The Costume

The shoes complete the costume: tall black boots with sharp stiletto heels, suede that will cling to my calves and shoot up to the bottoms of my thighs. I've been buying the clothes one by one over the past few months. The first piece was the skirt. Dark purple leather with black snakeskin detail, tight around the wast and only a little looser around the upper thighs, where it stopped just under my ass. When I saw it hanging on the rack at Macy's, I loved it immediately. It was completely different than anything I'd ever worn, an incredible contrast to the loose button-downs and mom jeans I usually favor. It was also far, far more expensive than I could afford as a broke college student. But I bought it anyway, even though I didn't quite know why. Two weeks' salary at my library front-desk job. Worth it. Not that I had anywhere to wear the skirt.

Next came the corset. I didn't go looking for something to pair with the skirt, but around the Halloween of my junior year, I started seeing corsets everywhere. And as I passed by stacks of them while sifting through thrift shops and costume stores, searching for a Hawaiian shirt to complete my Tourist Dad costume, my mind started formulating a plan.

For as long as I can remember, I've been the Tourist Dad girl, the library front-desk girl, the loose button-downs and mom jeans girl. I've had a couple of relationships with men who started out by calling me cute. But I'm single right now. And what if, just for a night, I went somewhere new — dressed completely differently — and became someone else?

Tourist Dad would be my costume for the parties at school. And I'd put together a second costume for a party downtown.

So when I went to the thrift shops with my friends, I didn't sort through the corsets. But I made mental note of where they were. And I came back alone. I found one that fit me perfectly, soft black leather like the skirt, strapless with lacing all the way down the front.

That brings me to today. The Saturday after Halloween, the final day of Halloweekend. Yesterday I'd done the rounds in my Hawaiian shirt. Today the shoes arrived, just in time, and my second costume is complete.

A dominatrix.

I dig through my closet and toss the corset and skirt on my bed. I have the suite to myself tonight; both of my roommates have gone to a pregame at a friend's place. They asked me why I wasn't coming with them. I tried to keep the excitement from showing on my face — or anywhere else — when I told them I was going to explore the city by myself tonight.

It's time to get dressed.

I strip off my t-shirt and jeans. Now I'm only wearing my bra and underwear. I needed to choose my undergarments carefully for tonight, so when I got dressed this morning, I put on a tiny black lace thong and a matching bralette. But since the corset is strapless, it won't cover the bra straps. I guess braless it is.

I unhook the bralette and fling it into my hamper, allowing my tits to feel the coolness of the air. They're small and round, ready for the corset to push them into mountains. I slide the corset over my head and begin to pull the laces tight, watching as my tits draw close together. I give the laces one more yank before tying them in a bow. It's tight, but every restricted breath sends a thrill shooting through my stomach, traveling right down to my pussy.

Next I shimmy into the skirt, pulling the waistband over the bottom of the corset, and zip up the boots. I add some eyeliner while looking in my desktop mirror. Preparing myself to see the whole outfit for the first time, I open the door of my bedroom and head for the full-length mirror in the hallway.

Holy shit.

I barely recognize myself. My hair is long and dark and wavy, and my outfit clings to my curves, tracing my shape like a pair of caressing leather hands. My heart beats as I picture one of my roommates coming back to our dorm, maybe to pick up a forgotten bottle of vodka or pair of cat ears, and stumbling upon me like this. There's something shameful about my friends seeing me like this, tits pushed up, skirt barely covering my ass. But I can feel my wetness seeping onto the fabric of my thong all the same.

I lean back slightly. In the light of the hall, I see a glimmer on my newly-exposed inner thigh. It's a trickle of my wetness. It must have escaped my thong. Maybe I should wear higher-coverage underwear, if even being alone wearing this turns me on so much? I have no idea what will happen once I'm wearing this in public. Maybe I shouldn't even go. Maybe this is too much for my first time dressing slutty. I should probably just wear my Hawaiian shirt again, just with fewer buttons closed.

No, I promised myself that I would branch out tonight. I won't be seeing anyone I know. I'm going to a club full of strangers, far away enough from campus that I'll be completely anonymous. There's no chance I'll be seeing my roommates, my library coworkers, or even the sexy grad student who teaches my Pop Art History class — Max, whose chiseled cheekbones and black nail polish make an already-interesting class significantly more so. And that means that there are no stakes. If I somehow embarrass myself tonight, no one in my real life will have any idea.

Before I can change my mind, I grab a clutch and a black trench coat, long enough to conceal everything but the bottom of the boots, and race out of my dorm room. I keep my head down as I hurry out of the building and to the street off campus, blending in with the crowds of students heading to the frat houses a few streets away. But I don't follow them in the direction of the frats. I call a Lyft and get out two miles away in front of a club downtown. No backing out now, Lily, I tell myself.

I take a deep breath, flash the bouncer my ID — I'm a freshly-minted 21 — and walk into the club.

It's dark and packed. My chest gives an exhale; the darkness and the bodies should conceal me enough that I can feel comfortable in my anonymity. I hang up my coat on a rack and weave my way toward the bar.

"Happy Halloween, my lady. What can I get you tonight?" asks the bartender, a guy in his late-twenties with a raspy voice and a pirate costume. One of his eyes is covered by a patch, but the other sparkles deep amber in the low light. A sharp nose casts a shadow over his face. He's my type: a little goth, a little mysterious. But he's on the job. I wouldn't want to disrupt him.

I watch his eyes flicker down from my face and to my exposed cleavage. I feel myself starting to get wet again. It won't go anywhere, since he's at work, but flirting wouldn't hurt.

"What's your best drink?" I ask, leaning forward just a bit so that more of my tits creep out of the top of the corset.

I can see that he's struggling to keep his eyes fixed on my face. "You look like you would enjoy a Moscow Mule," he says.

I smile at him. "Yes, I do enjoy a good... ride."

He can't control himself any longer. He's staring at me hungrily now. I lean even closer over the bar.

"My lady, I th-think you may want to make an adjustment," he says, waving a hand at my corset.

I glance down. The top has ridden so low that one of my nipples, pink and hard, has escaped from the leather. I feel myself flush. I moved too quickly. I got ahead of myself. I knew this was a bad idea. I don't think I've ever felt this humiliated.

But he's still looking at me with that one intense eye. And I can feel my wetness dripping from my pussy, even stronger than in my dorm room.

Tonight, I'm someone other than me.

Deliberately, looking him right in his eye, I roll my nipple between two fingers and tuck it back into the fabric of my corset. I cock my head. "Oops."

The bartender smirks and mixes my drink. "Have a good time tonight."

I taste it, the alcohol warm in my throat, and slide a $20 across the counter. "Oh, I think I will."

There's a man on the barstool next to me, pretending to watch the dance floor while shooting me glances out of the corner of his eye. As soon as the bartender moves to the other end of the counter to serve a couple of guys dressed in football jerseys, the man next to me looks at me for just a moment longer, then looks away again.

It's obvious what he's doing. He's not the kind of man I'd usually be interested in — he's blond and wears a sharply-tailored suit, maybe a few years older than me — but tonight I can make him happy. So I play along.

When he isn't looking at me, I tilt my body in his direction so that he's seeing me almost from the front, but keep my head turned away. I take another sip of my drink. His next glance comes with a slight gasp as his eyes lap up a clear view of my tits. I stay like that for a few minutes, letting him enjoy the sight. Then I do something even more unlike myself. I open my legs.

Just slightly, just enough that if his eyes traced down the lacing of the corset, he would see the trickle of wetness glistening inside my skirt. When he looks over again, I think he must miss it — there's no reaction. So I spread my legs another inch wider. Another minute, another glance, another lack of reaction. Another inch. And then another.

He can't possibly be missing how soaked the insides of my thighs are. I can't see the wetness, but I can feel it, dripping from my pussy and spreading onto my exposed skin. My knees are at least four inches apart now. And the blond man has the perfect view.

All of a sudden, he gets up from the stool and takes a step toward the dance floor. How dare he! After all I showed him, and he doesn't even acknowledge it? I snap my knees together. He doesn't deserve to see me.

At the sound of my legs closing, he turns his head, looking me right in the face. And then he smiles.

He must have been looking all along.

And he won.

I should be embarrassed. But I'm not. I'm just angry.

"What the hell was that?" I slide off my stool and step toward him.

"What was what?" he asks, that coy smile twitching on his lips. They're sexy lips, full and rosy.

"You know as well as I do," I hiss.

"Dance with me," he says, extending a hand.

An electro-pop remix of Thriller blasts from the speakers. Semi-reluctantly, I take his hand, and we start dancing chest to chest. In my heels, we're almost the exact same height. Good. I want him to feel intimidated.

"Tell me," I say again. "Why didn't you react?"

He laughs, moving his hands to my waist. I feel another tingle in my pussy as his fingers brush against a sliver of bare skin where my corset almost meets my skirt. "How should I have known what you were looking for?" he says. "I'm not the one flashing random guys at clubs."

I flush again. It really is embarrassing, to hear him lay it so bare. He looks at my tits, this time without pretending otherwise. My pussy is so full it's almost bursting. The embarrassment is like a drug. I want more.

"That's better," I tell him.

"Well, then," he says, spinning me around. "Do you want me to tell you something else you may or may not like to hear?"

Fuck it. "Sure."

"When you got off that stool, your skirt rode up in back. Everyone dancing here has had a full look at the bottom of your ass cheeks."

I gasp and step back, my hands tracing my skirt and yanking it down. My face is burning. This is definitely more than I planned for tonight. Showing specific people — maybe. But the whole club?

"I suppose you did want to know," the blond man says, smirking again.

"Fuck you," I say, turning to find a dance partner who's less of an asshole.

"Hey, hey," he says. I feel his hand on my shoulder, and against my will, his touch makes me shiver. I turn back around. "I'm sorry. I thought you did that on purpose. I didn't mean to offend you."

This time, I smile back at him. "You'll have to try a lot harder to offend me."

He takes my waist again and we start dancing for a second time. "So let me figure out what you want," he says. "I can look at you, but only in moderation, and you want to be subtle about it. I can work with that. Can I... touch you?"

His words make me shiver again. "Yes," I say, breathlessly.

His hands travel down from my waist, skimming my ass and the sides of my thighs. The lightness of his touch is almost too much for me to handle. I don't know how the thin fabric of my thong can keep in the sheer buildup of arousal inside it.

He leans in, his lips so close to mine that I can feel his breath. His hands are still hovering at the hem of my skirt. "Can I... taste you?"

"Yes," I whisper.

But instead of leaning in the final inch to kiss me, he dips his finger up slightly into my skirt, wiping off some of the wetness from my inner thigh. I tremble as he lifts his finger to his lips and licks it.

He lowers his hands to my waist again. "Delicious."

My legs are weak, but suddenly, I'm furious all over. He implied that he was going to give me something in return for his enjoyment of my body. But there was no kiss. He tasted me without giving anything back.

He will pay.

I grin and grind onto his pelvis, feeling his dick through the fabric of his slacks. It's hard. Harder than I would have even expected, actually. Good. Glancing around to make sure no one is watching, I lower my hands from his shoulders to the sides of his ass.

"What about me?" I whisper. "What can I do for you?"

He leans in again. "Anything you want."

I bring one hand to the front of his pants and trace the outline of his dick, watching his face carefully. I can see that he's fighting to keep himself expressionless, but when I press lightly on the tip, he draws a sharp breath. "Stop teasing me," he says.

I pull my hand away. "Oh, I will," I say. "I think I've done enough for tonight. Our dance is over."

"That's the opposite of what I meant," he says.

I wink at him. "I know."

I slip deeper into the crowd, losing myself in the gyrating bodies, and congratulate myself on what feels like a victory.

For a long moment — maybe it's five minutes, maybe it's an hour — I allow myself to get absorbed by the dance floor. I grind with a group of girls I don't know, all wearing costumes that show just as much skin as mine. One of them, an angel clad in a lacy white bra and matching white skirt, twerks on me for just a little longer than you would with any random stranger. I'm bisexual, and although tonight feels like a dick night, I can't say I don't appreciate her thick ass drawing circles on the front of my skirt. But eventually the girls spin away and I find myself with my arms around a skinny guy with a spiky Salvador Dalí mustache. When I ask him whether it's a costume or a lifestyle choice, he raises his eyebrows and suggests that I come home with him to find out. But I'd rather leave my art history in the classroom, so even though he has a cute smirk, I decline. I dance with more people than I can remember, their faces blurring into an amalgamation of sexy grins and dramatic makeup and strobe-lit eyes sneaking glances down my corset.

And then, in the center of the crowd, dancing bodies surrounding me, I whirl around and smack into the one man I definitely didn't want to see tonight.

Max.

The sound of the club music fades to a dull throb in my ears. I'm suddenly hyperaware of the cleavage pushing out of my corset and the sweat-soaked skin of my thighs shimmering under the lights. And there he is, his face half a foot from mine, staring back at me with an expression that I can only assume mirrors my own. As far as I can tell, he isn't dressed up much. He's wearing a fitted black military jacket that clings to his body, plus black leather pants that don't leave much to the imagination either. Same painted black fingernails and rumpled hair as always. The same aesthetic as usual, just... heightened.

And right. In front. Of me.

"Hey, Lily," he finally says. "I... didn't know you went to this sort of thing."

"I don't," I choke out. "This is, um, my first time here."

Not only am I almost completely exposed, but I'm alone. And who the hell goes to a club alone dressed like this? He must think I'm some kind of whore.

I hate that thought. I hate it so, so much.

And yet I can feel my nipples hardening even more, straining to break free from the leather of the corset again without me even leaning forward.

Max crosses his arms. "I shouldn't be seeing a student in this context. This is so unprofessional. My advisor would kill me."

Like I can do anything about that? Still, I look away from his eyes — those sexy deep brown eyes. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, this is just a coincidence. Neither of us can be blamed," he says. He sounds almost like he's trying to convince himself of something.

"Blamed?" I ask. "For what?"

"Seeing each other. That's all," he says.

My tentative hope evaporates. Running into each other. Of course that's it. It's not like we would do anything tonight that would be worthy of blame.

But... he's already seen me in this costume, at my most shameful. It wouldn't hurt to push it a little further. Because what else do I have left to lose?

"As long as we're both here, um, we could dance," I say. I gesture at the bodies around us. "It's what everyone else seems to be doing."

I didn't realize how hard my heart was beating until I watch his face, chiseled and unreadable, as he contemplates my suggestion.

After a pause, he nods. "No one else from school is here. We won't get caught."

Hmm.

I don't know what kind of dance this is going to be. I don't know how tame he's going to want to stay. No matter what he leads with, I'll respect it — it's his job on the line, and I want him to be comfortable with all the risks he takes tonight. But I I hope he takes some risks with me.

He grabs me around the waist and pulls me to him, rocking his pelvis in rhythm with the music. "Where did that come from?" I gasp, wrapping my arms around his back and grinding in turn.

Max smiles, revealing white teeth. "If we're going to dance, we might as well dance, right?"

I shake my head and grin back at him. "Your call, Teach."

He laughs. "I don't want to think about my job tonight."

"Why not? Isn't the club the best place to philosophize about Warhol's women?" I say, feeling his back muscles clench and unclench through the thin fabric of his jacket.

"It's Halloween," he says. "Tonight is for something... different."

He's been respectful in his gaze until now, keeping his eyes fixed on my face. Only at this moment do I see his eyes dip down onto my upper chest.

"I'm going for something different too," I say softly.

"Oh, that's clear," Max says, pressing me even closer to his body. "I've never seen you look anything like this, Lily."

I hope he doesn't see my burning cheeks in the darkness. "Thank you? I think?"

His hands are warm and firm on my hips, guiding them to grind faster and faster against him. "Don't worry, it's a compliment. You look stunning. Who knew you were hiding that under your art girl clothes?"

So he's seen me. Really seen me. And tonight, even though it's the first time I've shown myself to him for real, it's not the first time he's looked.

"You know, I can be multifaceted," I tell him. "I have talents beyond writing kickass art critiques."

"Oh?" he says, moving his hands up so that they rest around my neck. I can feel his fingertips brushing my skin and I shiver. "What kinds of talents?"

I look at him right in the eyes. "Are you asking me what I think you're asking?"

His gaze turns serious. "If it's what you want. I know this is unethical. If you want to leave, do it right now, and I'll pretend I never saw you here. I won't let it change how I treat you or how I grade you. I promise."

And somehow, even though he's telling me I can go, it's the sexiest thing he could have said right now.

I lean forward and bring my lips almost to his. "It's what I want."