The office annual fancy dress party. The costumes this year are a little on the wild side, which should not come as a surprise when the agreed theme is "What if so and so were a fetish fiend?" Of course people were expected to replace "so and so" with the name of a famous character of their own choosing.
Suffering from a lack of imagination, I am dressed as a fetish-cowboy, wearing breeches (the ones with the bit covering the crotch missing) and so as not to be too brash and have my cock hanging out for all to see, I am also wearing a pair of skimpy latex underpants with a zip going from waistband to waistband. Above the waist I have on a chequered shirt, undone so my fishnet singlet is the only thing sort of covering my chest and belly. Of course I am wearing boots and a hat, after all I am a cowboy.
There are all sorts here. Cinderella in fishnet stockings and one boot, a roman legionnaire wearing a leather vest, skimpy skirt and sandals, a couple of female gangsters dressed in suit and tie and Adam and Eve in fishnet bodysuits; Eve with a leave in a critical place and Adam a black pouch covering his manhood.
We are sitting in a booth in the pub lounge that we booked for this event. Four of us are there; a nun in full regalia minus the bottom half of her habit and the bit covering her breasts, a police officer with an excessive number of restraining tools hanging off his skimpy uniform and then there's you, a fetish version of your job. That is to say, an office manager in a very short skirt, pantyhose, fuck-me-boots and a mesh blouse. Excessive makeup, of course, and leather gloves.
"Let's dance," you say and we walk on to the dancefloor. We have it pretty much for ourselves. The DJ is playing a slow number and few people are getting intimate yet.
"I'm horny," you whisper in my ear as we move slowly across the floor.
"My place or yours?" I ask and feel a tinge in my balls.
"Neither," you say. "Maybe after this but I want it here and now."
