Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Masquerade Ball
   by Nysidra
   Occult Fantasy (MF, MFM)
   Summary: Newly single, Monica finds an invitation to a dance in the
midst of her old lover's belongings.  She leaves the event a changed woman,
unable to return to the life she left behind.
   <->
   Monica found the invitation in the back of his drawer under the clothes
he left behind.  "Club Incognito: Mask and Costume required.  Invitation
Only."
   The date was a mere two weeks away.  She spent each day agonizing over
her decision.  Should she send her loathsome ex the card, ask him about it?
   Crazier notions arose as she went shopping that weekend.  Perhaps she
should go?  The perfect mask stared at her from the shop window across the
street.  Lime green, yellow, gorgeous beading, and bright feathers.  It was
a near perfect match for a gown she already owned.  Mermaid cut, lime and
lemon coloring.
   She entered the shop and bought the mask.  Second thoughts happened
while she was trying on shoes.
   Go?  Really?
   This wasn't her invitation to use.
   She settled on a pair of sandy brown pumps.
   Friday evening she took the first tentative steps toward the ominous
warehouse building.  She felt the pulse of music, but everything else was
quiet.  A breeze rustled a metal object down the parking lot.  None of the
buildings windows had illumination.  She could barely discern the sounds of
passing cars, the hum of electric lights.
   Standing over her open trunk, Monica made a few final touches to her
gown, adding in the cover of a pale yellow boa.
   Her legs stiffened with each step closer to the building.  The sneer of
her ex kept her moving: prude, frigid, close-minded.  Monica wasn't those
things.  She wasn't always.  Adulthood meant being responsible, taking
accountability for her actions.  She thought she was the counter-balance to
his childishness.
   Their two-year relationship turned her into someone they both hated.  He
was gone, but she had to live with herself.  She could be spontaneous.
   She knocked on the door.  Over the window, one-way film held the same
ornate emblem as on the invitation.
   'I'll count to 15, then I'm out.'
   The covered panel slid back.  A coal black mask covered a dark skinned
face with dark brown lips.  Monica held up the invitation.  The window shut
and locks turned.  As the door opened, the sound of music rose, but not by
much.
   'Nevermore,' Monica thought as the man in the black mask was revealed.
Black on black suit, elaborate raven's mask.  He extended his hand.
   "Um, hi." She held out her hand.  "I'm--"
   "Card." His tone didn't allow for conversation.
   Monica handed the invitation over.
   He passed a light over the front and back.  Satisfied, The Raven stepped
back and allowed her entry.
   Monica took a few steps in and waited.  She needed to know what kind of
party this was.  Perhaps less ...  incognito.
   The Raven shoo'ed her on before entering a side room.
   Beneath her feet a wine red carpet runner with an arabesque cream
pattern made it clear what direction to take.  Alone, Monica took small
steps down the bare, dark hallway.  Whatever mistakes she had gotten
herself into, the only thing she could do now was see it through.
   Monica mouthed the words to 'She Will Be Loved' as she approached the
heavy violet curtain at the end of her path.  She pushed it aside and
entered a dream.
   This was a masquerade ball unlike any she had ever seen.  The dance
floor was active, costumed strangers milled about.  The mirrored ball
overhead showered the room in bright points of light.  Fog machines covered
the floor with an eerie rolling mist.  Fantastical creatures circled the
room.  Many in attendance chose elaborate costumes depicting big cats,
dragons, spell casters, and demonic creatures.  Rarer were the fairies,
princesses, and knights, but there were a few.
   A more thorough scan of the room found one angel, maybe the fallen
variety.  The over-riding theme appeared to favor the macabre.  She counted
two zombies and another six that fell under carnival style attractions. 
They danced, mingled, laughed in the shadow and light through the mist.
   Monica wasn't sure if this was a nightmare, but she'd be hard pressed to
keep calling it a dream.  What kind of people skewed more toward the dark
and horrific?  Was it planned?  By whom, if everyone was anonymous?
   Monica wanted to call someone, to cling to a familiar voice or face.
   No.  She would embark on this adventure.  Alone, in a ballroom full of
unnerving strangers.
   A Stag entered the room.  Monica stepped aside to make way for him.  His
brown boots had brown fur, skin-tight black leather pants, and a woodland
cloak.  His mask was a wood carving with green moss.  The Stag turned to
her and nodded.  The great antlers moved smoothly.
   Monica returned the greeting.  For that moment, she felt as if she had
encountered him in the woods.  She was seriously under prepared for this
event.  People must have come from all over the world to be here.  How else
could this place, this event take place in secret?  This was indeed a
wonderland, but not one described in any children's book.
   Wood stairs led up to an indoor balcony with even more costumed guests
looking down on the dancers.
   She hadn't moved more than a few feet from the entrance.  There was so
much to see, take in.  She could not stop marveling at the depth of
creativity, the beauty, the artistry, and yes, the pervasive sense of
darkness and decadence.
   A garnet wig.  Red square coat with gold accents.  Black buttons, black
and gold lace at the neck and wrists.  Black gloves and pants.  Those boots
had a heel?
   The mask gave away nothing.  It covered his entire face.  Porcelain
white with large red lips painted a sinister smile.  Massive arched dark
red brows with glittery gold spirals.  A speck of bright light passed over
revealing bright eyes behind the mask.
   This person epitomized the masquerade, right out of the opulence of the
imperial century.  The luxurious royal offered a gloved hand and she took
it.
   They approached the alcove under the balcony.  Three long tables held
food and drink.
   "The feathers are a nice touch." Masculine voice.
   "Thank you."
   He leaned over to speak directly in her ear.  "Tropical colors
compliment you." With his hand at the small of her back, he guided her to
an empty table.
   "Thank you." Her costume would not win any awards, but she adored it.
   "Are you here with anyone?"
   Monica looked at him.  She was allowed to bring a guest?  Who would she
pick?  No one.  Any friend worth their name would drag Monica away before
she ever knocked on the door.
   "No." She liked what she could see of his eyes.
   "Who brought you here?" He signaled one of the servers over - dressed
uniformly in long, hooded gray tunics and pants.  He made a 'V' with his
fingers then motioned between them.
   The hooded server dipped slightly then walked away.
   "Myself." Monica tapped her thigh.  Did she stand out?  Of course,
hugging the wall like a climbing ivy probably attracted attention.  Was the
invitation valid?  It must have been.
   "How did you find out about my event?"
   "Your ...  event?" Rocks gained in weight and size in her belly.  Dread
settled over her.  Found out within an hour.  "What is this place?"
   "A haven for sinners."
   A haven, not a heaven.
   "Seriously?" Maybe he was having a joke at her expense.  She had no real
way of knowing if he planned this party.
   The server returned with two drinks, dark blue cups with straws.  Handy,
given the masks.
   "Where do you think this is?" He asked.
   Fair question.  The worse they could do is throw her out.  She had the
invitation after all.  She hadn't stolen it.  Maybe her ex reported it
lost. The UV light though.  What if it had a unique number?  Worry burrowed
deep as she sipped her drink.
   "You do know where you are, yes?  Why we gather here?" The mirth left
his eyes.  He stood a little taller, his body rigid.
   "No." She felt as if she'd been called to answer to her parents or a
supervisor.
   "Where did you get your invitation?" His words had an edge to them now.
The mask seemed to snarl, though nothing moved.
   "I found it.  It was with my ex's old things."
   He grabbed her by the arm and drug her along.  "You need to leave."
   She snatched her arm back.  "I am not a child!  My apologies for
crashing your off season Halloween ball.  Fuck, you could just tell me to
leave.  No need to be an asshole about it."
   "This is no place for you, innocent one.  I will show you out."
   Innocent one?  Really?  Was it that obvious even with a mask?
   "Aw.  I've injured you.  You wish to be more?"
   "Wishing doesn't make it so." Monica held out her hand.  "I apologize
for crashing your lovely event.  Please help me find the exit."
   He took her hand and led her, but not to the exit.  Once they reached
the dance floor he put his arm around her waist and pulled her into a
dance. Monica didn't know the song, but the crooning lyrics were easy to
follow.  Droplets.  Echoes of water.  Piano.
   'As you drift into a gauzy realm of dreams, may you take comfort in the
thought that you are safe.  For it only takes a fraction of a second, for
all of this to change.'
   The song played like a dark lullaby.  Monica didn't complain.  She
didn't want to go home, but she did want an answer to her question.
   "All that you see, all that you do must remain a secret.  If you stay,
you will keep this oath.  The doors lock in an hour.  They will not open
until morning."
   "I want to stay." Monica said before sound reasoning could intercede. 
She came here for a reason, to let go of responsibility and stuffiness. 
"But ...  what is this place?"
   "A time and place separate and distinct.  Freedom and, if you seek it, a
spiritual awakening."
   That wasn't much of an answer.  Monica looked around.  The gray server
walked up to him and gave him two powered squares.  He handed her one.
   Caramel, with something a bit pungent, spicy.  Not bad, but unexpected.
   "If you can recognize someone who doesn't belong, why the costumes, the
masks?"
   A sleek cat woman passed by.  Black lyrca body suit, a soft, swishy
tail, and the perfect mask.  The gloves were fingerless, giving her
silver-painted nails a proper display.  She rubbed her body along the body
of the skeletal Witch Doctor.  Dark red stained the other woman's pale,
veined skin.
   "The masks drop after the doors lock."
   That caramel taffy had been rather good.  Available by request only? 
She didn't see it on any of the trays.
   A man dressed like a troll or imp licked the inner thigh of a burlesque
woman with black hair.  There must have been salt on her thigh because he
took a shot from between her breasts.
   The cheers were odd sounding, a little too 'in character.'
   "What is he supposed to be?" She pointed to the bar.
   "Bargyle." His answer was so matter-of-fact.
   She would have to look that up later.
   "We know how to have fun."
   "Good.  That's what I'm looking for."
   Masks were disconcerting because they never changed.  Frozen
expressions, disabling many of the usual cues.  All she could see was his
eyes, grayish and brilliant.
   "I must perform my duties as a host." He signaled the pirate over.
   Black tricone, red bandana, eye patch, face painted as a skull.  No.  As
he drew closer, it was a skull mask with a hinged jaw.  He had dark stains
on his clothes, his hands rough.  This man really looked like a pirate who
put on a skull mask, eye patch, and bandana for a party.
   "General." He greeted the host.
   "This bird of paradise has flown beyond the veil and desires to stay. 
Watch after her?"
   "Captain Mossgrave at your service.  Perhaps you'll let me hoist you on
my shoulders later?"
   Monica giggled at the overt flirtation.  The jovial and rough roll of
his voice took away the harsh violence hinted at by his costume.
   The Captain asked the General something.  "Has she ...?" But Monica
didn't catch the rest.
   The General nodded and left her with the pirate.
   Sex.  That's what happened when the doors closed.  Adults.  Invitation
only.  Clandestine.  Add her ex, and it led to a bunch of adults meeting
for a naughty night.
   She could do this.  She faltered a bit and clung to 'Mossgrave.' He got
her upright and held her while they moved along the dance floor.
   His clothes smelled like brine and old seaweed, but clean.  Neat effect.
   Effect?  Alcohol didn't affect her like this.
   "What's with the caramel?" She adjusted her grip around Mossgrave's
waist.
   "A bit of a party favor.  Hand made.  Good, isn't it?"
   "Delicious.  Pardon me." Monica dodged partiers in search of a restroom.
   Pause.  Did a scorpion's tail just move?  Must be a mechanical trick.
   She found the restroom and retreated into a stall.  Here the spell was
broken by faded graffiti on the door.  The walls had been painted and
floors scrubbed, but the crevices still had that 'don't ask; don't tell'
brown grime.  Good enough for a squat.
   The toilet paper slicked as she wiped.  Horny?  Her?  Which one
triggered this?
   She flushed.  Fixed her clothing.  Washed her hands.
   Both, if she was honest.  The place.  Fear and trepidation did something
to her.  Adrenaline became arousal.
   She looked at herself through the mask.  She felt good, looked amazing.
   Commotion through the speakers.  Monica left the restroom and looked
around.  No one seemed to be panicking.  It was just a sound effect.
   "The time has come to shut the door on the world you left behind," a
booming male voice purred through the speakers.  "Shed the false morality.
Forget the mores of your culture.  This is no place for piety.  Now is the
time." The sound effect of a creak hinge followed by the thunderous boom of
a heavy door closing.  "Ride the wave.  Spread your minds.  Engage.  The
only way out is through.  There is no antidote!"
   The music became a heavy dubstep beat.  Lights went wild.
   "There's no antidote," a robotic voice intoned within the song.
   Guests crowded the dance floor and Monica along with them.  A party. 
She could do this.  She danced with the nearest person and worked the room,
siding up to skeletons, witches, demons, spiders, physical oddities, orcs,
and elves.  Dubstep must have been the post door shut theme.  Masks seemed
to take on expressions.  Costumes became more real.
   What?  No.  That must be a prosthetic.  No way that woman really has a
pregnant belly.
   The fog thickened and strobe lights made each movement more bizarre.
   Monica found her way to a wall.  She was near the stairs.  In the lights
and mist the party looked like hell - a throng of creatures gyrating.  A
woman screamed, record scratch of a scream queen.  The atmosphere weighed
heavy.  The little girl within had the initial stirrings of genuine fear.
She climbed the stairs.
   She kept her mask on though others had dropped theirs.  She wanted to
take her dress off.  It was too tight, too hot, almost like it irritated
her skin.
   "Please, yes," a soft voice, perhaps male.
   "Again." Definitely a woman.
   Soft moans.  "Please."
   Monica looked around the corner.  A male with pastel fairy wings, bent
over.  Woman with a strap on eased further into him.
   See?  Sex.  Nothing weird about that.  They could have closed the door.
Monica did it for them and walked away with a flushed face.
   "There you are." The 'General' put his arm around her waist.  His mask
was off, but he'd painted his face, made up to match the mask.  Odd.  "What
did you see?"
   "A woman and a guy going at it."
   He pinned her to the wall, boxed her in with his arms.  "Would you like
to go at it?"
   Would she?!  But she didn't sleep with strangers at anonymous parties.
   "There's our bird of paradise!" Mossgrave sauntered over with a woman
dressed like a falcon.  "Look, I found a bird of prey."
   Soft magenta light fell across The General's face giving him a twisted,
deformed look for a flash.  From the dance floor, the crowd whistled and
hollered.  She missed what The General said to Captain Mossgrave.
   The Falcon removed Monica's mask and picked over it as if it were a rare
find.
   The General turned his attention back to her.  "You're trembling. 
Cold?"
   "No."
   "Afraid?"
   "I don't know.  No.  I'm not sure."
   Monica leaned back a moment before his lips touched hers, but not away
from him.  He grazed the swell of her bottom lip with his tongue.  The
contact sent sparks flying.
   There were actually sparks though, beyond the balcony railing in the
mist, bright pops of light like glitter ...  every second or so.  What was
that?  How did it match the beat of the song so well?
   His kiss arrested her attention.  She tasted wine, smelled his musky
cologne.  Her mouth opened wider.  The circle motion of his tongue took her
away, relaxed her trembling muscles.  Gooseflesh took place: heat, hyper
sensitive skin.  She wanted this stranger and his decadent delights.
   They switched places.  Air on her back as he unzipped her gown.  He
tugged on the left cup of her breast, exposing her nipple.  He rolled the
hard nub in his fingers, lightly pinching and pulling as they kissed. 
Another set of kisses at her back, on either side of her spine.  Those same
hands tugged on her dress, leaving her in under clothes.
   What of her modesty?  Self-respect?
   This was no place for that.
   Monica gave over to the invitation.  She reached down and felt The
General's erection, thick and ready.  She vaguely took note of adjusting
her arms so that her bra - and then her panties - could be removed.
   The music was harsher now.  A growl.  Crack.  Scream.  Whispers.  Were
those sounds from the speakers or ...?
   Teeth scraped her nipple.  Monica gasped, shuddered.  A tongue laved
between her legs.  A chorus of moans moved through the building like a
wave. Orgasm approached, but from where?
   Monica wriggled away, she needed room.  How had ...  who were these
people?  She struggled to catch her breath.  Her sanity was still some
place else.  She didn't recognize any of these people and why would she? 
The General peeled out of his pants.  A thick brown cock bobbed in the open
air.
   Monica went to her knees on the soft carpet.  Where was she?
   "Make room.  Spread your knees."
   There was a bed off to the right.  Bedroom.  She spread her knees and
leaned toward The General to took the weeping head of his cock into her
mouth.  Lips, tongue at her her swollen folds.
   The bed rocked, only a hand and foot visible from her position.  Monica
couldn't pay that much attention with her mouth full.
   Each sensation was so powerful, singular, synchronous.  She hit a
plateau and coasted along that plane.  Her body shuddered and muscles
tightened.  Her orgasm seemed to stretch into forever.  The General put a
hand at the nape of her neck and pressed his cock deeper.
   Cries of pain and pleasure reached their peak.  The tangle of bodies
shifted.
   She crawled up to look in his eyes.  Gray blue, light colored.  Her eyes
closed as an orgasmic aftershock had her trembling.
   He put his arms around her and pulled her down on his chest.  They lay
still while the party throbbed.  Sounds of all kinds - happy, angry, sad,
delicious.
   "Is this what hell sounds like?"
   "Gorgeous, isn't it?" said The General.
   "A haunting melody," Mossgrave said from just behind her.
   The Falcon was riding him.  Mossgrave sat in a chair looking down at
Monica.  The woman rubbed her clitoris, eyes closed, mouth agape as she
bounced on his cock, using him for her pleasure.
   Monica straddled The General, facing him.  She touched his face.  The
theatrical make up did not smudge.  He had a scar under his rib cage.  She
leaned down to kiss it, lick it, then his nipples.  When he was hard
enough, she mounted his cock.  He reached up to play with her breasts.
   "Join us.  Be in the moment.  Let us in." No one person said it.  The
words may as well have originated in her head.
   Let them in.  Monica spread her arms wide and imagined her heart and
soul following suit.  Her legs widened, taking him deeper into her body. 
Rough hands pushed her down onto The General's chest.
   She whimpered as a finger twisted at her anus.  One finger soon became
two.  Before long, she grunted as Mossgrave made her the meat of their
sandwich.  Damn, she felt full and tight, uncomfortable, but decadent.
   They barely moved, but she cried in both agony and ecstasy.  Soon she
was the one wriggling, fucking on both their cocks.
   The wave of lust receded long enough to get some water, realize her own
nakedness, and get a huge eyeful of the people around her.  She was dead
wrong about 'just sex.' More like pure decadence, hedonism, sinner's on
parade.
   A red head, strapped to a bench, a man cut lines into her back, and one
after another stepped up to scrape her blood into a vial.
   An older woman with an elaborate back tattoo lay splayed over the chair.
One man took her from the rear while another took her by mouth.  Monica
stood there, horrified and magnetized by the scene.
   Warm arms slipped around her waist.  She leaned back against the
strange, warm body, pulled the arms tighter around her.  He leaned down and
nibbled the side of her neck, down to her shoulder.
   Take that.  She could be adventurous, wild, open.  Her skin tingled,
throbbed as if the energy in the room soaked in her body.
   One of his hands slid down to circle her clitoris and spread her open.
She turned to kiss him and smiled.  Not that much of a stranger after all.
   The General and those storm cloud eyes all full of lightning and fury.
She angled her head back and kissed him.  Soon she was back into the
bedlam, her pussy, ass, and mouth open to any cock, tongue, or pussy that
came near.  Her nails raked over flesh.  She bit down on the flesh of
others, sucked and nibbled.
   In the back of her mind, Monica felt out of control, insane.  This was
truly hell.  It must have been hell, but why did she feel so good?  So
happy?  A constant buzz of euphoria with no end in sight.
   ***
   Monica rolled over in bed, attempted a roll.  She groaned and massaged
her aching thigh.  She must have pulled it ...  and every muscle in her
body.  She rubbed her eyes and shifted.  Waking went slow.  Even still, why
did her clock read half past noon?
   She opted for a bath over a shower and it was there that her memories
gathered.
   Invitation to a Ball.  She had met so many people - in the intimate way
- and didn't know their names.  Costumes.  Those came off, for the most
part.
   Prude?  Monica would never accept that jab without a belly full of
laughter.  The bath water turned cool before she snapped out of her daze.
   Most of the day followed in the same manner.  She zoned out while
reflecting on the night before and its glory, wonder, and pure euphoria.
   A few stretches and a couple pain killers had her feeling better by
evening.  Her clothes were in a pile just inside the door.  Keys lay on the
counter beside her purse.
   She drove home?  Monica had little memory of anything but passing out in
a tangle of bodies on a bed large as two kings.  Monica went to sleep
there, but woke here, in her home, car in the garage.
   She unlocked the car and looked inside.  "Ah." The seat had been pushed
back.  That, at least, was a relief.  She didn't drive.
   Monica felt as if the whole event had been a crazy dream.  Each day that
passed since that night made the lie easier to believe.  All save for those
moments, a few seconds where the film of reality wavered.  Shadows shifted,
whispered echoed from within, colors vibrated.  Then, without preamble,
reality snapped back.
   Monica answered her phone while typing up the survey report at work. 
"Hello?"
   "Monica, hey.  How have you been?" Her ex's voice.
   "Excellent.  Thanks for asking." She grinned from ear to ear for so many
reasons.  The best was how genuine her voice came through.  Before she
found that invitation she would feel a tug in the back of her heart,
wishing he missed her, wanted her, that they could make things right.
   "Listen, do you want to get together and talk this week?  I'd like to
come by.  I miss our talks."
   Arguments.  Her laughter was soundless.  She would have taken that
opening only to end up disappointed and depressed.  "No thanks."
   "Oh?  You got big plans?" Just the way he said it, the first hint of
derision.  She could imagine his half sneer.
   "Not so much, just better.  Have a good day." She giggled as she put the
phone on silent.
   A week after the event turned into two.  Another idyllic night wasn't
going to fall in her lap.  Monica went out, did a little bar surfing, but
every thing felt so dull, muted.
   "Can I get you a drink?"
   Monica didn't look at the man.  She was caught in an internal debate
about taking her pitiful ass home.  She would never find her way back to
that place.  Never as good as the first time.
   "Okay, you always look a little lost when you're here.  Thought I'd say
hello.  Have a good night."
   He was good looking.  Sharp dresser.  She had been going out in hopes of
something different and here it was.
   "Wait.  Please." She waved him over.  "I'll buy you the drink."
   He returned with a smile.  It was one of those quiet, confident grins.
He sat down beside her.
   Monica placed the order and gave him a closer look.  Just starting to
grow out of his baby face, handsome.
   "Anything you want to talk about?"
   Monica shook her head and took a swig of the fresh drink.  "I want not
to."
   "Well," he gave her a wink.  "If you're up for an adventure, I could get
your mind off your troubles."
   "That's a tall order.  I..." Monica grinned.  She didn't remember much,
but she recalled her promise of secrecy.  She could never talk about that
night.  She shook her head and went back to the drink.
   "I live not too far from here.  I have a room mate.  Grab some dinner,
free drinks, maybe some fun and games?"
   Monica said nothing.  She didn't want to say no, but saying yes was
asking for trouble, right?
   "Did you offer the drink with the goal of getting me back to your
place?"
   "Yes, I did."
   "Why?"
   He smiled.  "Every time I've seen you here, all I could think about," he
leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "was fucking you."
   Monica would have sputtered if she hadn't just swallowed.  "That's way
honest."
   "Then be honest with me.  Do you accept my invitation?"
   Another hard look.  Green hazel eyes, sparse brown facial hair.  Nothing
stood out, but maybe she was reading too much into it.  "Lead the way."
   It was his turn for the odd look.  His brows arched while she settled
the bill.  "Gareth."
   "Monica."
   Gareth was as good as his word, thus far.  A five minute drive later she
crossed the threshold into his house.  He did not mince words or waste
time. He pulled her in close and kissed her.  His lips brushed hers, then
tongue, his hands circled her ass, hugged her close to him.
   "This way." He led her to the bedroom and they peeled out of their
clothes.  When they joined on the bed his kiss was more urgent, his hand
cradled the back of her neck while the other gripped her hip.
   It all felt so easy, so natural.  When has she become this woman?  Her
thighs parted, legs wrapped around his waist.  She wanted him.  A long sigh
left as he penetrated her.  She gasped, eyes unfocused, her nails pressed
into his back.
   This was one of those moments, the precious few seconds when that
fateful night came back to her, the eerie atmosphere, the sounds, smells.
   "Fuck," Monica moaned as her hips rolled on his cock.
   "You're so wet.  You were horny, weren't you?"
   "Yes."
   He pushed one of her knees back and made longer thrusts.  "You're
gorgeous." He groaned before kissing her again.
   Monica gave in to the experience.  Was she really fucking this complete
stranger, Gareth?  Or was she fucking a memory?  Would either of them make
her come?
   Fucking hell.  Yes.  "Don't stop." Monica clung to him.  "Yes, harder."
Her pussy tightened and spasmed.  It was a good one.
   "Yeah?" He purred.
   "Oh, yeah."
   "Good.  I'm not far behind.  Want me to pull out?"
   "Don't have to."
   He chuckled.  "I like the sound of that."
   "Show me then.  Come inside me."
   He braced one hand under her hips, the other beside her head and rocked
his hips, working in short strokes until his own orgasm gripped him.
   Monica lay on her back staring at the ceiling while her pulse slowed and
sweat evaporated.  "That was awesome."
   Gareth finger-combed the hair from her face.  Each time he touched her,
a little rush fluttered in her belly.  A connection?  Maybe it was her
imagination, an over abundance of hope, but Monica was drawn to him,
physically tuned.  She'd felt it before, that night.
   His fingers strayed down to her pebbled nipples.  The fluttering
expanded.  "Yes," he said, "you were."
   "It occurred to me that I might be walking into a bad situation.  You
know, a serial killer or something."
   He chuckled.  "Truth be told, I'm no cherub."
   "Oh, do I need to sleep with one eye open tonight?"
   "You won't be doing much sleeping." He propped himself up to take her
breast into his mouth.
   Monica cradled him to her breast.  With the morning light casting some
light on him, she was better able to make out his lean, muscled frame.  He
took good care of himself, looking on the young side though.  Mid twenties?
His stubble was a bit more pronounced.
   Gareth sat back and smoothed his hands up and down her body.
   She looked around the room.  The door was open.
   "I thought you said you have a room mate?"
   "I do.  I'm sure he'll show up eventually."
   "Don't you have a signal or something?"
   "Yeah.  I'll put a note on the door if she's the shy type, but that
doesn't always work."
   Monica giggled.  "Guess I'm not the shy type to you?"
   "Oh no.  Not you." He waggled his brows.
   Monica laughed.  "So, shy ...  your room mate angling for a threesome?"
   "Always."
   "Even with his room mate?"
   "Especially."
   "Do you have some kind of no-touching rule?"
   "Between us?  Nope.  Not that he's said.  That bother you?"
   Monica thought about it.  "No.  I'm at a point in my life where things
like being bothered are more trouble than they are worth."
   "Nice.  Open your mouth." He crawled up her chest until his soft cock
was against her lips.
   With a soft moan, she sucked him deep while she still could.  He did a
little shiver and groan and pulled out.
   "Why'd you stop?"
   "Both of us should have a good morning." He crawled the opposite way
around and pulled her thighs apart.  Monica gasped and his hard cock
slipped back inside.  Gareth showed off his talented tongue - circling,
caressing, flicking.  Good morning was an understatement.  Excellent.
   Her back arched and legs turned to stone as she groaned around his cock.
Her orgasm on the way, she was better able to focus on giving him a proper
blow job.  He swelled and gave her a mouthful of his ejaculate.
   "Damn girl, that mouth of yours."
   "Mmm, yours too."
   They reoriented themselves and Gareth wrapped his body around her,
nuzzling into her neck.
   "You're still hard," she said.
   "Mmm hmm." His breath was heavy.  "Is that a problem?"
   "Goodness, no."
   Gareth took hold of her wrists and clamped them down above her head.  He
nibbled on the side of her neck.
   The front door?  Sounded like it opened and closed.  She froze, but
Gareth was placing himself at the entrance of her pussy.
   "I think I heard the door." His lips fastened to hers, but Monica pulled
away.  "Seriously."
   "Room mate.  Told you." His cock slipped past her slick folds into her
pussy.  He seemed more aggressive and needy than the night before.  He
rammed inside her with an insistent force.
   Monica matched him, thrusting and rolling her hips hard.  There was
nothing else in the world just now, just the feel of him entering her. 
Gareth grabbed her hips and angled her up for more leverage.  She never had
the luxury of being in this position, knowing all the spots that had been
neglected.
   "Fuck, her pussy feels so good."
   The man in the doorway chuckled.  "Don't I know it."
   <->
   Epilogue: It's not fair that there are more stories about the fear of
encountering demons, and not the joy of it.  There is much to enjoy, if you
let them in.
Written: April 2014
"My sexual interests are like my eating habits.  I'll try anything once,
twice, if you prepare it differently." -Bianca Lee
   Contact: nysidra at hot mail dot com
  
MasqueradeBall