K's Costume Ch. 03

The other girl was named Carrie, if K remembered right. She wasn't strutting. Her approach was a mincing pigeon-toed shuffle. K had heard some bizarre things about her (mostly from Sydney). Same with Sydney's stories about herself, K hadn't believed them. Tonight, again, demanded reevaluation of that stance.

Carrie's costume was a safari hat—what were they called, a pitch helmet or no, a pith helmet. And that was essentially all there was to it. Just the dorky tan hat, and hiking boots with brown socks pulled up to her knees. Otherwise—in all the ways that counted—she was prancing around bare naked. With her hands tied.

Her cheeks and her freckled shoulders were very pink, and her eyes were bugged out. Her mouth was pinched in a prim little frown and her nostrils kept twitching like a rabbit's. She looked a lot like Christina Ricci. It was hard to judge her expression—K couldn't decide if the girl was petrified and trying to act like she wasn't, or loving this and trying to pretend like she was petrified.

K also found she couldn't stop looking at the girl's gazonga's, and down further at her bush. It was embarrassing but Jesus—when they were just hanging out right there in front of you, you couldn't help staring, whether you wanted to or not. Plus there was the fact her tits were gigantic, at least in proportion to the rest of her. Blam!Blam! straight in your face! Made K a little envious, and then mad at herself for feeling that way. They were extremely sweaty, too, both covered with like a hundred shimmering fat beads of moisture. Or maybe somebody spilled a drink on her chest, or she'd spilled one on herself. He bush was huge too. Well, not out of control. But full. A bushy bush. We ain't used to seeing them like that anymore, most of the time. It's shocking when somebody violates the contemporary fashion. Most of us don't dare.

The safari hat sort of connected with Sydney's jungle getup, if only in an out-of-date and actually mildly offensive kind of way. Like she was an explorer and Sydney was a native. Not PC, for sure. If they weren't both white girls, and hot, one of the black people in the room would have got pissed at them—or should have if they were paying attention. A joke's a joke, sure. But there are good jokes and there are bad jokes and there are shitty mean jokes that are actually just plain insults, not jokes at all.

"I captured this trespasser," Sydney announced, "And now she is my slave."

"Is she?" said K, just to have something to say.

"She is not very obedient," Sydney went on, "Not yet. Something must be done about it. Will you lend me your werewolf, for the purpose?"

"What for?" As if it wasn't obvious.

Sydney just smiled, shrugged, and made vague incomprehensible gestures with her free hand. Except they weren't really incomprehensible.

"No," said K, tightening her grip on Graham's leash, "This werewolf is mine. All mine."

"But you're not doing anything with him," said Sydney, "It seems like a waste. Let us play with him for a spell. We won't hurt him. You're welcome to play too, if you're up for it."

From the heat she could feel in her cheeks, K imagined her face must have turned redder than Carrie's. And she had to swallow a couple times before she could speak again. "No thank you," she said, "Not just now."

Sydney made a pouting face, and so did Carrie. "Oh come on. Pwetty pwease? Look how pwetty she is. Don't you think she's pwetty?" Carrie twirled around on her toes—at least as far as the leash would allow her—and wiggled her bottom at them. Sydney swatted it.

"Oooh!" exclaimed Carrie. "Oh my!"

"Please just ... just go away," said K, "Let us be."

They did. With a sigh, Sydney led Carrie to the vampire couches ... who accepted her offering with alacrity. Less than a minute later, Carrie was getting vigorously screwed by three Dracula's at once, as Sydney bounced herself on top of a fourth on a separate chair in the reverse cowgirl position, so she and Carrie could keep their eyes fixed on each other. Like everything they were doing, or having done to them, was only happening between themselves.

"Are you mad at me for saying no?" K whispered to Graham, without looking at him.

"No," he said.

She didn't believe him. "Those bitches are hot. Don't pretend you don't think so."

"You're hotter, my dear."

She snorted. "Sure I am."

"You are. Much."

"You still would have fucked them if I let you, wouldn't you? You still wanted to." She shifted one of her feet to nudge his crotch. Just as expected, she felt him bulging under his pants.

He grabbed her ankle. Didn't push her foot away but didn't move it further on top of his cock either. He just held it in that spot, with the side of her heel just barely pressing on the head. She could feel the heat of it through his pants and through her leggings, and she could feel it pulsing—or at least she imagined she could feel those things. Her foot absorbed the waves of heat and vibration and passed them along up the muscles of her folded leg, which was trembling ...

Sydney was shouting: "I'm gonna come ... I'm about to come ..." You couldn't hear her, but K could see her lips articulating the words. Carrie had already made one of the Dracula's spew with her mouth. She spit the jizz on the carpet and then got started on another dick. It had been the guy pounding her from behind. He'd pulled out and moved around when the Drac up front got out of the way. Another man took his spot, not another vampire but one of the zombie guys from the other square. And another zombie had crawled over next to him, on his stomach. That guy tugged off one of Carrie's hiking boots and her long sock so he could begin nibbling on her toes. This inspired another of the vampires to do the same to her other foot. Watching them do that made K cringe a little—she knew that type shit would have driven her hysterical, in the harsher sense of the term. Turned out to be equally true for Carrie—she thrashed around so much the three Dracs fucking her mouth and pussy and her ass had trouble keeping themselves inside her. Two of them were greatly annoyed by this turn of events, and nearly started a fistfight with the foot ticklers—the guy on the very bottom of the pile took it in better spirit. Of course, it was probably much easier for him to keep himself planted, with the girl saddled on top of him.

"Say it, Graham. Just say it," she insisted, "Admit that you would have fucked either of those girls. Or both, if I let you."

"No. Only if you had wanted me to. I knew you wouldn't and you didn't."

He was right. She'd turned super-territorial, all the sudden, when Sydney made her proposal. That was why she'd turned it down. It hadn't been shyness or cowardice. K had actually thought it was when she said no, but it wasn't either of those at all. She simply hadn't wanted to share. Graham was hers, dammit. She'd brought this guy here and she'd be taking him home. And nobody else was screwing him tonight before then. She wasn't down with that.

Her feelings on this matter weren't fair or balanced. She'd just been imagining herself with those two black mummy studs. Graham hadn't been part of that picture. She decided now that he might have been off to the side as an observer, wanking off, or perhaps she'd have made him wait alone in one of the closets. Locked in the dark 'til she was ready to let him out again. He certainly wasn't getting involved in anything with any of these other girls. No way, José. Sorry but there it is, them's the rules. Just plain no.

And then almost before she realized what was happening, Graham had clipped his dog collar around her neck. Hadn't noticed him take it off himself—too many other distractions. Now he'd just put it on her. Then he pulled the leash out of her hand.

"Um," she said, "Hey now. Just what do you think you're up to, boy?"

"Your pet monster is turning the tables on you," he said, "Your magic had weakened. You didn't realize it was happening. It's all the turbulent emotional energy in this place. It's disrupting your power. You can't completely control me anymore."

"Is that so?" she said.

She felt a terrible sinking ache in her belly. He was going to ditch her. He was about to go over to Sydney and Carrie. Maybe he'd try to make her tag along behind him with the leash. Maybe he wouldn't abandon her entirely. But he wasn't gonna let her keep him stuck in this chair anymore, away from the rest of the fun. That seemed clear. He'd got fed up with her.

K didn't have to accept this. She could tell him no, or she could make them leave. She knew he'd cooperate. He'd back down if she told him to.

He'd be disappointed, was all. He wouldn't get mad or fight with her. He'd pretend like he didn't care.

God. It would be horrible. Absolutely horrible. This was gonna be the end of their relationship. She could tell. Right here was where it all went down the tube. She could feel it. Oh Christ, she could feel it about to happen ...

Only then it didn't. Not like she thought.

She thought he'd push her feet off his lap so he could stand up and then he'd pull on the leash to make her stand up with him and follow him to the middle of the room. Then that didn't happen. That wasn't what he did. That wasn't what he wanted.

He just pulled her head down towards his, so he could kiss her and keep kissing her. And while they were kissing, he made her scooch her bottom off the armrest so she was sitting directly on his lap. On his cock.

A minute of two after that, he got to work gradually working his hands under her dress so he could push it up her body higher and higher ... the final goal (no, not really the final goal, only the goal of that stage of the proceedings) being to get the dress up entirely over her head and her arms and then off of her. This entailed some minor complications along the way on account of the leash and her broad-brimmed witch's hat. Nothing insurmountable, however.

Inside her head she was screaming over and over: God! God! God! She was so astonished. She'd been so certain he was about to ditch her—and she'd been dead wrong. He had no interest in Sydney and Carrie and the rest of the room, after all, just like he'd said. Only her. Or, well, at least she was the one he was the most interested in, over all the other crazy girls. He was proving it now.

He hadn't switched the collar and taken charge to get away from her. He did it to start fucking her. Probably noticed how watching the mummy guys had worked her up. He didn't have bandages to tie her up with, but he had the leash to use. Same general game.

*********

The dress went away and all of Graham's things except his necktie and the gold wolf mask. That freaky mask stayed with her a long time. She had dreams about it. One time Graham and her dad were fighting. Graham was wearing the mask and he'd won and ate her father while she'd cheered him on. Yeah, well ... What else is there to say?

She kept on her witch hat. Graham was insistent about it. The leash was discarded before very long—it got in their way. The hat was constantly getting knocked off her head—every single time, he'd grab it and put it back on. He wasn't letting go of the hot witch angle.

Her bra wasn't removed, they just pushed it down out of the way around her waist. She kept on the leggings, as well, kind of—just on one leg. And pushed down to knee level—they had to be, to allow him inside her. Her panties did end up coming off all the way. Should have needed to take off the leggings completely to allow that, only Graham ripped them apart, so that wasn't necessary after all. She should have got pissed at him about ruining the panties; they'd been one of her nicer and pricier pairs. Any other day she would have freaked out. Except right just then in the heat of the moment it was super-hot when he did that. Stopped her heart for a second—in a good way. And hey, it was completely in character for a lust-maddened werewolf.

The other way he surprised her this time was leaving on the leggings, if only on one side. She never would have predicted that—getting her barefoot was generally his first objective, whenever they got together, regardless of the setting or circumstances. If nothing else sexual happened between them, he'd still do his damnedest to get his paws on her tootsies as soon as possible and for as long as she put up with it. Never got tired of fiddling with them—and it was lucky for him he was as good at that shit as he was.

Evidently tonight he got excited about the contrast between the one naked foot and the other in the brightly colored tights, with its different slightly fuzzy texture. This opened up all kinds of amazing new possibilities to explore. A major discovery. A paradigm shift.

His excitement fueled hers. She enjoyed this footsy stuff with him much more than she used to. She never minded it but her feet weren't one of her essential vital trigger spots either. That had changed, and Graham had changed it. He got so worked up over that stuff that now it worked her up almost as much. Pleasuring your partner can be as pleasurable in every respect as him pleasing you—it's not just a chore or a tradeoff anymore, and there's more to it than the power trip angle, if you both get enough into sync. And they certainly were.

She'd probably never got synced this much with another guy. With Graham she'd hit a new level. She thought she'd already gone as far as it was possible, at least for someone like her—she thought she'd had it as good as she was ever gonna get it, two or three times with earlier boyfriends.

Nice thing to find out you'd got wrong.

Amazing as this had turned out, it was also undeniably goofy, wasn't it? What kind of fucked-up people come to a Halloween party in February that basically transforms into an orgy, and then only have sex with each other the whole time (once they finally work up the nerve to get cookin'). As if they were by themselves. Why didn't they just stay home, or go back, if this was all they were gonna do? It's like when tourists travel to foreign cities and only wanna eat at McDonalds.

Then again it still added an extra something, having all those other people around them. Despite the fact they tuned them out as much as they could. Deciding to do this together made a powerful statement, if you chose to look at it that way. Not the sex alone—the tuning out of everybody else. Almost made it genuinely romantic, maybe.

And they did attract a large audience. Not instantly but more and more. Somehow everybody else in the place picked up on their intensity. Perhaps it was from ignoring the rest of the party, after all the earlier time they'd spent watching everyone; the switch made them a focus of attention. People can almost always feel when they're being looked at, and they can feel when the looking has stopped.

Then again, there might have been a simpler and less hokey explanation for it. They made the chair rock and hop around, and doing that made the back edges of the thing smack into the wall behind them. That happened a lot and it was real loud every time it hit. Loud as the music was, it still couldn't drown out those bangs. Bound to turn people's heads. They were like gunshots. Picture frames got knocked down, and they left nasty gouges in the drywall. (K later offered to pay for repairs; Sydney waved her off, preferring to keep the marks as a memorial.)

All the other people didn't just watch them, after everyone started watching—they didn't make the party stop; the rest of the crowd didn't suddenly stop their own umpteen separate screwings to stand around and stare. Instead what happened was everybody started keeping their eyes sideways on K and Graham as they did whatever/whoever else they were in the middle of doing, instead of focused on their partners or themselves. Everybody started matching their rhythms to K and Graham. They'd speed up when they sped up and ease off when they slowed ... Some couples went so far as to copy their positions, and also changing whenever they did to keep matching. In fact real soon even the people that weren't doing each other the same way as K and Graham would still switch positions when they switched. They'd pick their own particular positions again, but still follow along with K and Graham's example for a changeover.

K and Graham never noticed. Or if they did they pretended they didn't.

They kept going at it for an impressive length of time. The frequent changes of position and of pace made that possible. Also (exactly like the first time they fucked each other) an important contributing factor was the condom Graham was wearing (he'd brought some in his pocket), and the fact he was pretty much incapable of coming with one on. He only finally let loose when he did because the condom had busted inside of her. K had felt the damn thing give out and shred, but was too carried away at that stage to be able to stop and make him put on another one.

It would probably be too much to claim that when they finished—their orgasms not perfectly simultaneous but just about as close as anybody gets in real life, with Graham shooting off about two seconds after she had peaked (for the third time that evening)—they made the rest of the party come again with them. But a whole lot of other people did, or followed them within the next minute and a half. The room got louder. It had been excessively loud already; felt at the end like everybody was gonna bring down the ceiling with their crazy howls and hollering. Left K's ears hurting afterward and she was sure she wasn't the only one.

Graham had ejaculated inside of her. K had a hard time feeling as mad about that as she knew she should be. Feeling him do that had felt too good, while it happened. She had enjoyed that sensation a great deal. There was an extra level of power in it, and intimacy as well, which you didn't get when the guy pulled outside of you when he came, or had his condom catch it all. It had surprised her—maybe it shouldn't have, when she thought about it later, but it had. It wasn't something she'd fully considered the implications of before. Now it looked like this was something she was probably going to want to explore further. Which meant they were going to have to see about another method of birth control.

That would make Graham happy. It just better not have too harsh an effect on his performance. His longevity was one of the best assets of fucking the guy. If that feature went out the window, he was gonna have to put the condoms back on to bring it back, regardless if she started herself on the good ol' pill or one of the other programs on offer nowadays. Of course she'd let him take it off at the end to finish, naturally, but not 'til he'd properly fulfilled his duties and earned the privilege. Three to one was the minimum orgasm ratio they were gonna be sticking with. That was nonnegotiable. The guy had no one to blame but himself for setting the mark that high.

All the other guys in the place had apparently decided at the Moment of Truth to hose the room indiscriminately. When she looked around and saw how bad it had got, all K could say was "Jesus." The spray had got all over the furniture, all over the carpet, all over the walls. Hopefully some of these drizzles and big shiny wet spots she was seeing weren't actually jizz. Some of them, especially on the cushions, would be sweat-stains, and many others were probably spilled drinks. Yet those pearly globs spattered across that lampshade, and the thick white trickles oozing down the middle of the leaves of the big tropical plant beside their chair—no getting around either of those.

The smell was one for the record books. Just two people in the ordinary run of things can make their bedroom reek of come. In here it was unbelievable. It was like having your head crammed inside a vagina or a guy's nutsac. If sperm had nostrils, this must be what they'd smell all the time, in the little tiny tubes where they waited with their billion brothers before they got fired out. Good thing for them they didn't.