All Hallow's Eve: The Game

Pushing open the door of the restroom, she was inundated with harsh, revealing fluorescent light. She set her styrofoam cup on the counter beside one of three sinks. The bathroom, near as she could tell, was empty.

She lifted the phone, tapped it, sent a message to Ron. <I'm here. Now what?>

<How horny are you?>

Sylvie nibbled her lip. <Tell me what you want.>

The reply was swift. <I want to see you naked.>

Reading those words elicited a twitch from Sylvie's groin. She was already wet enough to soak through the panties pressed against her pussy; indeed, she could feel smears of wetness against her upper thighs. That she was turned on was not in question. The question was, how far was she willing to go?

Fingers trembling with arousal tapped upon the screen of her phone. <How naked?>

<Top first.>

Sylvie smiled slowly. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she had already decided that this daring little game had become foreplay, and that the culmination would include a rather torrid and energetic coupling with Ron. That he was willing to extend the game just a little further impressed her, and turned her on that much more.

She set the phone upon the counter, then quickly stripped off her shirt once more, cast into the sink. She stared at her reflection, cupping and massaging her breasts. The nipples darkened with arousal, areolas beneath them swelling as well. Despite not having had a single drop of alcohol, she felt inebriated.

With a mischievous grin, she took up the phone and focused on her reflection in the mirror. With the abundant light, her breasts were fully revealed.

She tapped on the phone, sending the picture along with a message: <This what you want?>

Sylvie watched the phone, waiting for Ron's reply. Hands wandered up and down her body, teasing the sensitive undersides of her breasts, the nerves beneath the skin of her flat belly. She pinched and pulled at her nipples, squirmed on her feet as the moistness increased between her thighs. Without thinking, she undid the snap of the skirt and let it fall to the floor, then slipped off the panties.

The phone rumbled on the fake marble surface of the counter beside the sink. Sylvie whipped it up.

<Delicious. Perfect. I want to see more.>

She grinned lasciviously. <More?> she typed back.

<Please.>

<Remember,> she texted. <Everything I do, you have to do, too.>

<I know.>

Lips stretched by a crafty smile, Sylvie climbed onto the counter before the broad, polished mirror of the restroom. Upon her knees, facing the mirror, she spread her legs wide and leaned back, taking up the phone to snap a picture. The lips of her pussy were slightly parted, hanging down beneath the bulb of her hooded clit. She wondered what Ron would think of her meaty pussy.

Then she uncurled her legs, assumed a squatting position, and fanned her thighs wide, fully exposing the sleek, glistening treasure between her legs. Pink labia flared apart, revealing how aroused she was. She tapped the phone to capture the image.

The more she gave in, Sylvie realized, the more she wanted to let go. She had always been the conservative, nigh prudish woman unwilling to do anything to compromise that image. But suddenly, the liberation of being so lewd, so free, pushed her far beyond her normal boundaries. She was, truly, a different woman.

After sending some of the pictures to Ron, Sylvie gave in to immediate, hedonistic lust. Ignoring the buzzing of her phone upon the counter, she leaned back on one hand as the other danced and pressed and pushed between her thighs. She masturbated furiously, watching her reflection in the mirror. She became both voyeur and exhibitionist, doing and watching at the same time.

The fantasy of putting on such a display for Ron -- her imminent lover -- of so obscenely spreading her thighs and masturbating for him, while watching him do the same, overtook her. She bucked and moaned, squirmed and groaned, before finally erupting in a climax which literally sprayed fluid across the mirror before her.

Easing back, Sylvie lazily reached for her phone. Several messages awaited her. She glanced through them in post-orgasmic stupor, and managed to lift the phone to capture the image of her flushed, nude body.

She was still catching her breath as she sent the picture along with a message.

<That was for you, baby. When do I get the real thing?>

But Ron's reply did not come right away, as she had expected. In a sort of strange, romantic way, Sylvie had hoped that her final acquiescence to the spirit of the game would have opened the gateway to the most profound and powerful sexual experience she had ever known. She hoped Ron would tell her where his apartment was, and she would rush up there, fall into his arms, and . . . .

And . . . .

At last, the phone trembled.

Still nude upon the counter, hovering somewhere between reality and bliss, Sylvie turned about and took up the phone. Naked legs dangled beneath the sink as she called up the new message.

<Amazing. I never expected that from you. I thought I knew you, but I really didn't.>

Sylvie chuckled. <You could know me a lot better.>

Ron's reply came several heartbeats later. <Just one last thing.>

She rolled her eyes. 'One last thing?' What the hell, Ron. If you haven't gotten it through your thick skull that I wanna fuck you, then I'm seriously reconsidering.

Regardless of her thoughts, and with a heavy sigh, Sylvie typed out a message: <What is it?>

The reply as quick, as if Ron had just been awaiting her message.

<Go to the laundry room. I left a present there for you.>

A soft smile spread across Sylvie's face. Ooo, a present, she thought excitedly. And in the laundry room, where we met, of all places. Maybe Ron's as romantic as he is kinky. I could deal with that.

She slipped back into her clothes, composed herself before leaving the restroom. She would normally have been obsessive about making sure her hair was well-groomed and makeup touched up, but she was now a different woman. Reckless. Carefree. She was the kind of woman who would masturbate for a near-stranger in a public bathroom and take pictures of it.

She giggled naughtily on her way to the stairwell door that led to the basement. As it opened before her, her Devil-may-care attitude wavered. The colder air of the basement drifted up toward her like the ghostly hand of an evil specter, chilling her arousal.

Why did we have to meet in the damn basement? Sylvie lamented as she took the stairs down. Even in her simple shoes, it seemed the sound of every step was magnified. She kept one hand on the rail as she descended, her eyes focused on the light spilling from the laundry room door at the end.

The machines were silent as she neared the door. The only sounds she heard were faint drops of water plunging to the ground and her own shallow breathing. Every nerve seemed alive at on edge.

"Ron?" she called, stepping through the door.

There came no response.

Her eyes fell to the simple blue plastic basket that lay on the last of the washing machines. It looked like the one Ron had used. She went to it, touched it. Her attention drifted toward the dryers. Within the third one yet lay a tangled mass of clothing. Shirts, jeans, pants, all mens.

A thick lump formed in the back of Sylvie's throat that she could not force down. Why didn't he take his stuff? It's been almost two hours. Why would he leave his clothes?

She cast her gaze about frantically, from the machines to the doorway and back again. Finally, her eyes fell upon the slightly canted door at the far end marked "Maintenance."

Anxiety flowed through Sylvie like an undeniable river in flood. She made an effort to rationalize her fears. It's Halloween, and he's just playing a joke. He wants to freak me out a little. There's probably some plastic Wal-Mart skeleton hanging in the maintenance closet, and I'm gonna freak out when I see it, but then Ron's gonna run in and I'm gonna smack him and then we'll go back to his place and fuck. Or my place. Whatever.

Despite the efforts of reason, however, Sylvie could not simply advance to the door and throw it open. There yet remained a powerful inkling of true nervous apprehension. So she approached slowly, step by step, the shoes of her feet smacking in brackish trickles of water as they meandered across the floor to the drain.

At last, she reached the door. Only darkness lay beyond. She reached tentatively, touching the cold metal nob, before jerking her hand back. Berating herself mentally, and making a last effort to steel herself, she took hold of the handle and jerked the door open wide.

Beyond lay a small room, perhaps ten feet deep and half that wide. A shelf on one side was cluttered with all manner of cleaning materials and other peripherals. But Sylvie was not looking at the shelf. Her gaze was transfixed upon the body before her.

The body was propped up upon its knees, arms canted up and away with strong cord lashed about the wrists attached to hooks in the walls. The head hung down, hiding its features. But the clothing, the build, the rakish cut of the hair all looked far too familiar.

"Oh my God," she whispered, inching closer, crouching down, reaching a hand out to the head of the suspended man. "Okay, Ron, you got me. Joke's over. Okay?"

Her words filtered away in the dank, cold room with no response. The figure before her did not move.

She touched the top of the head. The hair was stiff and cool. Grimacing, Sylvie let her hand drift down, touching the side of the face. Waxy skin graced her fingers, nearly as chilled as the air around her.

Fearful and trembling, she gripped a handful of hair to tilt the head upward. She had to know.

Bulging eyes filled with congealing blood greeted her, surrounded by pale cold flesh. The mouth hung agape, swollen purple tongue visible just beyond the teeth. Around the neck of Ron's corpse were several lengths of cord.

Sylvie jerked back, letting the head fall again. Abject horror charged through her with all the unfettered ferocity of a battering ram. Reality exploded in her mind: this wasn't fake. This wasn't a joke.

She was looking at a dead man.

She screamed.

* * * *

Head in her hands, Sylvie stared at the floor of the cafe as she tried to make sense of everything that had happened. She had degenerated into a frightened, confused, blubbering blob of incoherence after running from the laundry room, and was now, in the light of at least some rationality, surprised the police had responded at all.

What. The fuck. Happened?

That singular reel of thought played in her mind over and over as she sat and waited. The arrival of the police meant that the managers of Hunt Tower were roused. The cafe gate had been lifted, and it was within that Sylvie sat as patrolmen, crime scene investigators, and who knew who else milled about. In a detached fit, she wondered why so many different people had been called upon to deal with a single dead body.

"Coffee?"

Sylvie lifted her head, smoothing her hands back through her hair. She felt tired and aged. Her eyes registered the styrofoam cup held by the man before her, before gliding up to his face. "No, thanks. I just wanna go to sleep."

Detective Arturo Mendes nodded in sympathy. He set the coffee beside the young woman's phone on the small bistro table and sat down beside her.

"I understand that," he said. "You've been through a lot tonight."

Sylvie huffed and hung her head. "No shit."

The detective remained professional. "You said you were in constant contact with the victim through your phone."

She sighed. "Yes."

"But only through text."

She nodded numbly. "Yes."

"So, really, it could have been anyone."

Sylvie ground her teeth. "I thought it was him. I thought it was Ron."

Mendes shifted slightly on his chair. "Miss Davis, I'm not a forensics expert, but I've unfortunately seen my share of dead bodies in my career. From the looks of things, Ronald Hartman has been dead for at least a couple of hours. And, there was no phone on the body. All of that tells me that the person you were in contact with was probably not Ronald Hartman."

She breathed out, feeling nauseous. "Then who was it?"

"I don't know."

She snapped her head up. "The security guard," she said. "It was the security guard!"

"Miss--"

Sylvie shot up, facing the detective. "No, I'm serious," she yelled. "Talk to the security guard!"

Mendes remained calm and passive. "I can't do that."

"Why not!"

He met her gaze. "Because the Hunt Tower doesn't employ security guards."

Sylvie blinked. "What?"

"I've spoken with the property managers," Mendes explained. "They've never had security guards here."

Sylvie sputtered. "But . . . I saw him! He had on a uniform!"

The detective reached out. "Could you describe the man you saw?" he asked.

Sylvie frowned, confused. "I don't know. He was skinny. Tall. Um, black hair."

Mendes made note of what he was told. "Could you provide any more details?"

In response, Sylvie whimpered and clasped her hands to her face. She sagged back down into the chair. "No. I didn't really look at him."

Mendes took in, then let out, a deep breath. "Stay here, Miss Davis. I'll be right back."

"Sure," Sylvie grumbled. Her mind careened with torturous thoughts. No security guard . . . so who the fuck was that guy? And who was I sending all those fucking pictures to? Oh, God, this is so twisted . . . .

The sudden rumbling from the table beside her startled Sylvie. She snapped her head up, affixing her attention immediately to the phone -- her phone -- that sat upon the wire-framed table.

Her heart palpitated. She looked about the room, searching. The detective met her gaze, as if to ask, "is that him?"

Sylvie reached for the phone with a trembling hand. She tapped the screen, revealing a new message.

<Game over, Sylvie. Happy Halloween.>

* * * *

(I hope you enjoyed this twisted, dark little tale. Please don't forget to vote, and feel free to leave a comment below if you wish. I'm always interested to see what readers think of my work. Oh, and Happy Halloween.)