it, Marty and I were assigned to share a room in the Staghurst dorms. I wanted a room of my own but they didn’t allow it for freshmen. I arrived first that day and was in our dorm room, unpacking and getting my shit sorted out. In walks this uppity, cocky asshat, acting like an arrogant smart-ass—the kind that usually pisses me off so bad, I end up knocking him on his ass.

He saunters up to me, looks me up and down, and says, “You heaped-up pile of steaming, fermenting dog turds; you must be Gary Lodge. I’m Marty Ketchum—what do you say we go out for a beer and try to get laid?” And grinning his lopsided smile, he sticks out his hand to shake.

I mentioned that I’m a tough bastard? I could have snapped this little prick’s neck like a chicken bone. No one has spoken to me like that in many, many years without some serious hurtin’ being dispensed on them. But to my complete and utter surprise, I found myself laughing; we shook hands and off we went to see what kind of watering holes we could find around campus.

We found a British-style pub a few blocks away called The Cock & Bull and in we went. We were both twenty, but Marty turned on the charm with a good-looking waitress who came over to our table. I was big enough that I looked over twenty-one and she took our orders straight-away without asking for ID.

I implied earlier that Marty was too small to be a quarterback, but that’s not really true. He was a bit slimmer than most football players, but he was a fit, tough sonuvabitch. He had a good arm and could throw that fucking ball in a hard, flat accurate pass, at least a hundred feet. His long passes might go close to sixty yards. He had longish blond hair and I suppose he was a good enough looking guy. I’m no judge of that shit, but when there were women around, I’d notice them stealing glances in Marty’s direction, checking him out.

There in The Cock & Bull that night, I began to sense what a ‘lady’s man’ Marty really was. He had some kind of powerful charisma that apparently made him irresistible to the fair sex. I’m a big mean bastard, only average looking, but in the months after meeting Marty, my love life improved ten-fold, simply by hanging out with him. Rather than just attracting a lady for himself, he’d somehow find two of them together; explaining that one of them was to be with me. And maybe she would get to be with him next time. It was fucking uncanny.

Over the next few years, Marty’s influence over the ‘fair sex’ would become legendary. In the three years he attended Staghurst, he cut an enviable swath through the campus female population. It was more good luck than good management that there weren’t platoons of little Ketchums running around, as a result. There were definitely a few young ladies who found themselves ‘late’—all of them apparently deciding they didn’t need Marty’s progeny as a souvenir of their college days, and their pregnancies quietly went away.

When our waitress returned to our table with our drinks, Marty noticed an open pack of cigarettes on her tray and reached for it. She was a tall, slim, good-looking young woman with a very sexy figure that caused every set of male eyes in the bar to linger as she walked by. Marty shook out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, smiling like he did this kind of shit all the time. Then he asked her to bend forward and reaching up inside her long blond hair and behind her ear, he magically plucked out a butane cigarette lighter. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt so his arms were bare; the waitress and I were both stunned and had no idea how the fuck he’d done it.

He lit his cigarette and took a few drags so the tip was glowing red hot. Then holding the filtered end he pressed the lit end against the palm of his hand and gently pushed. I nearly shit—it looked like that goddamned cigarette was passing right through his hand until the glowing tip popped out the other side. Then he pulled it back out again and holding his hand up so we could see it, there wasn’t a mark on him. He took another drag to prove it was still lit; then snubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray and handed her the lighter. The waitress and I just stared in disbelief.

He then showed us his bare arm again and reached up behind her ear—this time finding a tightly folded twenty-dollar bill, which he dropped on her tray. Most of us had an old weird uncle who would find coins and shit behind our ears when we were little kids. But when Marty did it, it was like the things he found there had truly appeared out of thin air.

The waitress and I couldn’t believe what we’d just seen. We got the best service in the house after that and Marty got lots of smiles and side glances from her, suggesting that she might have certain services to offer outside the pub, too. It would eventually turn out that she did.

Marty and I sat there until late evening, drinking beer and eating greasy cheeseburgers. Many people came and went from our table, including about a dozen young women who’d picked up Marty’s vibes from across the crowded room and found some reason to wander over and check him out. When it was just the two of us, we told each other our life stories, what we hoped to accomplish in the future and a whole lot of other shit. By the time we headed back to campus, it felt like I’d known him my whole life. Within a few weeks, I would come to think of him as my best friend—that hasn’t changed over the many years that have gone by since.

Despite his fucking Halloween party. . .

Over the next year, his ever-expanding circle of friends would learn that Marty was a brilliant amateur magician. He was a lot better than most of those assholes you see on the TV talk shows. At parties, he could make himself appear or disappear in a blinding flash that produced a big cloud of billowing smoke. I guess it was some kind of special powder that he bought at a magician supply store, but when he did it, you’d swear to Christ it was real. Another time a bunch of us were sitting around a big table in The Cock & Bull. Someone asked for a magic trick and Marty immediately reaches down through the top of his date’s scoop-necked t-shirt and comes out with a live white mouse, dangling from the end of its tail. We couldn’t believe it. Somebody at the table said it was probably stashed in her bra. After nearly shitting her pants at the thought of a live mouse running around her titties, his date pulled her top down far enough to show us she wasn’t wearing a bra. He was always doing shit like that.

Staghurst’s football team was obviously a big part of our lives, too. The players all bonded well—soon we were all close friends. Marty proved to be a damn good quarterback and best of all, he didn’t turn into one of those prima donna assholes like many of them do. Because we were a somewhat ‘backwater’ college—I not going to bullshit—we didn’t exactly have the best football team in the country. What we really lacked were wide receivers—guys who could run fast and catch the fucking ball. While our ground game wasn’t half bad, if Marty had ever had a couple of guys like that, we’d have been contenders.

I did okay, too. Quarterbacks in our league learned they had to either throw the ball quickly, run it themselves, or kneel when I was the opposing middle linebacker or they might get their fucking backs broken. Being scared shitless that I might get to them while they still had possession, caused them to make lots of stupid mistakes. In all three years we played there, I led the league in penalties and missed a few games as a result. But I set a record for quarterback sacks in one season that I believe still stands to this day.

The team also got into lots of deep shit off the field—usually thanks to Marty.

My favorite story of Marty’s team shenanigans is also legendary. A hundred years from now, when someone’s telling the story of Marty’s mystical Halloween party, this story of our football team will almost certainly be told along with it.

It all happened after a home game towards the end of our second season. It was an important game to us because if we lost, we’d be eliminated from the state championships. And we were losing; down five points late in the fourth quarter, maybe a minute left on the clock.

One of our offensive tackles had been injured—I’d switched and was playing his position on offense, so I was right in the middle of what happened next. As usual, we had no one Marty could trust to catch the ball under pressure. So at third and ten on the forty-two-yard line, I was there in the huddle waiting anxiously to hear what Marty had in mind to get us out of this fucking disaster.

Over the roar of the crowd, he’s grinning ear to ear and in his cupped palms down near his groin, an iPhone appears, tucked close to his body so only the guys in the huddle can see it. The phone is in Facetime mode and on the screen is a live streaming image from our locker room, where to our astonishment, a dozen or more semi-naked young women are jumping up and down in a tight group in front of another iPhone, all waving enthusiastically to us. I recognized most of them—members of the unofficial Marty Ketchum fan club.

One of them holds up a hand-painted sign, that says,

‘Guys, win this game

and we’ll be here waiting.

Lose and we’re gone!’

Several of the women are shaking their substantial bare boobies provocatively at the camera. It is surreal, to be seeing this in the middle of a fucking huddle, near the end of a high-pressure, high-stakes football game, with thousands of fans screaming all around us in the stands.

Marty is grinning at us and with a little movement of his hands, the phone instantly disappears. Bear in mind, there are no pockets or anything in a football uniform. God only knows where that fucking phone went. He’s yelling at us now, to be heard over the crowd. He outlines a crazy play—he’s going to fake a throw to one of our wide receivers, but then run the ball himself. Except he won’t have the ball; he’ll covertly pass it to our big overweight guard, Billy Bathgate who weighs three hundred pounds and runs the hundred-yard dash in like, five fucking minutes. To make this work, we no longer have to be great football players; we all have to morph into academy-award-winning actors.

It was the last thing in the world our opponents expected us to do. Hunched over and running erratically after the faked pass, Marty managed to completely fool them for twenty or thirty yards, drawing all their best tackles before the dumb bastards figured out he didn’t even have the ball. Billy Bathgate ran down the field with the rest of us, the ball tucked under a meaty arm, pretending to be blocking for Marty. Even though I’d been watching carefully, I swear I did not see Archie pass the ball to him.

When the other team finally realized Billy had the ball, it was too late. Our entire team blocked for Billy until he ran into our opponent’s end zone, about fifteen seconds before the clock ran out. It was the fastest and longest Billy had run during a game for his entire career—he was spread-eagled on his back behind the uprights, hyperventilating and wheezing so hard, we were afraid he was having a heart attack. This was the first and only touchdown of his career and he became a campus minor celebrity for a year or two afterward, as a result.

Our place-kicker got the extra point with about a second to spare and we won by two. That stadium went fucking crazy. By now, our offensive players had whispered to all the defensive guys, describing what they’d seen on Marty’s iPhone. So none of us gave a shit about the game anymore—all we wanted was to get back to the dressing room. We left all the fans and sports reporters on the field and scooted our asses back to the locker rooms.

Marty had somehow bullshitted the coaching staff and managers, telling them the guys needed some personal time after this important game—some kind of morale-building horseshit that he’d dreamt up. Whatever he told them worked and when we all streamed into the locker room, the ladies were there. Nearly all of them were topless with just tiny bikini bottoms covering their privates. A few were utterly naked. There was a big tub of iced beer and big platters of fried chicken, BBQ ribs, pizza, and junk food. A stereo was blaring, providing lively background music.

One of the women was a student at Staghurst, a cheerleader named Penny Renaldo. Marty had set me up with her a year ago and we’d been pretty tight ever since. She was a small woman with nice curves, long jet back hair and an enormous bosom that she often boasted was “totally real”. Once we were all inside, the exit doors were closed and bolted so we wouldn’t be disturbed from the outside. Penny yelled loud enough to be heard over the bedlam.

“Holy shit, you guys stink! Don’t you ever shower. . .?”

And just like that, the party was on. With much assistance from the ladies, the entire team began stripping out of their uniforms and padding—in minutes there was a huge pile of reeking athletic gear in a corner of the room. We never would get it completely sorted out and everything back to its original owner.

Minutes later, the entire team and all the ladies—now all buck-naked—were in the twenty-foot-square shower room, sharing the ten shower nozzles. It was possibly the longest shower taken by any amateur sports team in the history of college athletics. Every player was thoroughly and heavily lathered and washed by at least one of the young women—often by several of them simultaneously. And in thanks, the players took great delight in washing the young women, concentrating on the parts that they felt needed the most attention. After twenty minutes, every one of those lovely young women had the cleanest breasts, buttocks, and nether regions of any woman in the entire state.

Soon there were numerous couples fornicating lustily in many different positions under the streaming showers. Some of the young women were bent over facing a tiled wall being rammed from behind with players on each side, massaging their breasts. Other women had players lying on their backs, straddling their hips, riding like cowgirls. Others while doing this, had players standing beside them, enjoying a nice deep BJ. As couples reached their happy places, there was much whooping and groaning, and loud cries of passion.

Then as they came back to earth, they headed back out into the locker room where they all wildly danced naked while eating ribs and pizza, drinking beer, and still shamelessly groping anyone available, all to rock and roll music blaring from the stereo. Soon there were couples humping and loudly wailing in all the adjacent training and therapy rooms. There were many different combinations of lovers and positions than back in the showers, having repeat performances on the benches and tables strewn throughout the various rooms.

It was almost midnight before the party was over. Rumors eventually got back to the coaching staff and college management, but no player nor any of the young women who were there that night would ever spill the beans about what had happened. No disciplinary action was ever taken.

The story became folklore among Staghurst football teams in subsequent years, long after we’d graduated and moved on with our lives.

I know I’m rambling but you needed to know all this shit before we go any further. I mean, what kind of guy does it take to set something like that up—to make it happen? Do you know anyone that could have convinced twenty or so young women—most of them Staghurst students—to take on a whole goddamned football team like that? I sure as hell don’t—except for that fucking Marty, of course.

As I said earlier, our football team wasn’t all that great, but Marty and I did pretty well and our scholarships were extended each year. Finally, in our final year at Staghurst I started hearing rumors that Marty was planning something big. By now we’d been best friends for almost three years and this was the first time he’d ever kept a secret from me, so I was very curious. I didn’t have the faintest clue of what he was up to.

He started handing out invitations in the third week of October—it was to be a Halloween party. The invitations were pretty fucking weird—he obviously knew who he wanted there and hand-picked them. The guys were not to bring unknown dates—the invitations stipulated precisely who the couples were to be. My date was the cheerleader I mentioned earlier, Penny Renaldo. That suited me just fine of course. Over the past few years, we’d enjoyed many, many fine hours of lusty love-making in many different locations away from the dorms.

So there would be no one attending this party that Marty didn’t already know well.

Halloween fell on a Saturday that year and Marty disappeared from our dorm in the early morning, long before I woke up. One of his recent ‘conquests’ from town was a very pretty brunette. Her family owned an unoccupied estate out in the country and she’d given Marty permission to host his party there. I heard through the grapevine that Marty was out at this estate for two days, preparing with a team of volunteers—all young women he’d bedded over the past three years. They didn’t seem to mind socializing with one another.

We were all supposed to arrive at the estate at 10:00 PM. This seemed late to me, but Marty would have his reasons. As we climbed from our taxis—Marty had insisted on them—we made our way up to the front of the old stone country mansion. There were no stars or moon that night—the only light was from small torches stuck in the lawn along the walkways. There were eerie sound effects coming from hidden speakers and bright red eyes stared out at us from behind heavy bushes and shrubbery as we walked alongside the garden. It was chilly and threatening rain; everyone was wrapped in heavy coats to protect elaborate costumes from the elements.

Inside the double doors of the front entrance, a volunteer met us and had us remove our heavy outwear before heading into the party room, which was the size of a small gymnasium. It was pleasantly warm inside—Marty had ensured the house was well heated for the evening. Doing a rough count, I figured there were thirty to forty couples. With our overcoats now off, it became apparent that everyone had carefully followed the theme. Marty had stipulated that all costumes were to be sexy occult or druid in nature; that was definitely what he was getting.

The partiers wore all manner of medieval garments—there were a variety of knights, ladies in waiting, serving wenches, nuns, and priests of many different denominations. Hours had been spent designing costumes made from a variety of see-through fabrics, meshes, deeply scooped bodices, and strategically placed slits. When the ladies moved just so, it was possible to make out flashes of breasts, buttocks, and hints of dark shadows at their groins. The men’s were not quite so revealing, but most of their costumes were easily removed with special access to the flesh beneath. Most partiers wore little or no underwear. I was thoroughly enjoying the scenery and suspected that this would be a highly memorable evening—I had no idea of how true this would turn out to be.

The party room was decorated appropriately—just as you’d imagine a Halloween party ought to be. The lighting was subdued from twenty or thirty candles in ornate candelabras set up on shelves around the perimeter of the room. The walls were hung with layers of black cloth; synthetic spider webs dangled everywhere. Someone in the college drama department had borrowed a bunch of realistic skeletons, bodies, and strange monsters that had been positioned in spooky hidey-holes around the edges of the room. Strange rumbling roars came from inside closets and under the floor. Distant screaming could be heard as though the room was situated over a torture chamber. Realistic bats hung from black threads.

There were refreshments, too—a table of snacks and canopies in one corner and in another, a bar where guests could help themselves to wine and beer. A huge carved pumpkin had a bowl of punch inside.

I’d brought a flask of scotch in a hidden pocket of my costume and poured myself a drink using a glass and ice from the bar. I poured wine for Penny while admiring her sexy costume—she was a medieval serving wench with the top of her dress showing so much cleavage, her lovely full boobies were nearly falling out. If she moved just so, a lovely dusty-rose nipple popped in and out of sight. She had the sexual appetite of a billy goat and I could see she was getting off on all the sexy people and costumes around us. She’d be game for pretty much anything tonight.

Some fast contemporary music started from hidden speakers. After an hour of drinking and dancing, everyone was having a fine old time. As the liquor gently lubricated our inhibitions, the sound system slowly changed to some strange haunting music with a pounding beat. The room lights had been dimmed so it was quite dark on the dance floor. There was much flirting, wandering hands finding hidden openings in costumes, and body parts being shamelessly groped and caressed; all hidden by the crush of swaying, gyrating bodies.

So far, no sign of Marty.

Penny had just inhaled her fifth or sixth glass of wine and to my delight, was showing signs of advanced aggressive horniness. She’d undone some secret snaps in the bodice of her costume, causing it to gape open whenever she leaned forward. Anyone who happened to be looking was treated to a spectacular set of breasts bobbing unrestrained beneath. I’d reached in through a slit in the side of her dress near her hip and was rubbing her bare backside—my fingers exploring deep under the cleft of her buttocks. She was squirming with pleasure.

I was dressed like many other men here—a medieval monk in a floor-length habit and hood. Penny had modified it over the past few days. As we danced, one of her hands had worked its way through a slit in the side and was massaging my ass, too. After a few minutes, her hand wandering around to my front, finding my semi-engorged cock. Her mission obviously was to coax it to ‘fully engorged’ status—this would not require much effort. All the while we chatted with other couples around us, equally turned on and copping outrageous feels of their partners’ bodies.

More time passed—the antics on the dance floor were becoming close to a full-blown orgy. Penny’s dress had now fallen completely open at the bodice, being held on her body by a few buttons at the waist. Her large rippling breasts now presented a fine spectacle to anyone who happened to glance at her out here on the near dark dance floor. I was glancing continuously with great fascination, thinking it might be time to find a quiet closet somewhere.

Finally at midnight, a clock began loudly chiming the hours from an ominous internal gong. On the twelfth gong, all the candles and other lights in the room were instantly snuffed. God only knows how Marty did that—I suspect there were extinguishing devices in the candelabras or maybe they weren’t real candles—they sure looked real. But without warning, it was instantly pitch black—there was not a hint of light anywhere in the room, as though we were deep inside a coal mine with a failed flashlight.

Seconds later, a woman’s blood-curdling scream reverberated through the blackened room, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. I could sense people milling in all directions around us. Not being able to tell what was causing this chaos, I found Penny’s arm and began moving back from the dance floor until we bumped into a wall. It was my self-defense training kicking in, ensuring I had the advantage just in case something ominous was actually happening. I was sure this was all Marty’s bullshit shenanigans, but I wasn’t about to take any chances.

Suddenly a strobe light started from the ceiling producing a rhythmic flashing of brilliant red light. I’d seen many white strobes before but never a red one. This was so intense after the utter blackness that it was impossible to look at it without hurting our eyes. The crazy haunting music started again. Now we all became aware of a scene unfolding before us. In the strobe, it was like watching an old silent movie—the red light adding to the bizarre ambiance.

There was movement in one corner of the room. Six attractive young women, all with long light-colored hair flowing freely over their shoulders, emerged from a doorway. Each was dressed in a flowing translucent, floor-length gown. Even in the flashing red light, it was obvious their bodies were visible through the filmy material as they moved through the room in single file. I suspected these young women were Marty’s assistants and would be involved in whatever was going to happen here tonight.

I had a sudden premonition. Marty wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble unless he intended to really fuck with us—maybe more than I could possibly imagine? I felt my first stab of fear—what was the crazy sonuvabitch going to do to us? I actually considered grabbing Penny and getting the fuck out of there, but I knew I’d take no end of ribbing from Marty and all the rest of the people if we did. How bad could it be? He couldn’t physically hurt us . . . could he?

A narrow table on casters, about six feet long and thirty inches wide—the size and height of a massage table—had appeared in the center of the floor. It was draped with the same gossamer-like material as the six maidens’ gowns. The goddamned table seemed to materialize out of nowhere while we’d all been so captivated with the antics of the women. I suspected it had been rolled in while it was still dark and we just hadn’t noticed. Penny and I slowly made our way back out onto the dance floor, curious about the table and what it might be for. The bizarre, ominous haunting music grew louder and more intense.

A seventh woman with raven black hair appeared from a side door; her gown torn and in disarray. The six blond women ran to her, grabbed her by her arms, and began dragging her across the dance floor. Their apparent victim was crying out and resisting with all her strength, but she was no match for her tormenters. The action was mesmerizing—the struggling woman was hauled to the center of the room and wrestled up onto the table. She was quite tiny and was soon overpowered. Leather restraints appeared at each corner of the tabletop; seconds later the black-haired woman was flat on her back, bound at her wrists and ankles, spread-eagled and powerless to move.

The insane, haunting music continued to increase in volume. The six women slowly circled their victim and began tearing away remnants of her robe and undergarments until she was stark-naked. The dark-haired woman was quite gorgeous with perfect medium-sized breasts; firm and upright, shimmering and surging across her ribcage as she twisted and writhed on her back, fighting the restraints. Every inch of her body below her head had been shaven smooth. Every set of eyes in the room, male and female, were fixated on this woman. The eerie music was now ear-splitting; some people were covering their ears with their palms. The music and strobe light suddenly stopped—the room was again plunged into utter blackness and was eerily quiet.

Now there was a blinding flash of pure white light and an explosion like a discharging shotgun, leaving my ears ringing. The light was so bright that it hurt my eyes; my vision was dancing with bright spots that would take several minutes to disappear. Around the room, a few dim lights slowly came back on, providing minimal shadowy views of the people in the room.

At the head of the table was a large man dressed in a dark, floor-length mystic’s habit. There was smoke billowing and dissipating around him—it seemed he had appeared out of nowhere in an explosion of flame and smoke, right in our midst. His head was bowed forward and covered with a black cowl so we couldn’t see his face. I’d of bet a hundred bucks it was that fucking Marty. I was very curious to see what he would do next.

The six women were moving again, forming a circle around the naked woman lashed to the table and singing in an eerie monotone Gregorian-like chant; quite unlike anything I’d ever heard before.

Now the circle began to move clockwise around the platform and strange haunting erotic music started in the background. As the six women moved, they loosened the catches of their own robes. Like gossamer, the silky material slipped down their curvaceous bodies, settling on the floor—all six assistants were now utterly naked, too. They might have been sisters—all about the same height and age. They were slim with trim waists and shapely breasts—they had amazing muscular rounded buttocks—the flesh beneath firm and sculpted. The woman on the table twisted to watch them, her breasts stretched tautly, her arms and legs twisting against her restraints. As the six women gyrated around their victim, they began stroking the dark-haired woman, running their hands along the length of her arms, legs, and torso.

After a few minutes, the music stopped and the chanting dance ended. The six naked women froze in a tight circle around the table.

Finally, there was some movement from the man. With a crescendo of bizarre music erupting from the hidden sound system, his head slowly began to rise. As his face came into view, we could see he was heavily made up; his face horrible and sinister. It was Marty all right, but I wouldn’t have recognized him if I didn’t know him so well.

His eyes were the strangest—a dull burning red—probably colored contact lenses. They added to the supernatural aura of the scene. The rest of the guests were deeply rattled—I could see the women guests were actually a bit frightened and the young men with them were tense. This was developing into more than we’d bargained for.

The man seemed to glide closer to the head of the table without actually moving his legs. Arms appeared from long folded sleeves at the sides of his robe, seeming to float outwards, palms extended and downward until they were inches over the restrained woman’s face. A deep guttural growl like a male lion emanated from the man’s face. The dark-haired woman twisted and fought the bindings holding her in place, her breasts rolling and bouncing from her efforts. In spite of her distress, we couldn’t help staring at her pussy, shaved as smooth as a cue ball, swollen, lightly oiled, and gleaming in the dim light.

The man’s robe now began to part from his chest to the floor. His body was covered with thin, coarse black hair covering blood-red skin. But what really startled us was his erect cock, swollen to non-human dimensions. A thick bush of wiry black hair surrounded the base of this grotesque phallus.

We had been so shocked by the appearance of his member, we’d failed to notice that the victim restrained on the table was changing before our eyes. Her skin, white and smooth when dragged in and lashed to the table, was turning as red as the man’s. I could only think that it must be some cream they had rubbed on, maybe activated by an overhead black light.

Then to our horror, we noticed that small horns had sprouted on the man’s forehead and when he raised his palms, there were small horns on the forehead of his dark-haired victim, too. I was at a loss to explain how Marty had pulled that off. They were so perfect I could almost believe they were real.

But things were just getting started.

The victim on the table had stopped struggling and seemed to have gone into a trance. She now lay utterly motionless, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Her eyes were now glowing reddish too; the same as the dark man’s.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing next. The man seemed to be drifting upward as though gravity had suddenly been switched off beneath him. The dark-haired woman also seemed to be floating an inch or so above the surface of the table. The blond women at each corner of the table were suddenly holding silver daggers. I was horrified, thinking they were about to attack their victim but instead, they each cut a leather restraint, freeing the dark-haired woman from her bonds.

It was a mind-altering spectacle unfolding before us. It was so dark in here, if there were supporting cables, we couldn’t see them. The dark-haired woman continued to rise slowly in the air and to move towards the man. She was now drawing her knees upward, her body contorting and folding at the waist. She’d hooked her arms around the inside of her knees, pulling them back alongside her chest. She must be a contortionist because her knees now slipped beneath her armpits. She reached back and grabbed her ankles, pulling them back and crossing them behind her neck. Her double-jointed hips now strained and caused her pelvic region to thrust rudely upward—all the skin of her bare gleaming groin stretched as tight as a drumhead; her pussy on perfect display for all to see.

Somehow on its own, the table rolled off into the blackness at the side of the room, leaving the man and women floating above the dance floor. Even though it was nearly dark in the room, hidden directional lights focused on the couple; we could see every detail of the woman’s body.

She continued to float towards the man until her groin was aimed precisely at his grotesquely swollen member—now almost touching her pussy. We all stared, utterly mesmerized at this impossible performance. With no apparent effort, her body drifted forward, causing the man’s cock to press tightly against the threshold of her oiled, gleaming genitals. Her loins stretched and bulged as the swollen purple head of his glans parted the folds of her sex and slowly started sliding into her. A tendril of his bright clear lubricant hung like a glistening swaying icicle from one side of her labia. Their genitals glowed bright red now as though a light burned inside them. They continued to rise until they hovered six feet above the floor.

The six blond assistants began moving among the rest of us below. Each of them went to a couple on the dance floor, gently tugging at their costumes, encouraging them to disrobe. No one resisted—as each couple began removing costume pieces, the blond women moved to the next couple. In minutes we were all stark naked and clinging to one another in a strange erotic dance, looking upward at the nightmarish scene of the man and woman levitating above us.

The man’s swollen cock was now penetrating the woman by at least half its length, apparently with little or no effort. It just seemed to drift into her. It occurred to me—and most of the rest of the partiers—that in addition to being disturbing, this was also as erotic as hell. The dark woman was beginning to undulate, trying to move her impossibly folded hips and uttering a series of little cries. She seemed to be begging for more of the man’s cock. I had a full-blown woody that was twitching and leaking shiny lube from the tip. My date had just noticed this too and reached for it, clearly torn between taking advantage of it or watching the performance above. We managed to do both.

The blond women were now circulating, encouraging all the couples to fondle one another and to join the activities. Some couples simply lay down in the pile of discarded costumes littering the floor, using them as a mat. Others continued in a sexy dance, actually fucking while slowly dancing below the spectacle above. The six blond maidens joined the couples, initiating threesomes, ensuring that everyone was in the throes of a powerful demented orgy. As they moved around they began chanting in a rhythmic beat to the crazy music, becoming louder and louder.

I can’t talk for all the rest of the people on that dance floor, but something primal was taking possession of my brain. The sight of thirty or forty sexy-looking young couples, all screwing their brains out around us, caused me to lose control. It was like my mind had temporarily forgotten that the rest of the world existed—all that mattered to me at this instant were the hedonistic visuals near enough to touch, and Penny’s ass. I could tell from the primal look on her face that she was experiencing the same thing. Her jaw was clenched and her face contorted; her lips pulled back in a feral snarl—animal-like cries and grunts issuing continuously.

I’d picked her up facing me, her legs draped over my arms—my wrists locked at the small of her back. Her hands were locked behind my neck. This left her ass dangling inches over my wood-hard erect cock. Using my arms, I was rapidly lifting her up and down—at the same time she was using the strength of her arms, wrapped around my neck to pull her ass up and drive it down again with all her strength. With our combined forces, her ass and pussy were driving up and down, pounding my cock deep inside her weeping pussy. She was leaking so much glistening lubrication, it was spilling from her and running down the fronts of my thighs. It seemed like the room temperature had risen to a hundred degrees—in the exertion of our physically demanding fucking, our bodies were running with sweat. On the floor, I could see at least two other couples watching us, both of them also fucking lustily, but also lecherously watching all the other couples around them.