[MFF] Murder Mystery Party

It was a ’20s-themed murder mystery party thrown by a friend from work. I (M26 at the time) was to play a successful Manhattan restauranteur with a big ego and a short temper. My last acting experience had been in high school but I decided to “commit to the bit” and came up with a restaurant name (“Bull & Moose”) and character backstory the night before.

My scene partner was Emma, who I’d never met, and who was playing the head chef at my restaurant. The party hostess told me beforehand that my character should be hard on her and to comment loudly on her bad taste in men. I’ll admit to looking up her Facebook profile. (We were still using Facebook back in those days.) She was sandy blonde, petit, with an exuberant smile. She was a professional dancer and had the body to match. And I noticed a few spicy pics up on her photos tab.

At the party I learned that Emma was in town all the way from Australia. She was visiting her friend Nicole who lived here in Brooklyn. They could have been sisters — both short, fit, impossibly pretty. Their Aussie accents were charming. The evening of the party Nicole was wearing a low cut black top tucked into form-fitting black skirt, her light blonde hair pulled back into an effortlessly stylish messy bun. Emma wore a taupe dress that hugged her athletic waist, with a neckline that plunged just to the edge of scandal. To fit the ’20s theme they had each done up their eyebrows in a thin, geometric flapper style and wore art deco accessories in their hair. For my part, I had found some suspenders, which I guess I associated with the ’20s. I wore them with a crisp white dress shirt and a pair of trousers which were much too tight in retrospect — this was peak skinny fit era, and I wasn’t immune to the trend.

We eased into our characters slowly with the help of a deceptively strong punch bowl. My friend was playing a kitchen porter whom I had fired for petty theft — which I was told to remind the group of at every opportunity. (I decided that he had stolen a set of heirloom rhenish servingware.) Meanwhile I put on my best “awful boss” act with Emma. A pet name here, a smirking (fictional) put-down there. (It was mostly just a bad Gordon Ramsay impression.) As she left one conversation to refill Nicole’s champagne I put my hand on the small of her back and told her to “pour me one too, sweetheart.” She did. But in the end it was Nicole, not Emma, who set the night’s events in motion.

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A few of us were in the “photo booth” — a sequined backdrop hung on the bedroom wall — taking group selfies with cheap plastic roaring twenties props. Nicole, in front of me puffing on a cigarette holder, inched back and brushed her ass against me. I took a half step back to be polite but she moved to close the gap, resting her whole body lightly on mine. I stayed put for a charged moment until, surer of her intentions, I placed a hand on her waist. Nothing inappropriate for our photo booth setting, but she pushed back harder against me and I slid my hand down an inch or so. As the photos kept snapping, she changed poses — to the left, now to the right — grinding her ass back and forth against me each time, feeling my erection grow. Between her form-fitting miniskirt and the thin fabric of my trousers I could feel the contours of her body in high definition. Around us the group was still taking photos. Someone passed me a cardboard mustache taped to a stick and I held it in front of my face. Nicole and I smiled and mugged as we pressed more and more firmly into each other.

A bloodcurdling scream from the living room broke the spell: another murder victim. The group rushed out the door. Nicole and I were last out and she turned to give me a quick peck on the lips before we followed.

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The mystery was solved, the awards given out — Emma won a well-deserved Best Acting — but the punchbowl was still flowing. I was mid-conversation with a group of coworkers when I turned to see Nicole sitting alone on the couch. She patted the seat next to her and I took the hint. We must have said something to each other but I can’t recall what it could have possibly been. I don’t even remember whether I kissed her or she kissed me — I just remember when we both snapped out of it and realized that everyone else in the room was watching us make out.

We escaped to the bedroom. The bed was covered in coats, and wasn’t ours anyway, so I pushed her against the wall — the backdrop of the photo booth — and picked up where we left off. She undid my fly and I slipped the suspenders off my shoulders so she could pull out my cock. By this time I was painfully hard, constrained by my trousers, so the air on my skin and touch of her soft hand were electrifying. I’d never met a girl who escalated this quickly, I remember thinking. She must really be into me.

“Let’s back to my place?” I asked. She nodded and continued to casually stroke my shaft while I called an uber, my free hand caressing her waist. Once the car was on its way I slid my hand down to grab her ass, pushed her back up against the wall, and kissed her again.

“Nicole!” Emma barged in shouting, in mock outrage. I scrambled to zip up, sure that the moment was about to end and that I’d be riding home alone, but her admonishment was not what I expected: “You’re acting like a straight girl!”

“You’re not straight? Could have fooled me.”

“She’s not, watch.” And they started kissing – sloppy, elaborate, open-mouthed, putting on a show, drawing their mouths apart so I could watch their tongues play. They were comfortable with each other — this was not their first time together. As they finally broke apart Emma and I made eye contact, but my gaze was quickly drawn to her deep red lipstick and without a word my mouth met hers, our own tongues exploring, and my phone was ringing in my pocket: the uber driver, wingman of the year, waiting outside.

At this point I don’t remember having any conversation. All three of us knew what was happening. We grabbed our winter coats and slipped out the front door without saying goodbye. The sloppy kissing and general fondling in the elevator continued in the car, myself in the middle, alternating my attention between these two beautiful women rubbing my hard cock over my pants. I can’t imagine what the poor driver must have thought. (I gave him a big tip the next day but my rider score has never quite recovered.)

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Within thirty seconds of entering my apartment we were all on my bed, all naked. None of us had taken off our own clothes. Emma had my cock in her mouth while I kissed Nicole and rubbed her nipples, or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, they switched off soon enough and it’s here that the night gets fuzzy, as though we were in a collective trance for what must have been hours. I only have flashes of imagery, etched in my memory:

Lying on my back, Emma riding my cock, Nicole riding my face. I reach up to grab Nicole’s ass with both hands. I can’t even see Emma but I can feel the inside of her and hear her moaning.

Both of them taking turns sucking my cock — Nicole somewhat tentative, inexperienced with men, doesn’t quite know to get her teeth out of the way, which somehow makes it all that much hotter.

Returning from a quick hydration break to find Nicole and Emma in the 69 position, enthusiastically eating each other out. I’m standing there watching, stroking myself, enjoying the view.

Emma lying prone, ass up on my bed while I thrust into her from behind. I’m kissing Nicole who’s lying on her back, rubbing herself.

We fucked and fucked until we all just fell asleep, naked, with me in the middle.

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I woke up to find myself spooning Emma, hard again. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours later, still dark outside. She must have woken up too and started to grind against me. With the arm that was under her neck I reached up and started gently rubbing in circles around her nipple.

Emma rolled over on top of me and slid my cock into her, and rode me almost excruciatingly slowly. I could feel every inch of myself moving inside her. Then we rolled over and I stood and fucked her while she lay face down over the side of the bed. “Harder,” she kept telling me. “Harder!” So I pushed her down into the mattress with my entire bodyweight, hooked my right arm around her collarbone and drove my full length into her rhythmically with all the strength I had left. She arched her back and braced herself against the headboard to hold firm. Nicole was still asleep next to us but Emma was getting louder so with my free hand I grabbed her by the hair, turned her face towards mine, and stuck my tongue down her throat to keep her quiet. We moaned into each other’s mouths as we came together. (Nicole, shockingly, slept through all of this, or pretended to.)

Emma and I were out of breath. “Can I have some water?” she asked. I led her to the kitchen and we each drank a glass of that satisfying middle-of-the-night water. When she turned around to put her cup in the sink my hands found her waist again. And it’s here that we arrive at my favorite memory of the night, despite being downright mild compared to what I just described: Emma and I, total strangers until tonight, kissing furiously in the kitchen just before sunrise, our mouths cool and fresh from the water, our naked bodies pressed together.

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I wish I could say we had another epic round of morning sex. We all woke up with raging hangovers. What was in that punch? Nicole wandered through my apartment, trying to piece together the night and perhaps figure out if she’d wound up in bed with a psychopath.

“You have a nice place,” she told me. She sounded relieved.

We cuddled and joked around for a bit. They called me a cunt, which I’m told in Australia is a term of endearment. We laughed about how I had “charactered” my way into a glass of their good champagne the night before. I invited them to hang out, order some food, maybe smoke a bowl, but they had a full day of sightseeing planned and Emma had left her phone behind at the party. (No, really, what was in that punch?)

I saw Nicole again a few months later at another party hosted by the same friend. We flirted a bit but I could tell she wasn’t interested in another round. Emma I haven’t seen since.

So there you have it: that’s where I was on the night of the murder. I wish I could tell you who the killer was. I guess I was just a little too distracted.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/pl3nvp/mff_murder_mystery_party