This is a culmination to the 'Mistaken Identity' stories. However it stands alone, as the earlier submissions have been reworked and make up the first half.
I refrain from calling it the conclusion, because as you will find, some stories are still to be told.
* * * * *
Every year, grown men and women in this town dress up in costumes and masks and gather to drink and dance and be someone else.
And every year, I attend, as Joe the Journo, Pete the Paparazzi, or some other media figure. Pretending to be what I really am, I am able to move about freely, taking photos, asking questions; all the time hoping to expose the town's business folk for what that really are.
Ingenious, don't you think.
But that's enough about me.
This year's party started out the same way. Then I saw her, and from that moment, only one story mattered.
One where the costume party would prove to be just the beginning.
Chapter 1
With both hands full on her way back from the bar, Sara the Slut is easy prey for the character blocking her path.
"Let me purge your sins, my child," urges the Padre, clamping his mouth on hers. One prolonged French kiss later, it is a breathless Padre who needs saving. Sara laughs at his predicament.
"Here, let me check," offers the Nurse, back from helping Houdini escape from his assistant. She takes a firm grip on his rising interest. "Now cough, Padre."
He does. And is pronounced alive.
That's how it is at this and every other year's Combined Charities Costume Party with Masks. The Nurse examines patients and gets away with it, because that's what nurses do. Dick the Detective threatens to body search everyone, except the Nun, even when behaviour becomes less and less....um, holy. Dracula bites stranger's necks, because that's what Dracula does. And Sara the Slut - well, you get the picture.
In her black lycra, heels and fishnet stockings, she greets everyone with her price list and 'worth-every-cent' smile.
"Lesbian: $50 a half hour; group: $200; Interracial: $50 an hour. Anything else I can't get at home is negotiable."
Mike the Miser isn't convinced. Toulouse-Lautrec rushes to her defense.
"You must be kidding. Quibbling over those prices? Look at those tits," he argues.
"But have you seen them?" counters Mike. "They mightn't be real."
"Well, what about her arse? What a great arse! And her legs...man."
"What would you know? You're just a mad little artist"-
"With an oversized dick!"
"And a case of the clap that ultimately kills you."
"Not before I make a whole lot of whores happy," he says, with a wink to Sara.
He needn't have bothered. Sara- quite the artist herself- knows all about the legend of Toulouse-Lautrec. And it's unlikely that this pretender will be able to measure up.
"So, can I do you?"
The voice interrupts her thoughts.
"Can you what?"
"What about it? Can I do a sketch of you?"
"Weren't all your models nude?"
"Of course?"
"And that's what you have in mind for me?"
"Of course!"
"I don't come cheap."
"And I'm not used to paying."
"I'm free!" It's that persistent Nurse.
"Looks like you missed your chance," says Lautrec to Sara.
"And you." "How do you figure that?"
"Well, I was thinking it should be me doing you. Now that would be an interesting twist to the tale."
"You paint?"
"Oh yeah."
"And she can come along?" he asks, pointing to the Nurse.
"If she's got 50 bucks. For each half hour."
Recollections of Sara's price list conjure images he has always considered priceless.
"It's a deal!" someone yells.
All three turn towards a leering Mike the Miser, who adds, "And I'd better get my money's worth."
_______________________________
Dracula is pissed. And pissed off. At the time of the night that should belong to him, Sara the Slut has forgotten he exists. Instead she is being way too nice to that miserly Mike. Buying him drinks and all.
Bet he's ripping her off. Well, fuck her! I'm off to see the Nurse.
Dracula rises from the bar and teeters towards the booth where the Nurse and Lautrec are saying farewell to a bunch dominated by Sherwood forest dwellers.
"You can't be leaving yet," he mumbles.
"Sorry, Drac," she says. "But I'm on morning shift."
"And I'm making sure she's fit to get there," smirks Lautrec. "But I'm sure these guys plan to kick on."
Dracula looks over the group. Maid Marion appears determined to see if Little John isn't so little. Not that Robin seems to mind. Will Scarlett's tights have caught his attention. Friar Tuck is right out of luck. But there is someone else.
Looks like it's the Nun- or none.
Minutes later, Dracula is too busy with the Nun to notice the quartet of Mike the Miser and Sara the Slut, and Toulouse-Lautrec and the Nurse leave arm in arm.
But they notice him. And the irony of Count Dracula's hand under a Nun's habit is not lost on them.
"Wish I had a camera," remarks Sara.
Magically, a bright flash captures the moment.
"See, tonight your wishes do come true!" calls Lautrec.
As they might for the shadowy character who has decided to follow them to her home.
________________________________
Dick the Detective is dirty. For the hour since the revelers entered the house, he has been hiding in the bushes hoping the phantom photographer will make an appearance. An hour he could have spent back at the party deciding who would get a ride in his police car. More than enough time for the jerk to turn up here, if he was going to.
He has passed the time applying his deductive skills to what has unfolded. And right now, from the lights and laughter, he knows they are all in the loft. Which he just might be able to see into if he stands on the garden gnome in the rose bed.
So he does.
In time to see Sara appear, now wearing a long paint-stained shirt tied at her waist, and apparently bugger all else. She gestures to the couch, onto which Toulouse-Lautrec unceremoniously flops.
"No,no, no," she admonishes. "Get them off, just like I would have had to."
All of a sudden, Toulouse-Lautrec isn't so cocky.
"Get on with it!"
"But I'm, well, uh, there's a bit happening down there."
"I'd be insulted if there wasn't," she replies. "Either you do it, or I will."
Which prompts him to quickly remove his shirt and, with a flourish, toss it onto the ceiling fan.
He has barely laid back on the couch when she orders, "Now the rest."
"No way. A man's gotta have some pride," he argues.
"Like you think that way when the roles are reversed."
Dick the Detective is impressed when she doesn't give Lautrec time to answer. But not nearly as much as when she bends over, her bare arse flashing as she takes the legs of Lautrec's pants and tries to drag them off him. They hold firm, and she climbs on the couch, straddling the wide- eyed victim before leaning forward to untie the waist sash on his costume.
Again the shirt rides up, and again Dick is flashed. He begins to wobble atop the gnome. Another tug, this time at the hips, and the pants move ever so slightly. And again. They move a little more. Like a slow strip. Too slow. Sara leans right over, and takes a determined grip on the pants at the waist. Dick leans right over, and the gnome squeezes out from under him.
As he is falling, the last thing he sees is a bright flash, and a huge hard-on spring free, almost slapping a startled Sara across the face. When he lands on the concrete gnome, his own erection is stunned by the agony.
Sara and Toulouse-Lautrec are speechless. She is staring at what's in front of her. And he is staring at the ceiling.
"All right then. But I don't measure up as an artist," he concedes.
In half an hour, Sara has created a minor masterpiece. Watching on, Mike the Miser and the Nurse are suitably impressed.
"Are you sure my honour is safe?" demands Toulouse-Lautrec.
"Just seeing to it," says Sara.
Amid some giggles, Sara adds his mask.
"All done," she exclaims.
"So who's next," asks Toulouse-Lautrec.
"I know!" suggests the Nurse. "What about this?"
In a flash, she had joined Lautrec on the couch. She hitches up her skirt and makes out she is riding him.
"Hang on," says Sara. "I'm the worker here. And I'm ready for a drink."
"In the spa?" asks Mike the Miser.
"You've got a spa? What are we doing here?" With that Lautrec tosses the nurse aside and is up again.
"It's down there," concedes Sara, pointing to the detached room. "Complete with bar. I'll be along in a minute."
By the time she rejoins them, they are already in the spa. Not surprisingly, clothes are strewn on the floor. At once, they descend on the food she has brought.
"Are you getting in here? Or do we have to come and get you?" Mike demands.
Still in her shirt, Sara joins them. In no time it is wet through. The material clings to her large breasts, doing nothing to hide them. She suspects her dark bush is also visible, and cares enough to stay below the turbulent water.
The Nurse wades over.
"What's up with the clothes?"
"It's just me being the real me," Sara responds.
"Well I like the other you better," says the Nurse, reaching for the last of the frankfurts. "So if she turns up, would you tell her we should put on a show for the guys?"
With that, she offers the frankfurt to Sara.
"No, you have it."
"We'll share," says the Nurse, suggestively taking it in her mouth. One half protrudes, which Sara accepts.
Someone, maybe both of them, slowly takes more of it into their mouth, which causes their lips to move closer and closer, and the meat to disappear.
It's enough to make a grown man grow some more.
The Nurse's arms wrap around Sara, before her hands disappear under the water. The men can only guess what's going on.
Finally the girls' lips meet- just a touch at first. Then the sausage reappears, wet and red, before disappearing again; heralding a fierce kiss that leaves the onlookers breathless.
Sara locks eyes with Mike the Miser, approaching behind the Nurse. He presses up close, before reaching out, and enclosing both women in his long arms. Sara can feel his hands sliding down the Nurse's arms, and is sure she knows where they are headed. She spreads her stance a little.
Suddenly the girls are pulled apart. And in disbelief, Sara watches Mike the Miser lead the Nurse away to the other side of the room. _______________________
Now alone with Toulouse-Lautrec, Sara knows he is going to make a move. Instead, he springs out of the spa, his cock bouncing right in front of her before he wanders over to the bar for two more drinks.
"Looks like something has him all worked up," Sara calls.
