K's Costume Ch. 03

They should change the music. For this atmosphere, they needed to kill that techno crap and throw on some funk. (*Rimshot!)

K theorized a lot of the mess ending up as awful as it had was the fault of the girls. They hadn't let the guys come on them because of their costumes, and because of the company. Or simply because they thought that was gross, though K had very little patience with girls that said that. It was one of those things girls claimed because they felt obliged to. Most girls lied. Most girls, so long as they were straight, liked seeing come, and liked feeling it land on their skin, whatever they might tell you or tell themselves. It was a hot thrill. The so-called money shot isn't all just for the guys. Even girls that genuinely thought it was yucky and gross—and yeah, fine, it was—they still liked it. They liked it because it was yucky and gross. They liked testing themselves against it, if nothing else. Anyway, that was K's perspective. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she really was wired different than the majority of women. She sure wouldn't bet money on it.

She imagined a big bunch of last second dodges and deflections had occurred. Slapping those puppies to the side as they started to squirt, rolling clear ... She hadn't been paying attention at the time, still wrapped up in the initial sparkling haze of her own afterglow, so she couldn't speak as a witness. It was only a deduction. And amusing to imagine, anyhow.

Even the guys that had worn condoms like good safe citizens—like half the men in the room, or maybe it was a bit better of a number than that, maybe two thirds—they seemed to have all either whipped off the thingies at the critical moment, like porn stars will for the money shot, or if they hadn't, they managed to spill the contents after removal. K saw at least five abandoned in different spots across the super-room, where they'd been dropped or flung away, with goo pooling out of them. Giant squashed grubs vomiting their insides out—that was what they looked like. Horrible. She saw one stuck on the ceiling—though it dropped down right after she noticed it. Actually which was more disgusting? The idea that they were dead mutilated alien worm things, or the true facts—discarded sopping plastic dick-sheaths, reamed-out catchbags for jizz, leaking out all they'd collected. Yeah, Jesus, the second one was way worse, wasn't it?

Did idiots allow those spills to happen all over the place on accident or by malicious design? She wouldn't venture a guess. Her brain couldn't go there any further.

Except it left her reluctant to climb off Graham's lap in the armchair. She didn't want to lower her feet to the floor, not without her shoes. There didn't seem to be any clean spots. Seriously. This must be what a treed cat felt like. Where were her shoes? She couldn't find them.

Turned out one was underneath her dress. Graham fished it out and handed it to her. "Can you find the other one?" she asked as she put it on.

Somehow it had ended up on a coffee table clear across the room, on top of a pizza box. Probably it had got in somebody's way on the floor and they moved it up there. Another guy grabbed it and flung it over to them. Graham caught it—K's hands were occupied trying to fit her other foot and her bare leg back into her leggings.

There were beads of shiny goo streaked across the top of the shoe, including the laces. Jesus. Some asshole had jizzed on her shoe. No doubt it wasn't on purpose; it still pissed her off. "Motherfucker!" It also pissed her off that Graham thought this was funny. She wasn't sure if he was laughing because of the spooge on her shoe, or because she'd got mad about it. Both, more than likely. "Motherfucker!" she said again, and whacked him over the head with it, knocking his mask crooked. That just made him laugh harder. "Shut up," she said, "Freak!"

He started trying to tickle her, under her armpits. She kept clobbering him with the soiled shoe.

K realized his cock was still inside her. She'd somehow never quite got around yet to lifting high enough off his lap for it to slide out. Not even when she was stuffing her bare leg into her leggings—she still hadn't pulled them up above her knees. Believe it or not, she'd almost sort of forgotten she was still clenched on him in there, since it had gone soft and small after his ejaculation. At least she'd been pretending to herself that she'd forgotten. But now all the sudden she could feel it reawakening in there. Pumping itself upward again, stretching tall.

And it felt real good, feeling it do that. Oh man. Holy crap. She made herself squeeze inside on it, to feel the feeling stronger and of course to encourage it, and him ...

Yeah, shit. Wowee. Her and this guy, they really pushed each other's buttons, didn't they? Nobody ever pushed her buttons like this guy kept doing. Made her so mad. He had her hooked, was the thing. She had him hooked too just as bad. That was some comfort. Still, it was scary. She was pretty sure she'd never been hooked this bad. She'd hooked other guys but without getting hooked herself, not to the same degree. Not like this. Not where she was feeling it like she kept feeling it this time.

He bounced his legs, to get her going. He only had to do it once or twice and then he could keep still. She took over the work. She'd do all the bouncing from here on. Well, not forever. Just this first phase, 'til they switched positions again ...

Looked like this party wasn't done yet.