All Hallow's Eve: the Game

(Author's note: the following story is an entry into the 2013 Literotica Halloween Contest. In this story, I use angled brackets (< >) to indicate the use of texting between characters. I hope you enjoy this story, and I encourage you place your vote at the end, as well as a comment if you wish. And please read all the other contest entries; there's a lot of good talent on Literotica.)

* * * *

Of all the amenities Sylvie liked about Hunt Tower, the laundry facilities were not one of them. The twelve-story building was old and rustic, a former hotel from the 1920s which had just a decade before been revived and converted into apartments. The rent was a tad on the steep side, but Sylvie liked her floorplan, not to mention the cafe and hair salon on the ground floor.

The laundry room was like something she would expect to see in a horror movie. Walls of dark brick, lined with rumbling machines that made the air itself vibrate when they were on. The floor was dotted periodically with metal drains colored a deep, dirty red by age. The dankness of the room was further enhanced by the weak lighting that flickered constantly as if threatening to turn off.

Maybe I can do it tomorrow

, she thought as she stood in the doorway, laundry basket in arm. Then she sighed in resignation.

No, I have that appointment at nine-thirty, then work, and then I'll have to get ready for the party, and that's gonna take a couple hours . . . .

"Fuck," she muttered aloud. "Just do it, Syl."

Glancing to the note taped to the door --

"Management is not responsible for lost or stolen articles. Please stay with your laundry until it is finished."

-- Sylvie headed to the nearest of the washers, finding it empty. Of the ten of them, only one other was currently in use. Sylvie wondered who the person was who had started it.

Oh, God, I hope it's not some sick, demented perv . . . .

The lid opened with a creak, making the invisible hairs on her neck stand up. The room felt cold and clammy, and she wished she had put on a pair of sweats over the snug-fitting boy shorts she wore. The last thing she wanted was to have Mr. Creepy come in and ogle her butt through a thin layer of cotton.

The spray of water inside the washer was loud, making Sylvie grimace. She poured in the detergent quickly, waited for it to get agitated before adding her clothes.

An eerie feeling entered her mind. She felt suddenly that she was not alone.

Eyes wide and apprehensive, she looked first to the doorway of the laundry room, then about the cavernous chamber itself. At the far end was another door, marked "Maintenance," which was ever so slightly cracked open.

Sylvie swallowed nervously.

That wasn't open like that before . . . was it?

Above the uproarious sound of swirling, rushing water from the machine, she could hear her own heartbeat, its pace increasing with every second. Her eyes were affixed to the maintenance door, wondering who could be standing in the darkness beyond, watching her.

"Oh, hey."

"Ah!" Sylvie jumped at the sound of the voice, whirling about to face the young man who entered. He stopped, startled by her reaction.

"You okay?" he asked, a mixture of amusement and worry on his face.

"Jesus Christ!" she cried, then laughed nervously, slapping a hand to her chest. "I

hate

this fucking room."

He nodded in sudden understanding. "Gives you the creeps, huh? Sorry if I scared you."

Sylvie breathed out, calming herself. Embarrassment coursed through her, and she gave her fellow tenant an apologetic look as he headed to the other occupied washer. "No, I'm sorry. Yeah, this place freaks me out sometimes. It's like a set from

Saw

."

He cocked his head with a smile. "Oh, you like a good horror movie?"

She chuckled dryly. "No," she responded, giving herself a moment to look him over.

He's kind'a cute

, she thought.

A little skinny, and he needs a shave, but he's cute.

He set a fast-food bag on the washer beside his and approached, hand held out in invitation. "I'm Ron."

She smiled amiably. "Sylvie. Most people call me Syl."

"Nice to meet ya," he said casually, then indicated the burger joint bag. "Um, you hungry?"

She eyed the bag, momentarily feeling a rumble of hunger in her belly. As usual, she'd had a long day, and hadn't remembered to eat.

Ron read her expression with a knowing smile. He reached for the bag. "Let's see . . . I got a junior bacon cheeseburger, a green chile cheeseburger, stuffed jalapenos, fries and onion rings."

Sylvie looked sheepish. "You always eat that much?" she quipped. "Anyway, I couldn't."

"I have the metabolism of a ferret. But I always end up ordering too much," Ron told her, taking out one of the paper-wrapped sandwiches. He waved it back and forth playfully before her face. "Come on, you know you want it."

Sylvie rolled her eyes, but snatched the burger from his hand with a grin. "Thanks."

He returned the smile. "No problem."

* * * *

". . . so, what are your plans for Halloween?" Ron asked as they waited for their clothes to dry.

Sylvie shrugged. Their conversation had roamed through each of their lives during the previous hour. Sylvie was impressed with Ron's laid-back demeanor, and envied the fact that he worked as a freelance computer programmer, setting his own hours. She had decided she liked him; he was intelligent and casual, easy to talk to, and most importantly, he did not stare at her like he was waiting for the opportunity to ask her back to his apartment.

More than that, he was at least a touch insightful as he listened to her, making the comment more than once that she needed to relax. He seemed to recognize that Sylvie's life was dominated by her work.

"Well, there's nothing going on tonight, but I've got a party to go to tomorrow."

Ron sighed for effect. "Today's Halloween, yet nobody's doing anything."

She laughed. "It's Thursday. Nobody parties on Thursday."

"I do," he said.

Sylvie rolled her eyes. "Sure,

you

do, Mr. I-Work-From-Home. The rest of us have real jobs."

"Hmm. 'Real job.' I seem to remember what that was like."

"Bragger."

"Anyway, so . . . not doing anything tonight?" he prompted.

She gave him a sly, but also apologetic, look. "Just work for tomorrow," she said. "Besides, it's already seven-thirty."

He frowned. "Damn. Is it? My, how time flies."

"But, like I said, I'm going to a party tomorrow. Typical get drunk and flirt costume shindig. You could come too . . . if you wanted."

Ron scrunched up his face. "I'm not real big on those kinds of parties anymore," he said. "I get self-conscious."

"So what

do

you do for fun, then?"

He leaned against one of the washers, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I play games."

"What, like video games?" she asked dryly.

He smiled slowly. "More like . . . mind games, I guess. Or, personal adventure games."

She frowned in confusion. "What does that mean?"

He pulled a phone from his pocket. "Ever play truth or dare?"

He brow furrowed even more. "On the phone?"

He nodded. "My friends and I came up with it a few years ago. You pick one person to be the ringleader, and he sends everyone else texts with instructions on what to do. If you take the dare, you have to send back a picture as proof that you did it. Then you go on to the next dare. They get harder as you go along. But it's all done by text, so you can't argue with the ringleader. You either do the dare, or you don't."

"Sounds . . . interesting," she said cagily.

"It's actually a lot of fun," Ron insisted. "You wouldn't believe what people are willing to do for the sake of a little naughty excitement."

She arched a thin brow. "'Naughty' excitement?"

He shrugged disarmingly. "It always starts off pretty tame, but I've noticed that things almost always seem to progress toward the naughty side."

"I'm sure."

He gave her a challenging look. "Want to try?"

A moment's nervousness ran through Sylvie. "I don't know . . . 'sides, I've got a lot of work to do."

"You know what they say, all work and no play makes Sylvie a dull girl."

She suddenly wondered as to Ron's motives. It would not be the first time she met a guy who seemed nice on the surface but was in reality a raging pervert beneath the surface.

Ron could recognize her reticence. "Look, this isn't a cheap ploy to get you to send me dirty pictures or anything. It's just a fun game. Most of the time it's pretty blah stuff. Like finding a statue and mimicking it's pose. That kind of thing."

She relaxed somewhat. "Well, that would count me out anyway. I wouldn't want to leave the building."

"No problem," Ron replied quickly. "Plenty of things to do around here."

Sylvie chuckled. "Like what? Ring-and-run someone's door?"

Ron smiled mischievously. "Yeah, things like that. Innocent fun."

She eyed him with playful wariness. "Uh huh. Innocent. Sure."

"Tell you what," he said. "Just so you don't think I'm doing all this just to get your number, I'll give you mine. That way, the ball's in your court, and I won't get your number unless you text or call me. Deal?"

Sylvie pursed her lips in thought. "Okay, fine," she said, taking up her phone. "But I'm not promising anything."

Ron grinned. "That would spoil the fun."

* * * *

By nine o'clock, Sylvie could swear she heard the sizzle in her head that indicated her brain was frying. She hated the redundant and ridiculous amounts of paperwork her job demanded. In the age of the Internet, it was an annoying fact that the company she worked for still insisted on hard copies of all documentation.

She leaned back from the small dining room table in her apartment to crack her back. The series of pops she felt through her spine helped relieve some of the tension that had crept up to the back of her skull, but not much. She was aware that if stayed where she was, she was in danger of developing a migraine.

I need a break

, she told herself, slipping her feet to the floor. She headed to the fridge, took out a bottle of cherry-flavored spring water. The cold liquid felt soothing as she gulped it down.

She wandered through the apartment, flipped on the television, stared at what passed for quality programming on one of the prime time stations. Her mind was still on the paperwork she had to finish, however. It would take perhaps another hour to get it all done.

She went back to the table, checked the time on her phone. 9:14. She sighed.

Another wasted night

, she thought.

But then another thought occurred to her. She remembered Ron and his little 'game.'

What would be the harm?

she wondered.

If he turns into a perv, I can just block his number.

She tapped on Ron's number, then the messenger icon. For a moment, her finger hovered, shaking slightly. Sylvie could not be certain if the sudden pulse of adrenalin flowing through her body was due to excitement or apprehension.

Fuck it.

<So, how does this game work?> she typed.

For several seconds, she stared at the screen, then decided she was being foolish for expecting an immediate answer. She set the phone down, went to the fridge for another drink of spring water.

The phone buzzed. The mechanical rattle as it vibrated on the wooden tabletop startled her. She nearly dropped the bottle.

Admonishing herself for her nerves, she put the bottle back and approached the phone.

<Oh, so you're curious.>

Sylvie's face contorted in a scowl. <Maybe. What's the deal?>

Nearly a minute passed before Ron answered. Sylvie stared alternately at the work before her and the television as she waited. <I'll give you ten dares. If you take them all, you win.>

She smirked. <What do I win?> she typed.

A few seconds later, the reply came back. <We'll work something out.>

Oh, I'm sure

, she thought sarcastically as her thumbs padded back and forth on the touch screen. <What's the first dare? Remember, I'm not gonna leave the building.>

The reply took almost a minute before it came back. <Go out on your balcony. Stand with your back against the city and make a funny face. Don't forget to take a picture.>

Sylvie chuckled inwardly.

Okay. Easy enough,

she thought, and went to the balcony door. Still clad in the tight boy shorts and torso-hugging top, she pulled open the door. It was a windy, chilly night, especially at nine floors above the ground. Beyond her metal-railed balcony, the city glowed with thousands of amber lights.

Funny face, huh? Okay . . . .

She turned her back to the city, leaning against the railing, and activated the camera feature on the phone. She crossed her eyes, sucked in her cheeks and made fish lips. Click.

Oh, God, that's a terrible picture

, she lamented in amusement upon looking at the image her phone had captured.

Oh my God, you can see my nipples!

Nevertheless, she sent it along to Ron's phone as she returned inside.

And again she waited.

The phone buzzed almost a minute later. <I think I'll make that picture my home screen wallpaper.>

Sylvie's eyes smoldered. <Don't you dare.>

He sent back a raspberry smiley.

She switched her phone from vibrate to a Halloween-themed chime and set it on the table while she searched for a snack. As she munched on a piece of celery, the ominous sound of maniacal laughter issued from her phone, indicating a new text message.

Okay, let's see what the next dare is . . . .

<How daring do you want to get?>

Sylvie stared at the message.

That's the real question, isn't it?

She breathed in and out slowly, considering what her limits would be. She barely knew Ron, and as much as she admitted there was a good amount of attraction based on their initial meeting, Sylvie had to remind herself that he was still, essentially, a stranger.

<I'm not sending you any naked pics,> she sent back.

The reply was quick. <Fair enough. But how about lingerie?>

Sylvie considered the request. A devious smile crossed her face. <Maybe.>

Again, another quick response. Ron was obviously eager to play the game out. <Pose in just a bra and panties.>

Sylvie nibbled her lip, laughing softly.

I've got just the thing

, she thought as she headed into her bedroom. The bathroom attached included a walk-in closet, packed to alarming levels with the majority of her clothing. She set the phone on the edge of the faux marble sink, then stripped out of her shirt and shorts.

For a moment, she looked herself over in the mirror. She got enough attention from men to understand she was considered more than marginally attractive. Her skin was far from perfect, with random large brown freckles here and there that Sylvie dreaded would one day somehow morph into moles. She managed to maintain a build proportionate to her height, and while she thought her breasts looked a bit lopsided, they were firm and round.

The one feature of her physiognomy she truly did not like lay between her thighs. No matter how she tried to tuck them in, the inner labia of her vagina protruded a good half inch past her fleshy vulva when she was not aroused and even more when she was. At least one former boyfriend had commented on her "beef curtains," and the observation had prompted her to consider cosmetic surgery.

She diverted her attention from her nudity and stepped into the closet. All of her underthings had been grouped into a series of small wicker baskets stacked upon the white wire shelves. With a self-congratulatory chuckle, she selected a pair of thick, white cotton panties that completely covered her from waistline to the tops of her thighs, and a truly hideous padded bra with dented underwires which, for whatever reason, she had not yet donated to the trash.

Fully encased in the matronly undergarments, she took up the phone and carefully took another picture. Before sending it to Ron, she added a message. <What do you think? Sexy enough for ya?>

She chuckled as she awaited the reply.

A minute passed, then another. Consternation colored her features as she wondered if either Ron had missed the sarcasm of her little joke, or . . . .

The phone erupted with dramatic laughter once more.

<Wow. Nice. Think my mother has the same set.>

Sylvie shuddered with laughter. <Well, you didn't specify what kind of lingerie you wanted,> she typed, then hit send before thinking about it. Instantly, it dawned upon her that her return message had opened the door for a more risque request.

Shit

, she thought.

Sure enough, another message was received amid peal of Vincent Price-quality cackling.

<So show me something really sexy.>

Another moment of hesitation gave Sylvie pause.

I can stop this any time I want

, she told herself.

Hey, it's not like I've told this guy I wanna go to bed with him or anything. If I don't like where this is going, I'll stop. Simple as that.

But for now . . . .

Again, a devilish smile stretched Sylvie's lips. She could not deny how intrigued and excited she was by Ron's "ringleader" game. From somewhere deep inside came the impetus to not only see for herself how far she would go, but also to see if she could surprise or even shock Ron with her audacity.

The unflattering undergarments fell to the floor, and Sylvie picked through a different wicker basket for racier fare. She considered several possibilities before deciding upon a pair of lacy red mesh panties and matching bra. Her heart began pumping at a more accelerated pace as she admired herself in the mirror. Through the almost transparent fabric of the panties, the small trimmed growth of her pubic hair could just be discerned.

She took up the phone, carefully snapped another picture. Mischief glowing in her eyes, she sent the image along with another message. <Better?>

A minute passed. Then another. Sylvie stared, perturbed, at the phone as she wandered through her apartment.

Damn it

, she thought.

If he's jacking off to that pic, I'm ending this now.

The phone laughed as she was retrieving another stalk of celery from the refrigerator. Sylvie sauntered to the phone where it lay upon the table and tapped the screen. She read the new message with a smile of chagrin.

<Do you mind if I say you are definitely the sexiest woman I've ever seen?>

Thumbs danced with practiced ease across the onscreen keyboard. <Now you're just bullshitting me 'cause you hope I'll take it off for you.>

She changed the setting back to vibrate and set the phone down, watching it as she chewed her snack. The device glowed and buzzed a few seconds later. Sylvie snatched it up.

<Hope, yes. But I figure you won't. You aren't that kind of woman.>

Sylvie considered the screen through narrowed eyes. Ron's words read almost like a challenge. <What kind of woman do you think I am?>

Ron's response was swift. <The kind that likes to tease.>

Tap-tap-tap. <Is that a bad thing?>

<Not always.>

Sylvie smiled as if by accomplishment. She decided to wait until she had finished her snack before sending another message. In a detached but affected way, she was impressed that Ron did not text her in the meantime.

<So what's the next dare?> she finally asked.

The response came as she stood before the television, staring at the screen without absorbing the content being flashed at her. Upon hearing the rumbling of the phone upon the wooden surface of the table, Sylvie jumped to see the message.

<Put on a skirt and blouse and go down to the cafe in the lobby. Hurry. It closes at ten.>