Disclaimer: I have never been to a Lit party, so this is just my fantasy. Similarly, what happens to tigerjen is fiction. She challenged me to write this, and agreed to be a character, but it is my fiction only. It is not an attack on, nor a realistic depiction of her.
So here I was, at the Literotica Halloween Party. Not my usual scene, but I knew it was my best hope to meet tigerjen, the seductress from Connecticut who had become my muse, my siren, my nemesis all in one. At least, she had told me she would be here. The big question was how to know it was she, at a costume party. The only clue the feline vixen had given in her private message was “ look for my little striped kitty”.
In order to amuse and seduce her, I had invested $80 in a custom Anthony Hopkins mask. When I first met Jen online, her posts were decorated by a description of herself as “ Sir Tony’s slut”. That self-portrait had enticed me, with its mix of cheekiness and seductiveness. Was the “slut” tag an accurate picture, a tease, or wishful thinking? If the latter, perhaps I was just the guy for wish fulfillment.
The party had a surplus of vampires, executioners, fairy tale females, witches, whores, strippers, cops, nurses, and other stock erotica characters. A Little Bo Peep, complete with sheep, handed me a stiff drink. Normally I prefer bourbon, but the sting of the tequila was warm and restored my enthusiasm for the hunt. I grabbed a bottle of a shelf, knowing that a great white hunter always goes into the jungle well supplied.
Knowing that Jen shared my love of food, I circulated through the restaurant towards the buffet. A fine array of hot and cold foods were supplied, ranging from cold cuts to hot hors d’ouveres to roast beef. I set my sights on the fruit tray, specifically the peaches. If I knew jen, or, more particularly, if her poetry reflected her personality, she would need a peach before the nigh was done. Building on that hunch, I flagged down a passing Cable guy and requested a bottle of peach schnapps. When he returned, I set a little tigress trap on a table for two- one bottle, two glasses, and a fruit plate.
I watched as several prospects wandered past. Catwoman looked fine, simply divine, in black vinyl and spike heels, but the blonde hair peaking from beneath the hood shattered my hopes. A swirl of stripes soon dissolved into a black goddess in a leopard print- spots, not stripes. A fine catch, but not my prize tonight.
Then, trapped in a corner at a large table, being monopolized by a bore dressed as a gladiator, I spied a set of tiger ears. My eyes patrolled lower, taking in the whiskers, the face painted stripes, the delicate lips, the tiger print leotard pulled taut by full ripe breasts - cantaloupes, not peaches, but, oh well. My hopes improved as I spotted the almost empty liter of peach liqueur, on the table, and the remains of fruit on the cocktail saucer in front of the candidate.
I flagged down a passing waiter cleverly disguised as a chef, and, for a five dollar tip, he delivered my “ bait” bottle to the corner table. The tigress accepted the gift graciously, apparently asking where it came from, then making eye contact. She raised a shot glass in a salute, and downed the shooter. A moment later, she grabbed hold of a pause in the gladiator’s soliloquy stood up, and started weaving her way towards the ladies room. I noticed that her spectacular hips where shrouded by a sarong, in tiger print fabric. Then I spotted the temporary tattoo on her ankle, depicting a cartoon tiger. I knew she was my prize! Now the hunter just had to follow the scent.
As she went past, the tigress tried to catch Sir Tony’s eye, but I was distracted by the tattoo. Her scent however was enticing- a unique personal blend, no doubt, full of spices and jasmine, with a hint of peach or tangerine, and cinnamon. I muttered- “oh, Clarice, undercover again?” just loudly enough that only she heard. She giggled bewitchingly, and then growled softly, in her trademark tone. My prey was engaged in the ballet of the hunt, the dance of seduction. If I was truly Hannibal Lecter, it might even be a dance of death. I was about to ask whether she truly preferred peach schnapps to Chianti, when she disappeared down the short hallway leading to the “Ladies”. I discretely followed.
Like any good hunter, I had reviewed the killing ground already. No one had entered the washroom for several minutes, and three women had exited. If the size was equal to the Men’s, there were only three stalls. I knew women tended to primp in clumps in front of the mirror, but guessed that Jen was likely the only one in the room. If I was wrong, I’d do a drunken shuffle, sputter “ Hey, thisss izzzzn the men’s”, and leave.
