I’ve had my eye on you all evening. Or should I say you’ve had my eye, sure as if you’d hooked me with a fishing line, reeling me in. At first I wasn’t sure you noticed. Now, though, you’ve made it quite obvious. It’s clear in the way you move your body toward me when you’re chatting with friends, casually smoothing your long skirt so the thigh-high slit shows me more of your left leg. It’s palpable in the way you glance over toward me when you laugh at a friend’s joke. You know I’m watching, and you’re watching right back.
Only problem is, I have no idea who you are.
There are two rules at this costume party: Everyone has to be in costume, and every costume must have a mask. I opted to portray a cheesy Zorro-type bandit, all but swordless, the mask barely covering my eyes; if you know me, you can recognize me. But you, in your long black witchy dress with its twin thigh-high slits showing off the full length of your slender legs — you’ve gone for the full-face mask, in a shimmering porcelain texture, featureless, creepy and alluring. The dress is cut low on top and fits you so closely I can see every contour of your breasts. If I can’t recognize your face, I wish I recognized them.
But your legs are just as sexy, and you seem to know exactly what they’re doing to me. As you chat with friends, you turn toward me, subtly at first and then more blatantly, seemingly emboldened by the shameless way I stare at you from across the room. I don’t know the people you’re chatting with — at least, I don’t think so, though the full-face masks make it a little hard to tell. I desperately try to figure out if I know you, with only the shape of you and the movements of your body to go on. I don’t have much luck. But I decide that if I don’t know you, I need to.
Suddenly, you place a hand on your friend’s shoulder, make some excuse — have to powder your mask? — and start toward the stairs. That would be the end of it; I’m getting bored with wanting you from afar, and contemplating making a run for my car. That would be the end of it, except that you stop at the foot of the stairs, and turn. You turn toward me, and even with your smooth white mask hiding those eyes I can tell you’re looking at me. You fix me with your hollow eyes and, one hand on the railing of the spiral staircase, and you run one hand down over your hip, setting your opened skirt swaying, bending forward slightly so that even from across the room I can see the outline of a thong under your skirt as the fabric tightens across your rounded ass.
That’s all it takes. I’m hard under my pegged Zorro pants, my chest heaving under the black shirt. As you disappear up the spiral staircase, I jump off the couch, not even noticing until I’m halfway across the room that my plastic sword has slipped from my belt. It’s sticking rakishly out of the couch cushions. I leave it and take the stairs two at a time.
It’s dark upstairs. There’s a line for the bathroom, all women, policewomen and witches and sexy orange pumpkins chatting as they wait their turn. You’re not in the line. There’s one door half-open to the side of the staircase. Beyond, it’s dark.
Glancing at a suspicious-looking lady cop, I step boldly into the foreign room.
It’s a tiny guest bedroom. There’s a candle flickering on the sill of a tiny window, and you’re stretched out on the bed, the high slits in your skirt swept aside to reveal your long legs. I close the door behind me and breathe hard for a moment, my cock throbbing in my pants. Now I have to figure out what to do — ravish you without a word, or reach for the mask? Half of me wants to turn and run. That’s when you sit up on the edge of the bed, and wrap your arms around me. Not around my shoulders, or my upper back. Around my waist. You pull me to you, witchy and enigmatic, your mouth closing on my belt buckle without even the politeness of an offered kiss.
My cheap Zorro belt is open in an instant. Your hands come around my front and you unzip my pants. My mouth is open in shock; I can’t believe this is happening. My cock comes out, so hard it’s hurting, and you tip up your mask just enough to reveal your perfect red mouth. I struggle to see if it’s familiar, but I only see it for an instant. After that, it’s around my cock, and my head is thrown back as I moan.
“Who are you?” I gasp, and you rightly ignore me, your mouth occupied with working up and down on my shaft. Your tongue presses my glans, swirling, your mouth settling hungrily on my cock until the head nuzzles the entrance to your throat. Your fingers, with their long black witchy nails, tickle my balls. Your other hand slides up my belly to my chest, and finds one nipple. You pinch it gently, teasing as your head bobs up and down on my cock.
My hands softly rest on your mask, now tipped halfway up to the top of your head. If you only looked up, I could see your lower face. But you don’t look up; you’re quite occupied with my cock, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Your hot mouth is working wonders on me; I feel like I’m going to come already, like I’m going to explode in your mouth. But you’ve got other ideas.
Panting, you ease your mouth off my cock, leaving trails of ruined pink lipstick down the shaft and a strand of thick spittle glistening in the candlelight. As you look up, you tug down your mask so again your face is obscured. Then you lean back, pressing your thighs together as you wriggle up onto the bed.
I’m on you in an instant, instinctively trying to kiss you and finding only smooth plastic. Instead I pull open the front of your dress and find you’re not wearing a bra over your ample curves. My mouth molds to your nipple and you arch your back and moan as I tongue it. Then I’m moving fast down your body, down to my knees, pulling you just over the edge of the bed so I can lift your legs and slide my hands under your dress. I pull your thong down your long, gorgeous legs, and I feel and smell the musk of your cunt soaking it. I sweep the ineffectual strands of your slit-opened dress out of the way, and as you spread your legs wide I bury my face between them.
Your moan comes even louder than mine, as my tongue finds your clit and recognizes your taste. That makes me lick you deeper, suckling on your clit, slipping my tongue down between your lips to feel your cunt flowing uncontrollably into my mouth. You’re strong, tangy, overpowering. I drink deeper and work my way back up to your clit, making you gasp as I remember just how to focus on your clit. You shout “Jesus!” so loud the ghosts and French maids in the hallway must be able to hear you. But I don’t stop, and you just lift your ass off the bed and grab my head, pushing me hard between your legs. I tongue harder, hungry, and you come, thrashing and writhing on the bed until your dress is halfway off, your body undulating crazily as you beg me to fuck you.
You’re still coming, your body jerking with the last spasms of your climax, as I mount you and enter you with a cock still slick from spit and lipstick. From the instant my cock slides into you, I know it’s you, and the tightness embracing me makes me press deeper into you, until I feel your cervix nuzzling against my bare cock, just the way you like it. You grind up against me, your hands going around me and easing down my pants to grip my ass. You pull me deeper into you and arch your back as you come again, that familiar second orgasm, stronger than the first, following quickly on penetration.
Your muscles lose control and you pull me onto you so hard I have to struggle even to be able to keep fucking you. But I do, and as I fuck you harder you shudder and rock back and forth, lifting your hips to meet my thrusts. Your whisper tickles my ear: “Come inside me. Come for me, baby.” I fuck you until I let go, gasping into the thick curtain of your hair, your mask ripped free and long forgotten as I press my mouth to yours, our tongues meeting, you sucking my pleasure out of me as surely as if your mouth was on my cock. As I finish, you caress my head, slip off my mask, kiss me again. I roll to the side and you cuddle up against me, holding me tight, my soft cock sliding out of you and leaving a glistening string of come as you ease away from me.
You kiss me one last time and dance away from me, your witchy fingers finding your mask and neatly placing it on your face. You get off the bed and look back at me, your eyes once again hollow behind the mask, your fear evident even in the shadows. You’ve done a risky thing, seducing me like this, and now I can tell you’re about to flee. I reach out for you, taking your arm, but you slip out of my grasp and step away. You blow me a kiss, straighten your dress, and vanish into the flickering candlelight, leaving your panties behind.
The door closes loudly behind you, and I look at it as if I can see through it, see you receding into the hallway and down the spiral stairs. Clutching my mask in my hand, I get off the bed, zip up my pants, and follow you.
You’re waiting at the bottom of the spiral stairs, looking back at me, mask in your hand. I take mine off, too, as I come toward you and we head toward the door.