The soft patter of rain that began to pelt against the roof grabbed my attention, and I paused, setting my fiery-red lipstick back on the wooden vanity below me.
"Shit." I muttered to myself, disgruntled. The weather forecast hadn't called for rain earlier in the morning, so I'd decided on a costume with more involved makeup. I'd planned on arriving at the annual Crowley Halloween ball dressed as a sexy version of Harley Quinn, my favorite character. However, thanks to the rain, I was more likely to look like Quinn-just-dumped-by-The-Joker.
I sighed and pushed myself back from the vanity and settled onto my bed. I sunk slightly, into the memory-foam mattress, and began to picture the reactions I might possibly conjure up tonight-- if the rain could be staved off long enough for me to make a decent appearance, that was.
I'd hoped people would stare. Sure, some might wag their tongues in disapproval of my attire, but I was hoping it would mostly make for a lustful reaction. My mind wondered further, as I pictured men jacking off later that night to my ass in the tight dress; or to my ample cleavage. Or that they wouldn't even wait and would do it in the bathroom of the house they were guest in. To sweeten the deal, they would be married, and would fantasize about me, instead of their wives.
Soon my clit began to ache for relief as I pondered on these sinful thoughts. I slid my hand gingerly down my torso and stomach, finally reaching my sex, which I knew was wet before even traveling there. I bit my lip as I circled my clit with my forefinger, never quite touching it.
"Nnng." I let out an anticipatory moan, as I began to imagine said lascivious husbands pulling me into the bathroom with them, taking their fantasies a step further. They would growl into my neck as they pulled off my dress, or better, ripped it off, and throw me against the counter. Afterword I'd pull their faces into my pussy with my legs, where they would lap at my clit until I was howling for their cocks.
My fingers were working at my clit feverishly now. I debated, momentarily, at slipping some fingers inside myself, but I knew I wasn't going to last much longer. Not as I kept imagining being relentlessly plowed by sex-starved married men at a Halloween party at which his wife was also attending, and was probably standing just a few feet away.
"Ohhh!" I gasped loudly. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." I mewled as a surprisingly intense orgasm washed over me. My back arched pleasantly as my clit sent electric pleasure through my veins. Finally, after the last few, considerably less intense, spasms began to subside and my toes uncurled, I sat up and stretched. With the party only two hours away, and my desire to turn heads (both on the shoulders and between the legs), I decided that I probably needed to start getting ready.
I picked up the red lipstick and began to fill in the rest of my lips.
************
"You look ravishing, Araya." Mrs. Crowley clasped her hands over her mouth and tittered lightly before gesturing for me to enter the manor. Her flushed cheeks and giggly behavior indicated that she'd been sampling the punch long before the party started.
"Thank you, Margret." A loud clap of thunder resounded, lighting up the foyer with an an ominous white cast, and startled us both. "Luckily the rain held off long enough for me to get here." I added. She nodded, then traipsed off toward the kitchen, undoubtedly in search of more alcohol.
I gingerly meandered through the entrance and made my way to their living area, which was decorated to the brim with spider webs, candles, bats, ghosts, goblins and other various cliches. A shiver abruptly struck me and traveled down my spine, and the hairs on the nape of my neck stood erect. I bit my lip, sensing a change in the atmosphere, but when I glanced around, none of the other party-goers seemed to notice.
As I returned my gaze forward, I spotted a man a few feet away; a man who I was sure had not been there before. He adorned himself in a black suit with a black shirt and tie, a black masquerade mask with silver edges, and even a black cape. I snorted inwardly, unsure what he was actually supposed to be dressed as, yet something about the way he stared back at me was both enticing and frightening. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes and an almost evil, smirk across his cheeks. He looked as if he wanted to devour me, though I wasn't sure if the context was sexual or cannibalistic. The uncertainty of danger only piqued my interest. It was as if the very aura around him was pulling me in with a sensually dark 'come-hither' motion. My mind started to fog, and I wasn't sure who was in control of my thoughts anymore: him, or me.
As I was about to walk over and introduce myself, a hand semi-firmly gripped my shoulder.
"My, my, Araya. I don't know how you do it, but every year you manage to make your costume sexier than the last." I shook my head, feeling as if I'd come out of a daze, and pivoted to face Mr. Armstrong, another guest. My gaze averted back to the corner at which the mysterious man had been standing, only to find he was gone. I blinked rapidly, wondering if I'd imagined the whole thing.
"Well, Mr. Armstrong," I murmured, returning my attention to the man beside me. "The secret is less fabric." I winked while he chuckled. His eyes wandered my body approvingly, lingering at my breasts. The thrill of being openly gawked at began to awaken my arousal and I felt a familiar tingle paired with a sudden slipperiness under my dress.
"Well, I'll have to let my wife in on your little secret." He returned a wink and we were sent into bouts of laughter. His prude of a wife wouldn't be caught dead in twice the amount of fabric I was wearing. Anything less than a floor-length turtle neck with long sleeves was too adventurous for Mrs. Armstrong.
"That's unfortunate," I pouted impishly while gently placing a hand on his forearm. His posture noticeably stiffened and wore a tight smile. I felt sorry for him. I began to wonder when the last time his wife had actually made him cum.
"Yes, very unfortunate." He whispered, barely audibly. His face began to draw near to mine, as if he wanted to kiss me. Mr. Armstrong was older than I by about ten years or so, but he was still a handsome man. However, it was the thrill of such taboo, even disgraceful, behavior that sent jolts to my nether regions. It wasn't just knowing that men wanted to cheat with me that sent my excitement to new levels, but it was the act of cheating itself. It was a fetish that I'd discovered many years before, and one that many boyfriends seemed to appreciate. Unfortunately, it was because of this fetish that these relationships never lasted. It was a cruel irony that eventually lead to my decision to stay single-- and a home-wrecker.
"Darren!" A voice behind us cried sharply and we parted swiftly. His face flushed as he tried to stammer an excuse for our close proximity.
"Sh-she thought had something in her eye. She wanted me to see... if she did." The excuse was so cliche and frankly, lame, that I actually snorted, but then quickly covered my mouth, hoping she hadn't heard.
"I see. Well, I think it best if we join the rest of the party now." Diana Armstrong pursed her lips, looking as if she'd sucked a lemon. Maybe if she sucked a dick once in a while, her husband wouldn't feel the need to check my eyes, I mused.
As she stomped into the other room with an abashed husband at her heels, I sighed with irritation and fell back against one of the Crowley's plush couches.
I was hoping to have been the male center of attention, as I had in years past, but it seemed that everyone's wives were on guard this year.
"Still no date?" I lifted my head to see Mr. Sanders holding out a glass of champagne. I took it, with a smile, and motioned for him to sit next to me. My heart began to palpitate. He was definitely the most handsome of the husbands in the entire neighborhood, and even if I wasn't a willing home-wrecker I probably still would have vied for him.
His dark brown hair, tanned skin, and white toothy smile were easily swoon-worthy, but it was his legendary abdomen and rumored sizable penis that really made the ladies' knees weak-- and pussies wet. Most women at this gathering were envious of Mrs. Sanders; most except me. They envied what they couldn't have, but, in my opinion, I could have any of these men.
This year he was as handsome as ever, dressed as a 1920's mobster, complete with a suit (that was likely real, and not some cheap costume from the party store) black fedora, and fake Tommy-gun strapped to his back. He had me feverishly wrestling with my temptation.
