Winter would be around soon, but inside the salon the regular visitors and their invited guests ran around half-naked.
Halloween has a way of bringing the extreme out in people, just like Mardi Gras and other masked functions. The club owner knew how to make the place nice and warm to allow his guests a safe evening of uninhibited exhibition. He also went out of his way to decorate the place as deliciously horrifying as one might expect for the occasion. There were candles and torches, skeletons and ghosts.
There also were free drinks to quickly create a pleasant buzz.
***
A girl, naked.
The woman hadn't planned on celebrating Halloween; her mind wasn't ready for any festivities. Dismissing the girl had upset her more than she would admit to.
To be honest, she'd prefer to be elsewhere, but she had people to entertain. She hardly ever mixed business with visits to the club, but tonight she made an exception.
Her invitees loved to dress up; it was why they were good customers of hers. And to be sure, their dressing up wasn't just for Halloween. They were full blown transvestites, using her custom-made corsets to convince the world of their feminine curves.
One of them was huge, standing six feet four in daring heels. He also weighed about 250 pounds, only part of it bones and muscles.
The woman dubbed him Ms. Fatty.
He made her feel like an engineer when she took up the challenge to fit him with a corset the first time. Designing a good corset wasn't unlike designing Golden Gate Bridge, she thought - you only weren't allowed to show the suspension cables.
Seeing him in drag always made her feel proud.
As so many fat people, he had a certain nimbleness about him - a weird, light-footed elegance whenever he decided to become a she and lace himself into a corset.
Her other guest was tall too, but skinny.
The only reason he wanted a corset was because of his waist-fetish. He'd even had two lower ribs removed to enhance the wasp-like effect. The woman mused that he could be quite a convincing mature woman if he'd forget about wanting a twenty-inch waist.
She'd dubbed him Ms. Skinny.
Tonight, Ms. Fatty wore a gold-embroidered green silk corset over a long, straight skirt that stretched over her ample behind. At every step a black sheer nylon clad leg peeped out from a high split. It ended in a five inch heeled, size 12 golden pump.
Her wig was a piled-up heap of platinum, her make up a riot of colors on a chalky-white base. A clever construction inside the corset's top gave her quite a convincing cleavage.
Green satin opera gloves reached past her elbows.
No one would mistake him for a woman, but his appearance was so theatrically entertaining that it pushed him way past petty doubts of gender.
When he wasn't in drag, he was the CEO of an international corporation you might know from the financial pages.
Ms. Skinny had opted for the Roaring Twenties in a glittering flapper dress that did justice to her very long and quite feminine white-nylon clad legs.
She wore a short auburn wig. It disappeared for the most part into a pearly-gray cloche that hooded her eyes.
Walking with excellent nonchalance on her strappy vintage heels, she wielded a slim cigarette holder and twirled a silver boa.
No one would imagine there was a well-known concert pianist inside the outfit, world-famous for his Beethoven interpretations.
When the woman arrived with her guests, the Halloween party was already under way. She saw the usual contingent of part-time hookers. It made her smile. For the vanilla bunch, Halloween always seemed a safe excuse to dress like the sluts they secretly were, she supposed.
One of the first hookers she saw was the blond Australian.
She sported hardly more than fishnet stockings, a garter belt and a silk red top that fought a losing battle with her spilling tits.
"Hi, darling," the woman said, smiling. "Such a pity you decided not to dress up for Halloween this year."
There were Count Dracula's too, of course, and nuns hardly wearing more than black bikini's, black stockings, a cross and their head gear.
The woman introduced her guests to some people she knew, amused by their confused reactions. The club was a female-only place and although they all instantly saw that Ms. Fatty and Ms. Skinny weren't female, they were at a loss about what to do.
This was Halloween, wasn't it, and they were all in a kind of drag. The woman didn't help by explaining that her "lady friends" had come dressed as transvestites. Only one or two of her few friends here grinned at that. But then again, they had come dressed like men.
The evening went smoothly.
The woman relaxed after noting how easily the crowd accepted her guests. They got more and more popular when they proved to be great dancers as well as fashion lovers and passionate gossips.
Ms. Skinny was the center of high-pitched praise while playing and singing Noel Coward songs. The woman smiled when she watched her climb the stairs with two very young girls, both scantily dressed as kinky Goth elves.
She withdrew to the bar, sipping champagne and chatting with friends. They of course all wanted to know who the two might be, but she just told them they were "friends and business associates" - which they were, in a sense.
It must have been an hour later when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
She looked around, straight into the girl's eyes - or rather, the girl's dark eyebrows as she was looking down.
She was naked; there wasn't a stitch on her body.
In both hands, she clasped the black stem of a leather riding crop, its handle snugly hidden between her tits. The flap pointed down, touching the top of her slit.
"Hello honey," the woman said, turning on her stool towards her. "You wear a remarkable costume this year.
"Who're you supposed to be?"
People stepped back to make room for the naked girl. They murmured, being too surprised to say much, for the moment.
The girl blushed. Dark blotches spread on her chest and throat. Then she sank down on her knees, addressing the woman's feet.
"I am my Master's slave," she said, her voice slightly slurred. She stretched her hands forward to present the crop resting on her open palms. "I beg my Master to tell you I need to be punished."
The woman picked up the crop and swished it through the air.
"Your master," she said, swishing it again. Then her eyes returned to the girl.
"Look up," she went on, sweetening the command with her soft tone. "I need to see your eyes." The girl obeyed. Her eyes were dry, but shining.
"Why would you need to be punished, cunt?" the woman asked. She sounded still friendly, but the words sent a murmur through the small crowd that had formed around them. The girl's eyes went down again. She must be confused whom to address, the crop or her.
"You may talk to me," the woman said.
"Because... ," the girl started, but the woman slapped the crop's flap hard on the bar.
"Your eyes, slut! I don't see them," she exclaimed with a steely ring to her voice. The girl jumped. Her eyes flew back up.
"Because I'm a cheater and a traitor, Madam. And a coward.
"May I call you Madam at least?"
The woman ignored her question.
"Who did you betray, coward?" she asked. The girl's eyelashes fluttered and she swallowed a non-existent lump.
"You, Madam, I disobeyed you," she said.
The woman sat up straighter. She gathered her thoughts, tapping the palm of her hand with the crop's flap.
"Kneel up, slut," she then said, softly again. "Please, push your tits out." The girl obeyed. Her chest gleamed with oil; her nipples rose in a circle of goose bumps.
The flap hit the oblong areola of the left breast, making the girl groan. But, after a few long seconds, she pushed her chest out again.
"T-thank you, Master," she said.
The woman hit the right nipple, but when she prepared to strike again, a hand closed around her arm. Two women dressed like hookers, pulled at her, wrestling the crop away. Two others, one looking like Dracula, grabbed the naked girl and dragged her away.
The girl's voice cried out "No!" but they took her up the stairs.
***
A girl, robbed.
"My god!" the Italian girl exclaimed. "What's
that
?"
She walked in from the bathroom of the posh hotel's penthouse suite. She wore a white robe, and a towel around her wet hair. The naked girl on the bed pressed a black riding crop against her chest. Its handle nudged her breasts, the soft flap at the tip touched her bare and shaven pussy.
She looked up, her gaze steady.
"Do you love me?" she asked.
The girl in the bathrobe widened her eyes at the sudden question.
"Of course, I do, darling," she said. "I love you with all my heart, you know that."
"Will you punish me then?" asked the naked girl, presenting the crop.
The other girl froze. Then she reached out to grab the whip, but the girl on the bed yanked it away from her hands.
"First promise," she said.
"Where did you get that god-awful thing?" the Italian girl cried out.
"I found it," the naked girl lied. "Will you please punish me with it? I deserve it."
"I will do nothing of the sort!" the girl in the robe hissed. "Dio mio, what has gotten into you, lately? Give me the damn thing!"
The naked girl held it tightly in both hands, pressing it against her body. "Only if you use it to whip me," she insisted.
"Give me!"
"Promise first."
The girl in the bathrobe sat down heavily on the bed, sighing.
"Why on earth would I want to punish you, mia cara? I love you, I don't want to hurt you."
She reached out to touch the girl, who shrugged her off.
"I need to be punished. I betrayed you. I fucked around on you. You must punish me for that."
The naked girl's voice had the toneless quality of a mantra-praying monk. When she started repeating the words for a third time, the Italian girl grabbed the black crop and wrestled it from her hands. She jumped off the bed and ran to a window, pushing it open and throwing the whip out into the dark, bottomless void.
As she turned her eyes back to the bed, she saw tears running down her lover's cheeks.
"You don't love me," the girl sobbed. "You don't love me at all."
***
A woman, blind.
