Council House Party

Bank Holiday Monday means one thing on this estate: Darren's party.

Every year it's the same—his council house packed to the walls, grime blasting from speakers that probably violate noise ordinances, everyone from the block crammed into rooms that weren't designed for this many bodies.

I go because everyone goes. Because saying no would be weird.

Because the women at Darren's parties are legendary.

By midnight, the place is chaos.

I've lost count of how many cans I've had. The music is so loud I can feel it in my teeth. Every room is a different vibe—kitchen is shots, living room is dancing, garden is smoking.

I'm looking for the toilet when I find them.

"That one's broke, love."

Two women, blocking the bathroom door. One thick, one slim. Both fit. Both looking at me like I'm interesting.

The thick one is maybe thirty—tattoos, massive tits barely contained by her top, leggings that should be illegal. The slim one is younger, early twenties, all cheekbones and attitude in a little black dress.

"Broke how?"

"Someone was sick in it." The thick one—her name is Donna, I learn later—grimaces. "Use the one upstairs. Third door on the left."

"Cheers."

"We'll show you." The slim one—Carly—hooks her arm through mine. "Come on, before some other dickhead claims it."

They lead me upstairs.

The noise is muffled here, the chaos below replaced by dark corridors and closed doors. Carly pushes open the third door on the left.

It's not a bathroom.

It's a bedroom.

"Thought you said—"

"Changed our minds." Donna is behind me suddenly, blocking the exit. "You looked more interesting than the toilet."

"What is this?"

"Whatever you want it to be." Carly drops onto the bed, legs crossed, watching me. "We've been bored all night. Darren's mates are all wankers. Then we spotted you."

"Fresh meat," Donna agrees, still at the door. "Not from round here, are you? Moved in a few months back?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so. The lads from the estate, they don't look at us like you do."

"How do I look at you?"

"Like you're hungry." Donna steps closer. "And it's an open buffet tonight, love."

They don't give me time to think about it.

Donna kisses me first—aggressive, tasting like vodka and fags. Then Carly is there too, tugging at my shirt, her slim hands everywhere at once.

"Get this off. Come on. Don't be shy."

I'm not shy. Not anymore.

Donna's on her knees first.

She takes me in her mouth while Carly undresses behind me, her slim body pressing against my back. They work as a team—Donna sucking me, Carly biting my ear, whispering filth.

"She gives good head, doesn't she? Best on the estate."

"Second best," Donna says, pulling off. "Carly's better. Show him, babe."

They switch.

Carly is better.

She takes me deep, no gag reflex, her eyes locked on mine the whole time. Donna strips while we work, revealing curves that shouldn't be possible—massive tits, thick thighs, a belly that's soft and round.

"Like what you see, love?"

"Fuck yes."

"Good." She pushes Carly aside, climbs on the bed, spreads her legs. "Then get over here."

I fuck Donna while Carly watches.

She's tight for her size, wet and welcoming, her body bouncing with every thrust. Carly strips off her dress—slim, angular, small tits with pierced nipples—and joins us on the bed.

"My turn next," she says, kissing Donna while I fuck her. "Don't finish until I get mine."

"I'll try."

"Don't try. Do."

Donna comes with a scream that someone downstairs probably hears.

I pull out before I finish, switch to Carly. She's smaller, tighter, wrapping her slim legs around me and pulling me deep.

"That's it—fuck—just like that—"

Donna recovers enough to join in, kissing Carly, pinching her nipples, coaching us both.

"Harder—she can take it—make her scream—"

Carly screams. I come right after, emptying inside her.

We collapse in a pile.

The music is still thumping downstairs. Someone's yelling about Jägerbombs. Normal party sounds.

"That was alright," Donna says, lighting a fag.

"Alright?" I'm offended. "That's all?"

"She's messing with you." Carly stretches like a cat. "That was mint."

"Better than the dickheads downstairs?"

"Way better." Donna blows smoke at the ceiling. "You've earned the right to come back next Bank Holiday."

"That's three months away."

"Then you'll have something to look forward to, won't you?"

We sneak back downstairs separately.

No one notices we were gone. No one cares. That's the thing about Darren's parties—everyone's too fucked to pay attention.

I find a beer, join a conversation, pretend like I didn't just have a threesome in the spare bedroom.

Across the room, Donna catches my eye. Winks.

Next to her, Carly raises her drink.

August Bank Holiday becomes my favorite holiday.

Every year, Darren's party. Every year, Donna and Carly find me. Sometimes they bring friends. Sometimes it's just the three of us.

"Our little tradition," Carly calls it.

"The best kind," Donna agrees.

I never tell anyone.

Some things are better kept secret.

Some parties are better than others.

And some council houses hold memories that don't fit in the floor plan.

This is one of them.