Masquerade

The dildo, the one that felt like a real cock, slipped in like her tongue. But it was the pair of hands on either side of his ass that shocked him like a cattle prod. The reason the dildo, the really expensive one, had felt like a real penis was because...it was one. That was the only explanation to the pair of hands guiding his ass like hands on a steering wheel. Perhaps it was a strap-on dildo. Jake had heard of that, or rather saw it in some porn flicks. Sure that was it. Some other woman was behind him shoving a strap-on dildo, that felt exactly like real flesh, up his ass. Except he knew that wasn't true. He could tell. Dildos, no matter how expensive they were, didn't have balls that slapped against your own.

The woman, like the cock sliding in and out of his ass, was increasing her tempo, licking the outside of mouth as she turned and stuck her tongue back, deep inside. The hands on his ass gripped him tighter and drove the cock in deeper and faster. Jake, drowning in a wave of sexual bliss, came on the bed in a flood that seemed to spurt out for minutes.

The person behind him, the one fucking him up the ass, gripped his ass and shoved his cock deep inside of Jake as he came also. The woman slowed her tempo and kissed Jake like she was kissing someone who had just saved her life.

The man pulled himself out of Jake and the woman stood up. Jake could only lay his head down, his neck as stiff as an oak board, his tongue too numb to speak. He felt a slight pinprick on his ass before he fell into a deep sleep.

Monday morning, at work, was its usual hectic chaos of catching up with pending lawsuits, new lawsuits and the never ending stream of phone messages and e-mails. For Jake it was no different, except it was. Everything had suddenly become different. The routine of work was, and always would be, the same monotonous, robotic, assembly line of clients, but an e-mail changed all that.

When he had arrived at work Monday morning, after a Sunday consisting of no more than watching football and trying, in vain, to relieve the pounding headache he had awoke with, Jake started through his 50 plus e-mails. The last one, sent late Sunday evening, he almost deleted because he didn't recognize the e-mail address: rsgrimm@hotmail.com. Russell and Sherrie Grimm. No subject. Maybe it was just a thank you to everyone for coming to the party. Except, other than the RSVP, how did they know who actually came or not?

But it wasn't a thank you e-mail. It was anything but that.

It has come to our attention there was an incident at the party on Saturday night. We would like to resolve this quickly and quietly. In house. A surveillance camera captured the incident. The incident involved a guest wearing a black steel colored mask and took place in the upper master bedroom. If you wore this mask to our party then you know of whom we speak. All we ask is you come forward and make this as easy as humanly possible. If you come forward now we will not press charges.

Sincerely, Russell and Sherrie Grimm

Press charges? Press charges over what exactly? And then it hit Jake like a judge slamming down a gavel, sodomy was a crime in the state of Pennsylvania. An old law, never changed, never enforced, but a law nonetheless. And this was a law firm. What better place to take a law older than dirt and enforce to their whim?

The rest of the day - totally ruined by the e-mail - Jake's mind ran through the possibilities of how they could trace back the black steel mask to him. He had planned on returning it right after work, along with the tuxedo. All they would have to do would be to send someone over and talk to Alex. She'd remember who rented that mask as easy she could remember her name. He remembered the look on her face when he chose it.

The rumor, thick as smoke from as brush fire, spread around the firm. A rumor that someone, someone wearing a black steel mask, had been involved in a bisexual act with a pair of party goers and that Mr. and Mrs. Grimm were furious and wanted the head of the man in the black steel mask.

Jake had left the party late, couldn't even remember the time, no one knowing what he drove because he had parked in the back. He thanked his good fortune because it would have very easy for someone to trace his car, a silver Toyota Corolla, the only one in the firm of its kind.

Brian had stopped by and asked Jake if he had a clue to the man in the black steel masks identity. "No." Jake answered curtly, hoping to give Brian a hint he was too busy to talk.

The rest of the day pounded away at Jake's temples like a jackhammer. The end couldn't come quick enough. He had decided, in between the annoyance of clients, to pay Alex to keep her mouth shut. She couldn't make very much at costume rental shop, especially one that rented mostly masks. Say ten thousand dollars? It sounded like a nice, solid figure that, one, he could afford, and two, would keep Alex quiet. Ten thousand dollars seemed like a good job security investment.

With that decided the rest of the day didn't breeze by but the headache went away. He'd stop at the bank, grab the ten grand in small bills and put this to rest once and for all.

When Jake finally made it back to his condo, a smaller place just outside of the inner city with a view of the Monongahela, he had started to feel better. No one, it seemed, had any idea of who the man in the black steel mask had been. People had talked to him like it was someone else. Jake was under no suspicion as being the man in the mask. In fact there were a few names, lawyers who had a reputation for less than savory behavior outside the workplace, being thrown around as legitimate suspects. As long as Alex could be paid off Jake felt he was in the clear.

He had stopped at the bank on the way home and now had a briefcase filled with ten thousand in cash. The mere sight of all that cash laid out in the briefcase like a mosaic of money, Jake was sure, would keep Alex quiet.

Jake laid the briefcase on the kitchen table and went into his bedroom to collect the tuxedo. He had hung it from the hook on the bathroom door. He had saved the long, plastic bag- Tuxedo Connection - it had come in. He took the tuxedo off the hanger and laid it on the bed. And just as he was about to cover it with the plastic bag he stopped, frozen in a thread of time. There, on the shoulder of the tuxedo, was a strand of flaming red hair.