All of the characters in this story are at least 21 years of age or older. Enjoy . . .
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"Here it is!"
I finally found my old Halloween costume, in a box in the attic marked 'Donations'. I'm not sure why it was in there, possibly to keep it hidden from visiting guests, especially the underage kind. It's a Catwoman outfit (go figure), one I had worn many years ago to an office costume party. At the time, I think I was pissed off at my husband for some stupid reason, and I wanted to get him back by wearing something wicked. This definitely qualified.
It's a one piece black body suit, with a plunging V in both the front and back. By plunging, I mean to the top of my ass crack in the back and to below my belly button in the front. The bottom half ends in a thong. Needless to say, underwear was out of the question, nor did I need pantyhose or stockings. My legs were still darkly tanned from the Florida sun, even in October, and were well-muscled from daily runs. Even my butt cheeks were well tanned. Since I always sunbathe topless or nude, there were no visible tan lines, anywhere, so even my extensive cleavage looked great.
To complete the outfit, I had knee-high black leather boots, black gloves, a mask that covered about half my face, and cat ears, of course. Management had rented a conference room at the local Marriott, and when I walked in the door, all the men seemed to stop in mid-sentence, collectively uttering a low "whoa". That alone satisfied my sick need for revenge. The women were shooting poisoned daggers of death from their eyes. It turned out to be a pretty wild night, and will make for a great story to tell.
In the meantime . . .
My husband and I were invited to a Halloween party at a neighbor's house. I've gotten pretty friendly with the local people, especially among the teens, taking them on hiking excursions in the mountains, attending high school football games and other school events. Our home has become an unofficial hangout, and the parents seem to be grateful to have their kids out of their hair for awhile. I even help out with the car-pooling and transportation to and from school functions, even though my husband and I have no children of our own.
This particular party we were to attend would be for the adults only and, as evil as I like to be sometimes, Catwoman would not be appropriate. The reason being the local folk are, for the most part, bible thumping Christians, and I suspected Catwoman would not be welcome. Wolfie was at the University of Tennessee Veterinary Medicine School in Knoxville all week, and he said he found something in a costume shop in town, and would bring it home this weekend. He's somewhat conservative, so I'm picturing Raggedy Ann and Andy.
I was close: Hansel and Gretel. When Wolfie tried his costume on, he reminded me of Chevy Chase in the movie European Vacation, when he did that Octoberfest scene. My husband looked like a 10 year old German boy from the 1700's with a bad case of gigantism. It was pretty comical, and I was not too concerned about other women hitting on him. Actually, I don't worry about that anyway, because he's so dense most of the time, he doesn't even know when women are hitting on him.
I suspect that, in general, men do not comprehend women's clothing sizes. Besides small, medium and large, we have numbers ranging from zero to 20, and even higher. Probably the only thing men do understand is bust size. If I tell a man I'm a 36D, he knows exactly what I'm talking about. If I tell him I wear a size 2, I might as well have spoken Martian, because he has no clue as to what that translates into. My husband is one of those men. I am 5'4" and 116 lbs, with a slim, athletic build. I can wear a size 0-2 dress and pants, or otherwise small bottoms and medium tops.
All my husband knows is I am small, so he buys small sizes for me, in everything. My costume was a small, which was fine, except for the top. It was a plain white peasant top, off the shoulder, intended to show a little cleavage. A bit risqué for a character from a kids' story, but it was from an adult costume store. The top was too small for my 36D's, and my titties were straining to burst forth from the lace up front. Boob flesh was flowing over the top, and there was massive cleavage showing. Because the front was held together with crisscrossing laces, I wouldn't be able to wear a bra. The skirt was short, as in mid thigh short, in a red and black plaid, all poofed out with built in layers of white lacy cotton. This outfit would not permit too much bending over at the waist; or the crossing of legs; or even sitting down for that matter.
At the last minute Wolfie had to go into the Park to help his ranger friend locate some lost hikers, but promised he'd return before we had to leave. I put my long blond hair in two pigtails hanging down on either side of my head, stuffed my braless boobs into the top of my costume, wrapped the little Catholic girl skirt around my waist, and finished with the cute white shoes and frilly socks. Instead of Gretel, I looked more like a child molester's favorite wet dream. Or better yet, a school girl fetish prostitute hired to tend bar at the local men's hunting lodge. Hans Christian Anderson must have rolled over in his grave.
As I suspected would happen, Wolfie called and said he was running late, and suggested I go to the party alone and he'd catch up later. Yeah right! The story of our lives. Well, I intended to have some fun; Wolfie was on his own. Now I was sorry I didn't go as Catwoman, but it was too late to change.
I had to stop and get gas at the local market. As I removed the gas cap, I lost my grip and it fell to the ground, rolling under the car. Just freakin great, I thought. I got down on my hands and knees, being careful not to mess up my costume. The stupid thing was barely out of my reach. All of a sudden, I heard a voice behind me.
"Uh, hi Miss Cat, can I help there?"
It was my neighbor's son, the one I run with on weekends. He and his girlfriend were staring at me, probably wondering why I'm on the ground, my white panty covered ass up in the air.
"Oh hi Jeremy, hi Chrissy. I dropped the gas cap and now I can't reach it. Could you get it for me?"
"Uh, sure thing."
