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The glass slipped out of the hand that was drying it and shattered on the formica floor.
“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” bawled Tres, “Fuck it backwards, fuck it sideways, fuck it into next week and then fuck it some more!” She headed for the entry way closet, where the vacuum cleaner lived.
“You gotta get lai-aid,” Nina chanted from the sofa without looking up from her magazine. Tres checked, Hoover in hand, and glared at her roommate.
“Don’t start with me, Nin, or I swear to God I’ll disembowel you with a salad fork.”
“You see? This is what I mean,” said Nina. “Abstinence makes the heart grow grumpy.” She folded her Newsweek and came to stand at the kitchen door, watching as Tres stooped to plug in the vacuum. “Seriously, T, when was the last time you had sex?”
“I don’t know; VJ Day.” Tres was slogging through a dissertation on “The Economic Recovery Occasioned by the Advent of the Second World War,” and references to the subject had a way of invading her quippage. She stood for a moment, poised over the “on” switch, and then: “A year anyway. Since Darren.”
“Well for Chrissake,” said Nina, who had nothing good to say about her Tres’ most recent long-term boyfriend, “so how long since you’ve had good sex?”
Tres turned on the vacuum and began sucking up the shards of glass. Her knee-jerk reaction had always been to defend Darren, the grad-student-cum-teaching-assistant whom she had, until the previous November, dated since the fall of her junior year. But now, as the remains of the glass tinkled in the plastic tube, she found she couldn’t summon the energy. He had, she supposed, been her first real love, but if she were absolutely honest with herself, the bloom had begun to fade at least a year before they had actually split. He was intelligent, but pompous; courteous, but pleased with himself for his courtesy, and, although she didn’t know for sure, she suspected Nina was right: the sex had been ordinary, not to say by-the-numbers.
Darren was attractive, in a loose-limbed gangly sort of way, and when he was discussing some point of history—his specialty had been Revolutionary France and the Napoleonic period—his green eyes blazed, and his face seemed almost handsome. But although he took inordinate pride in his intellect, he took less than none in his personal appearance. Convinced that she found his thin limbs and long face as unattractive as he did himself, he would only make love in the dark. Then he was almost painfully gentle with her. “I want to cherish you.” had been a refrain with him. At the time she’d thought it sweet and sensitive. As time passed however, the phrase had taken on the cadence of a bleat, as if she’d been sexually involved with a more than usually intelligent sheep.
As she vacuumed, she continued to consider Nina’s question. How long had it been since she’d had really good sex? Had she ever? Pre-Darren there had been several men, well, ok, four. Perhaps the best had been the first, her co-editor on her high school newspaper: Benjamin, short, wiry and whimsical. Sex with Ben had been fun, in a goofy kind of way. They hadn’t been in love, but they’d been easy with each other, and since both were determined to discard virginity before they got to college, they’d decided to experiment. They’d set up weekend “study sessions,” sometimes at their homes, if their parents were out, occasionally at some suburban motel. Once alone, they tried everything they could think of, with mixed results. Intercourse: initially quite painful; eventually pleasant and companionable. Oral sex, receiving: yes indeed! Oral sex, giving: upside—fun to give pleasure, and hear efforts appreciated; downside—peculiar taste and potential soreness of mouth and jaw. Anal sex: freaking ouch! Mutual masturbation: always fun. Sex in public: kind of thrilling, kind of freaky. Being tied up: scary and exciting. Tying him up: same, with added small sadistic thrill—Tres worried about that one a bit.
When they’d run out of inspiration, they had poured over some of the less skeavy porn magazines. Neither of them had a thing for feet. Tres enjoyed wearing lingerie, but not nearly as much as Ben liked seeing her in it. He’d adored spanking her, and, to her surprise, she’d enjoyed being spanked more than spanking him. Dirty talk had given them some trouble. The notion of it excited both of them, but they couldn’t seem to pull it off. In retrospect, Tres suspected it had been a lack of the appropriate vocabulary. Ben’s best effort—”Suck on my manhood, you hot Momma”—had them both laughing so hard that he couldn’t maintain an erection, and her ribs ached too much for anything much more erotic than a quick finish with her vibrator. Their one attempt at roleplaying—a hooker/john scenario—exposed Ben as the least convincing actor since Elizabeth Berkeley in Showgirls or Keanu Reeves in, well, pretty much anything.
Post Ben, Tres had had a drunken one-nighter with an pendik escort improbably well-endowed utility infielder on the Junior Varsity squad. That had been really unpleasant. He’d been so proud of his equipment, and so disinclined to do anything more original than hammering away at her with it, that she’d sworn off dating for six months. She’d tried a brief affair with a professor, but guilt over his repeated adultery made his company depressing and the sex only sporadically successful. Looking back over that dismal few months, Tres felt that what the poor man had really needed was either therapy and a forgiving wife, or a genuine scarlet woman, a real amoral home wrecker. She had never seen herself that way, and even if she had, given the potential pay off, she’d have been disinclined to summon up either the inclination or the energy.
It wasn’t that Tres didn’t have a pretty good opinion of herself, both mentally and physically. In Ivy-league doctoral program was not geared to the intellectual shrinking violet. And, she liked what she saw when she looked in the mirror. She was neither tall nor particularly short, around 5’5″, with long legs, a short, trim waist, and what she thought of as “proportional” breasts, which is to say ample enough to give her some curves, particularly when combined with what Ben used to call “a nice plump rump”, but not so big as to make her look either freakish, or surgically enhanced. She occasionally envied Nina her tea-cup tits, which looked equally perky with or without a bra, but just as often, she took some half-acknowledged pleasure from the looks she could get at the local hangouts with a couple of undone buttons, or a clingy sweater.
But back to the question at hand: how long had it been since she had had really joyous, toe-curling, scream-out-loud sex? She turned off the vacuum.
“Ah shit, Nin,” she sighed, and the thought hit her hard, harder than she had anticipated, “I don’t know that I’ve ever had good sex. I mean, mostly it’s like pizza, right? Even if it’s bad, it’s good on some level, isn’t it?”
Nina stared at her for a full minute before replying. “Roomie,” she said, finally, “that may be the saddest question I’ve ever heard asked. Get your coat. We’re going to drink too much, and then we’re going to figure something out…”
A couple hours later, both women were slightly drunk, and Tres had misplaced her volume switch.
“CASUAL SEX AT A…?” Nina shushed her quickly, and both women looked around at the booths in the almost deserted pizza joint. The few remaining patrons were apparently too drunk either to hear Tres’ outburst, or to think it worthy of much notice if they did hear. Tres continued more quietly, but with no less outrage. “What in the hell makes you think that a one-night-stand is, in any way, a good use of my not-exactly-limitless fucking time?”
Divided between her intellect, which told her to reason with her roommate, and her third mojito, which was encouraging her to drag Tres out onto Old Campus and smack her a couple of times for being such a hellacious prude, Nina tried the retort conciliatory: “I know it sounds a little crazy…”
“Crazy?” interrupted Tres, who was drunker than Nina had realized, “I think ‘crazy’ is understating things a bit. How about humiliating? What does degrading do for you? Not to mention fuckin’ LIFE THREATENING…”
“Tres, would you shut up!” Nina counted to five slowly then: “Like I said…”
“And why would I ever want to fuck some stranger at a costume party?” muttered Tres. She was quieter now, as if the enormity of the suggestion was—like the nature of the universe or the existence of God—just a little too much to contemplate.
“Couple of reasons:” replied Nina, trying to keep it together, “first of all, I happen to have an invitation to a very nice, upscale kind of costume party. Less chance of the clap than you might have picking up some drunken frat boy at Toad’s. Also, it’s gonna be Halloween: masks on, inhibitions off. And you’re gonna be in costume and mask too, so if anything goes wrong, nobody knows you.”
“How does nobody know me at the Yale…”
“Not here, Stupid! This is a party Mike got invited to up at Wesleyan. We’ve got something else planned—well, I’ve got something else planned, and it’s gonna blow his…Anyway, the idea is: you take the tickets, borrow my car, go find Conan the Barbarian, or Captain Jack Sparrow, or whoever, and let him fuck you silly. I’ve even got a costume you can wear if you like.”
“Nin,” Tres was getting tired, and the single syllable came out on a whine, “what’re you gonna wear, and how’m I supposed to fit into anything of yours anyway? My boobs’re bigger.”
“C’mon home, Roomie,” soothed Nina, putting an arm around the upright but unsteady Tres. “All will be revealed to you and your boobs in the fullness of time.”
It was now close to sun up, and, to Tres’ surprise—if maltepe escort she could summon any surprise through the haze of alcohol and exhaustion, the night still hadn’t ended. The two friends had staggered home sometime after 3:00 AM, and just as Tres was heading gratefully off to see if she could hop on board her gently spinning bed, Nina had one of those late night second winds, which, as far as Tres was concerned, made the woman so generally disliked by all right-thinking people.
Nina: “You gotta try in on while you’re drunk.”
Tres: “Why do I hafta do any…?”
Nina: “Cause you’ll just pussy out if I let you get sober, now go in your goddam room and put this on, and if you’re not out of there in twenty minutes, I’m fuckin’ comin’ in after you!”
And Nina had shoved a garment bag into Tres’ arms, opened the door to the smaller bedroom, and shoved her roommate inside.
Nina seriously considered crashing. In her condition, she probably could have slept through El Alamein, but then she realized that she had a meeting with her advisor in something like five hours. If she closed her eyes now, she’d be up and ready in time. Cursing herself, Nina, and the dozy shit behind the bar who mixed the drinks so damn strong, she switched on the overhead light, pulled the garment bag off the hanger, and stared at the Halloween costume her best friend wanted her to wear.
It looked like a cocktail dress: a stretch satin number in blood red with narrow shoulder straps, a scooped neck, and a low back. Even to Tres’ slightly glazed eyes, the thing looked good. And expensive. The skirt would likely hit her mid thigh. Tres frowned. Wasn’t that a bit high for a cocktail dress? She shrugged and began slipping out of her clothes. Didn’t matter anyway. Wasn’t like she was going to wear the fucking thing out in public or anything. She took off her bra. Couldn’t wear any of the bras she owned under that. Her white cotton panties stayed in place. No need to get totally naked just to try on a dress which probably wouldn’t fit her anyway, and… She slipped the dress over her head, adjusted the shoulder straps, and tugged down the skirt. The cool fabric felt wonderful against her overheated skin. She reached into the neckline and adjusted her breasts. Damn thing doesn’t leave much to the imagination, that’s for sure… She stepped in front of her full-length mirror.
She looked amazing. There really was no way she was wearing anything this revealing out in public, but wow! The fabric molded to her curves, supporting her breasts, while at the same time pushing them together to form a deep cleavage. Spandex, or some similar artificial ingredient, made the satin cling to the curves of her waist and belly, emphasizing the slimness of the one and the flatness of the other. The skirt hugged her hips and behind, and ended a few inches above the knee, making her legs seem longer than they actually were. She turned in a slow circle. Mistake. Her head wouldn’t stop turning. When it finally did, she cocked a hip and struck a model’s pose. She smiled at her reflection, then she frowned. Great dress, but what makes it a costume? She turned back to the bed.
Sheer red thigh-high stockings and a red garter belt, a wonderfully delicate pair of red lace, fingerless opera gloves, and a mask. The mask was a show stopper. It was made of soft but stiff leather—very little give to it. A domino, it covered half of the face, ending just below the eyes, with an inverted v cut out for the nose. It had a commedia del arte feel to it: a mask for an ingénue, or perhaps a soubrette; certainly for a beautiful young woman. The high, gently curved forehead, coquettishly arched brows, and large almond-shaped eye holes attested to that. Only two features would have prevented Cinderella from wearing it to the Ball: it was blood red—perhaps dyed to match the dress, although surely it was older than the dress could be, and it had two small sharp horns protruding from the forehead, perhaps two inches above the brows. Tres starred at it as she slipped on the hose, garter belt and gloves without thinking. Then, with a small excited tremor she could neither place nor understand running through her body, she reached for the mask and brought it to her face.
There was no visible padding, but the leather inside the mask felt soft and warm; unusually warm, as if a pair of soft hands caressed her face. The effect was made the more strange and pleasurable by a slight pressure at her temples, just beneath where she imagined the horns to be: as light as the touch of a lover massaging her brow. It fit her perfectly, as if hers had been the head for which it was crafted. Tres tied the strings at the back of her neck and turned back to the mirror intent upon surveying the full effect. She took a single step and cried out in surprise. She was wet. Her vagina was wet! What in the hell…? A small damp circle stained the kartal escort crotch of her panties. And her nipples were hard, tight, almost painful. How? Why? She hadn’t even been thinking about sex. Hell, she hadn’t thought about sex for the last…fifteen minutes?
She’d had sex on her mind all night, ever since she’d broken the glass and Nina had asked, what? When was the last time…? And then the bar; that idiotic suggestion that she should go to some fucking costume party, and just…just…find some hot guy and fuck him silly. She’d thought it a lousy idea at the time. Or she thought she’d thought it was a lousy idea. Her body and her mind had apparently disagreed on that subject. And her mind was coming around to the idea that her body had a point. All of a sudden she could think of nothing she wanted more in the world than…
“Roomie!” Nina’s shout jerked Tres’ head around to face the door. “You still alive? C’mon out. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” Then Nina’s voice lost its tease.
“I swear to God, Tres, if you’re fuckin’ asleep…”
“Nin, come here.” Tres’ own personal second wind had crept up on her without her noticing. She didn’t even feel particularly drunk anymore. She undid the garters on her stocking and slipped off her now soaked panties. “Look at me in this costume. Tell me what you think.” Tres’ voice had deepened. Her simple invitation for Nina to enter the room carried a hint of sensual promise. It had almost come out on a purr.
Nina pushed her roommate’s door open slowly. She’d donned her own costume while waiting for Tres to try on the devil outfit. Had anybody asked her why, Nina probably would have talked about making her friend feel more comfortable, or about showing her roommate how fun or even empowering wearing a sexy outfit could be. All true; but it was also true that Nina loved sex like an oenophile loves wine. She loved everything about sex: the act itself, the various rituals of seduction which preceded it, the literature and iconography which surrounded and celebrated it. She had planned an evening’s debauchery for Halloween night in celebration of her lover’s newly acquired lectureship, and she’d just slipped into the naughty schoolgirl costume with which she intended to surprise him at his new office. She had been having serious trouble waiting to show it off. Any excuse would have done, and the fact that she was notably pie-eyed made the decision to wear it that much easier.
The door opened slowly, and the two women stared at each other. Tres saw a petite minx with her dark hair pulled back in a pony tail. Nina had a white collared shirt tied above a flat tummy, and unbuttoned to reveal a white, lacy push-up bra exposing the tops of small, silky breasts. She wore a red plaid skirt, so short as to reveal a flash of white cotton panties at the slightest movement, above-the-knee white stockings, and black Mary Janes. She was the stuff of professorial dreams, or nightmares, but she was recognizably Nina, and she gaped at her friend, finding absolutely nothing to say.
Tres seemed to have disappeared into her costume. Gone were the quick, compact movements of the efficient graduate student. The woman with the long honey-blonde hair and the voluptuous curves moved with the languid grace of a practiced seductress. Each shift of her body seemed to offer up some part of herself for the temptation of an on-looker: the curve of a breast, the slope of a thigh, the thrust of a hip or buttock. Her eyes through the mask were hooded and languid, and her voice, when she spoke, was soft, low and inviting. “What’s the matter, Roomie?” the sexy she-devil breathed, “Cat got your tongue?”
“Holy shit, Tres,” rasped Nina, “Is that really you? You’ve gotta be the hottest, um…”
“Succubus,” Tres hissed, and then checked herself. Where had that word come from? What did it mean?
“What’s a succu…what was it?” Apparently Nina didn’t know the term either.
Tres sounded a little more like herself when she replied. “I don’t know. It just came into my head. It’s some kind of sex-demon, I think.” She stepped towards her roommate, stopped, and slowly spun a few feet from where Nina stood. “Anyhow, that’s exactly how this costume makes me feel. I could do anything,” she giggled, “or anybody with this on. How do I look?”
“You look amazing!” whispered Nina. “You sound drunk off your ass, but you look, I don’t know, almost edible.” And now it was Nina’s turn to wonder at her own choice of words.
“You look pretty tasty yourself, Roomie.” replied Tres, walking slowly towards the smaller woman. “Edible, huh? That’s a pretty big word for a slutty little schoolgirl like you.” She was close now, and Nina could feel Tres’ breath in her ear as she leaned in to whisper, “Do you know what it means?”
“Good enough to eat?” squeaked Nina.
“Right you are,” purred her friend, “But I’m the big girl, so I get to go first.” With that Tres laid the tip of her tongue at the angle of Nina’s jaw, and drew it slowly up her throat to trace the top of her ear.
Nina shuddered at the sensation, and her voice caught as she protested. “Tres, are you sure you want to…?
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