This is a culmination to the 'Mistaken Identity' stories. However it stands alone, as the earlier submissions have been reworked and make up the first half.
I refrain from calling it the conclusion, because as you will find, some stories are still to be told.
* * * * *
Every year, grown men and women in this town dress up in costumes and masks and gather to drink and dance and be someone else.
And every year, I attend, as Joe the Journo, Pete the Paparazzi, or some other media figure. Pretending to be what I really am, I am able to move about freely, taking photos, asking questions; all the time hoping to expose the town's business folk for what that really are.
Ingenious, don't you think.
But that's enough about me.
This year's party started out the same way. Then I saw her, and from that moment, only one story mattered.
One where the costume party would prove to be just the beginning.
With both hands full on her way back from the bar, Sara the Slut is easy prey for the character blocking her path.
"Let me purge your sins, my child," urges the Padre, clamping his mouth on hers. One prolonged French kiss later, it is a breathless Padre who needs saving. Sara laughs at his predicament.
"Here, let me check," offers the Nurse, back from helping Houdini escape from his assistant. She takes a firm grip on his rising interest. "Now cough, Padre."
He does. And is pronounced alive.
That's how it is at this and every other year's Combined Charities Costume Party with Masks. The Nurse examines patients and gets away with it, because that's what nurses do. Dick the Detective threatens to body search everyone, except the Nun, even when behaviour becomes less and less....um, holy. Dracula bites stranger's necks, because that's what Dracula does. And Sara the Slut - well, you get the picture.
In her black lycra, heels and fishnet stockings, she greets everyone with her price list and 'worth-every-cent' smile.
"Lesbian: $50 a half hour; group: $200; Interracial: $50 an hour. Anything else I can't get at home is negotiable."
Mike the Miser isn't convinced. Toulouse-Lautrec rushes to her defense.
"You must be kidding. Quibbling over those prices? Look at those tits," he argues.
"But have you seen them?" counters Mike. "They mightn't be real."
"Well, what about her arse? What a great arse! And her legs...man."
"What would you know? You're just a mad little artist"-
"With an oversized dick!"
"And a case of the clap that ultimately kills you."
"Not before I make a whole lot of whores happy," he says, with a wink to Sara.
He needn't have bothered. Sara- quite the artist herself- knows all about the legend of Toulouse-Lautrec. And it's unlikely that this pretender will be able to measure up.
"So, can I do you?"
The voice interrupts her thoughts.
"Can you what?"
"What about it? Can I do a sketch of you?"
"Weren't all your models nude?"
"And that's what you have in mind for me?"
"I don't come cheap."
"And I'm not used to paying."
"I'm free!" It's that persistent Nurse.
"Looks like you missed your chance," says Lautrec to Sara.
"And you." "How do you figure that?"
"Well, I was thinking it should be me doing you. Now that would be an interesting twist to the tale."
"And she can come along?" he asks, pointing to the Nurse.
"If she's got 50 bucks. For each half hour."
Recollections of Sara's price list conjure images he has always considered priceless.
"It's a deal!" someone yells.
All three turn towards a leering Mike the Miser, who adds, "And I'd better get my money's worth."
Dracula is pissed. And pissed off. At the time of the night that should belong to him, Sara the Slut has forgotten he exists. Instead she is being way too nice to that miserly Mike. Buying him drinks and all.
Bet he's ripping her off. Well, fuck her! I'm off to see the Nurse.
Dracula rises from the bar and teeters towards the booth where the Nurse and Lautrec are saying farewell to a bunch dominated by Sherwood forest dwellers.
"You can't be leaving yet," he mumbles.
"Sorry, Drac," she says. "But I'm on morning shift."
"And I'm making sure she's fit to get there," smirks Lautrec. "But I'm sure these guys plan to kick on."
Dracula looks over the group. Maid Marion appears determined to see if Little John isn't so little. Not that Robin seems to mind. Will Scarlett's tights have caught his attention. Friar Tuck is right out of luck. But there is someone else.
Looks like it's the Nun- or none.
Minutes later, Dracula is too busy with the Nun to notice the quartet of Mike the Miser and Sara the Slut, and Toulouse-Lautrec and the Nurse leave arm in arm.
But they notice him. And the irony of Count Dracula's hand under a Nun's habit is not lost on them.
"Wish I had a camera," remarks Sara.
Magically, a bright flash captures the moment.
"See, tonight your wishes do come true!" calls Lautrec.
As they might for the shadowy character who has decided to follow them to her home.
Dick the Detective is dirty. For the hour since the revelers entered the house, he has been hiding in the bushes hoping the phantom photographer will make an appearance. An hour he could have spent back at the party deciding who would get a ride in his police car. More than enough time for the jerk to turn up here, if he was going to.
He has passed the time applying his deductive skills to what has unfolded. And right now, from the lights and laughter, he knows they are all in the loft. Which he just might be able to see into if he stands on the garden gnome in the rose bed.
So he does.
In time to see Sara appear, now wearing a long paint-stained shirt tied at her waist, and apparently bugger all else. She gestures to the couch, onto which Toulouse-Lautrec unceremoniously flops.
"No,no, no," she admonishes. "Get them off, just like I would have had to."
All of a sudden, Toulouse-Lautrec isn't so cocky.
"Get on with it!"
"But I'm, well, uh, there's a bit happening down there."
"I'd be insulted if there wasn't," she replies. "Either you do it, or I will."
Which prompts him to quickly remove his shirt and, with a flourish, toss it onto the ceiling fan.
He has barely laid back on the couch when she orders, "Now the rest."
"No way. A man's gotta have some pride," he argues.
"Like you think that way when the roles are reversed."
Dick the Detective is impressed when she doesn't give Lautrec time to answer. But not nearly as much as when she bends over, her bare arse flashing as she takes the legs of Lautrec's pants and tries to drag them off him. They hold firm, and she climbs on the couch, straddling the wide- eyed victim before leaning forward to untie the waist sash on his costume.
Again the shirt rides up, and again Dick is flashed. He begins to wobble atop the gnome. Another tug, this time at the hips, and the pants move ever so slightly. And again. They move a little more. Like a slow strip. Too slow. Sara leans right over, and takes a determined grip on the pants at the waist. Dick leans right over, and the gnome squeezes out from under him.
As he is falling, the last thing he sees is a bright flash, and a huge hard-on spring free, almost slapping a startled Sara across the face. When he lands on the concrete gnome, his own erection is stunned by the agony.
Sara and Toulouse-Lautrec are speechless. She is staring at what's in front of her. And he is staring at the ceiling.
"All right then. But I don't measure up as an artist," he concedes.
In half an hour, Sara has created a minor masterpiece. Watching on, Mike the Miser and the Nurse are suitably impressed.
"Are you sure my honour is safe?" demands Toulouse-Lautrec.
"Just seeing to it," says Sara.
Amid some giggles, Sara adds his mask.
"All done," she exclaims.
"So who's next," asks Toulouse-Lautrec.
"I know!" suggests the Nurse. "What about this?"
In a flash, she had joined Lautrec on the couch. She hitches up her skirt and makes out she is riding him.
"Hang on," says Sara. "I'm the worker here. And I'm ready for a drink."
"In the spa?" asks Mike the Miser.
"You've got a spa? What are we doing here?" With that Lautrec tosses the nurse aside and is up again.
"It's down there," concedes Sara, pointing to the detached room. "Complete with bar. I'll be along in a minute."
By the time she rejoins them, they are already in the spa. Not surprisingly, clothes are strewn on the floor. At once, they descend on the food she has brought.
"Are you getting in here? Or do we have to come and get you?" Mike demands.
Still in her shirt, Sara joins them. In no time it is wet through. The material clings to her large breasts, doing nothing to hide them. She suspects her dark bush is also visible, and cares enough to stay below the turbulent water.
The Nurse wades over.
"What's up with the clothes?"
"It's just me being the real me," Sara responds.
"Well I like the other you better," says the Nurse, reaching for the last of the frankfurts. "So if she turns up, would you tell her we should put on a show for the guys?"
With that, she offers the frankfurt to Sara.
"No, you have it."
"We'll share," says the Nurse, suggestively taking it in her mouth. One half protrudes, which Sara accepts.
Someone, maybe both of them, slowly takes more of it into their mouth, which causes their lips to move closer and closer, and the meat to disappear.
It's enough to make a grown man grow some more.
The Nurse's arms wrap around Sara, before her hands disappear under the water. The men can only guess what's going on.
Finally the girls' lips meet- just a touch at first. Then the sausage reappears, wet and red, before disappearing again; heralding a fierce kiss that leaves the onlookers breathless.
Sara locks eyes with Mike the Miser, approaching behind the Nurse. He presses up close, before reaching out, and enclosing both women in his long arms. Sara can feel his hands sliding down the Nurse's arms, and is sure she knows where they are headed. She spreads her stance a little.
Suddenly the girls are pulled apart. And in disbelief, Sara watches Mike the Miser lead the Nurse away to the other side of the room. _______________________
Now alone with Toulouse-Lautrec, Sara knows he is going to make a move. Instead, he springs out of the spa, his cock bouncing right in front of her before he wanders over to the bar for two more drinks.
"Looks like something has him all worked up," Sara calls.
"I might be getting on, but I'm not dead yet," is the response.
"Well, now is your chance. I'm sure the Nurse can find the time, or the place, for one more."
"But I wouldn't want to leave you here on your own," he says on returning. "Unless you want to join in too."
"Thanks. But no thanks," Sara replies, casually resting her head on his shoulder.
"That's nice," Lautrec says.
She decides to leave it there a little longer.
"Is your mind off the others now?" Sara asks.
Sara muzzles her lips into the side of his neck.
"What about now?"
"Uh- not entirely. But I think this will help!" Toulouse-Lautrec turns to kiss her, and barely believes it when she doesn't pull away. He lifts his lips, and looks into her dark eyes- eyes that are saying 'it's OK if you want to kiss me again'- and he does, more passionately this time. Her mouth opens to the flick of his tongue, and she kisses him back; now pressing against him, her tits squashed against his bare chest.
Too quickly, it ends.
"What about now?"
"Definite improvement," he says.
"We're on the right track then. So what else will help?"
"I think it will help if this is undone," he says, reaching for the knot tied in her shirt. She stands unmoved, almost defiantly as he works the knot undone, and allows the ends of the shirt to fall. Sara laughs as he curses animatedly when the shirt still covers her breasts.
"Hate to see a grown man suffer!" she teases, and spreads her arms, allowing her breasts to bounce into view. "Is your mind off the others now?"
"They're amazing; you're amazing," he says into her ear.
They are interrupted when, from across the room, the Nurse calls, "Why don't you guys join us?" When they turn around to respond. Toulouse-Lautrec wraps his arms around Sara's waist.
For what seems like forever, neither of them move.
Eventually Lautrec speaks.
"Sara, can I ask you if you have done anything like that before?"
"What a question to ask a lady!" she laughs.
"I have to be honest and plead guilty." Toulouse-Lautrec replies.
"So what's keeping you back now?"
"I like the present company."
She knows that he means it, and thanks him by putting her hands on his, and raising them to her hard nipples.
"And if we both join in?" she asks.
"Right now I want to keep the present company to myself."
"Smart answer," Sara says, playfully reaching behind and grabbing his erect cock.
Toulouse-Lautrec jumps at her touch. He expects her to release it immediately. She doesn't.
"Nice cock," Sara says.
"Nice tits," Lautrec replies. "Perhaps they should get together."
Sara turns to face him, and slowly peels off the shirt.
"Is this what you were thinking?" she enquires. Toulouse-Lautrec drops to his knees in the water, his head now at her waist. He slides his tongue into her navel, before muzzling at the hint of soft down that is visible above the bubbling water. At water level, he stops, then works his way up, licking under each heavy breast before moving onto her nipples.
Sara reaches down, and pulls one of her breasts to her mouth, just reaching the nipple; sharing it with his mouth until their tongues meet and they want something else. Lautrec slips his tongue in and out of Sara's mouth and she understands and sucks it, as if it is the cock she is holding.
"Show me what you want," Sara says into his mouth.
Lautrec sits her on the steps of the spa, and stands in front, pressing his cock between her tits. Knowingly, Sara squeezes them together as he begins to fuck the valley between them. She decides to go further, and occasionally bends down to tease the fat head with her mouth, drawing a deep gasp from him each time her lips touch his cock. Now Lautrec begins to push higher, offering more of his cock to that beautiful mouth, and finds it willing; the lips pursed so that each upstroke breaks its way into the warm mouth.
Way too soon he feels his orgasm approaching, and warns her. "You are going to make me come if you keep that up."
"Now do you want to join the others?" Sara asks.
Next morning, a tired Sara crawls out of bed. She dresses, and gathers up the costumes from the floor, before heading into the kitchen. She is surprised to see her partner already at the table, his head buried in the morning newspaper.
"Guess what?" he calls. "Looks like Dick has got himself in deep shit again."
She approaches and kisses him on top of the head. On the front page of the local paper is a photo of the Detective sprawled out in someone's garden. The caption reads 'Garden gnome foils prying eye.'
"Wonder where that was?" he asks.
Men! Sometimes you don't even know what goes on in your own backyard.
Sara is doing her best to appear unfazed by her partner's unexpected presence at breakfast.
"When did you get back in town?" she asks nonchalantly.
"Last night," he replies.
"When, last night?"
"Does it matter?"
"You didn't come to bed."
"I didn't want to wake you, so I crashed in one of the spare rooms. Anyway, the bedroom door was locked."
"And were you alone?"
"What sort of question is that?" he barks.
"It's a joke, grumble-bum. It's just that Mike and some others bunked here after the party. And I had visions of you stumbling in on them."
"It's not like it's the first time he has stayed over," she counters.
"Yeah, but not when I've been away."
He thinks he sees her smirk.
"Anyway, how was the party this year?" he inquires.
"I wasn't sure about going as the slut, not without my favourite pimp."
"You were OK. I asked Mike to look after you."
"I mean, you know, just keep an eye out. Not to spy on you or anything."
"I can't believe you did that."
"What's the big deal. You made it home in one piece."
"It's a big deal to me."
"I don't know why."
"Because it puts a different slant on all the extra attention he gave me."
"What kind of attention?"
"The kind that helps a man get lucky."
She leaves him to wrestle with that notion, and heads off for a shower.
The cool shower proves to be just the tonic she needs. Sara decides to wait awhile, letting the morning air dry her.
Her peace is interrupted when Mike and Toulouse-Lautrec wander into the bathroom, clearly feeling the effects of last night's drinking. They haven't noticed her behind the screen, and she decides to leave it that way. Toulouse heads straight for the toilet pedestal, and noisily pisses into the bowl.
"Geez, I needed that," he says, shaking his limp dick dry. "Now I could eat a horse. Wonder where the girls are?"
"Beats me," says Mike, pushing Toulouse aside to get his turn to relieve himself. "My guess is they are still asleep. Forget the horse! I could eat Sara, no worries."
Sara decides it's just the moment to step from behind the shower screen.
"Morning boys!" she says, casually reaching for her clothes. "You don't look at all well. Would a bit of breakfast help?"
Mike is the first to recover. "I'd kill for some bacon and eggs," he replies, and is caught staring at the magnificent tits in front of him.
"They're called breasts, Mike," Sara teases. "And what about you, Lautrec?"
"I knew that!"
Sara is surprised by how aroused she has become. It gets worse when she detours to tidy up the spa room, still in a T shirt that is just long enough. As she rushes uneasily through the task, Lautrec catches up with her.
"I'm going to go, Sara. I just wanted to see if you are OK about last night before I do."
"I'm fine with it, Toulouse-Lautrec."
"Actually it's Charlie."
"Charlie eh? It's good to put a face and a real name to, well, you know! Anyway, it's OK. Things probably worked out for the best."
"Probably, but I just want you to know that doesn't usually happen. In fact it hasn't happen before."
"That's what all the guys say!"
"Seriously, it hasn't. But when you asked did I want to join the others, I"-
"You don't have to explain what happened. They were my tits in the firing line, remember."
"You still could have gone over to the others."
"I know. But the moment had passed."
"And now we'll never know."
"Isn't that the best way to leave it?" she asks, and heads for the door.
"I'll probably die wondering!" he calls after her.
He hears her laugh.
"Can't I have at least have a clue?" he pleads.
He is left with the image of her flicking up the back of the T shirt to flash that wondrous arse.
While Sara is fixing a belated breakfast for Mike, her partner wanders back into the kitchen.
"I have to call into the office for a while. Do you want me to drop your costume back to the shop?"
"That would be sweet," she says cheerfully. "It's that bag over there."
"What about you, Mike? Will I wait and give you a lift home?"
"I'll be fine mate. I reckon the walk will do me good."
"What about the others?"
"I don't now where the nurse is. She disappeared sometime during the night. And Charlie said he had to go."