PART I
A week, later, Friday, October 31st, at around 7:30 in the evening, and Tres had a lot on her mind. A little less than a week ago, her roommate and best friend had knelt before her on her bed begging for an orgasm which Tres had eventually supplied. That evening had been, at once terrifying, blissful, confusing, and something like forty seven other adjectives condensed into around an hour of the best sex she, an avowedly straight woman, had ever had in her life. A week later, and the word, or words, that came most readily to mind as she thought back on that night were "impossibly fucking inconvenient." She didn't have the time to worry about her sexual orientation just now. She had a fucking dissertation to finish. And she certainly didn't have time to wear an outfit which made her look like the Whore of fucking Babylon to a fucking Halloween party to which she hadn't been fucking invited in the fucking first place. All of which begged the following question: what the fuck was she doing in a borrowed car heading to the aforementioned fucking party wearing the aforementioned fucking outfit?
Tres wished she did drugs. At least then she'd have some rational explanation for her behavior.
She had come out of that bedroom naked except for a bathrobe—and how had that happened, by the way? She had no memory of removing dress, gloves, stockings or mask.—totally bewildered by what had just happened, but resolved that nothing like it was ever going to happen again. And it wasn't the sex either. The sex had been fine; great even, if she were honest with herself. Even though she hadn't come. No, it was the loss of control which had accompanied the donning of the mask: the rush of moisture to her pussy, the lascivious and predatory thoughts invading her psyche. She wanted sex, sure, but she wanted it on her terms, not as the result of some alcohol-induced bacchanalia.
And Nina didn't fucking help matters either. Of course casual and anonymous sex as a Halloween treat had been her idea to begin with, so it was probably inevitable that her roommate would wind up agreeing with the little voice in the back of Tres' head: the one which said: "You likened sex on your terms to bad pizza. Your little stint as a Succubus got you so worked up you almost came spontaneously. Why fight the obvious conclusion?"
So she was going to the party. Nina and the voice had had their wicked way with her, but she had managed to impose a couple of conditions. She was wearing the short, low-cut, red possible-cocktail dress with red, French-cut lace panties. The only other option underwear-wise was nothing at all, and she didn't have that kind of confidence. She was wearing the red lace opera gloves, the garter belt and the stockings, as well as a pair of strappy red heels, but not the mask. The strange, beautiful devil girl's domino sat on the passenger's seat regarding her impassively. She was also wearing a long khaki trench coat and a fedora sat on her lap; in essence a second costume. If she didn't feel up to the satanic slut look, she could always go with the more conventional film noir femme fatale.
Tres found the exit from Interstate 91 and followed directions to a private house a mile or so from the Wesleyan campus. The building and its grounds were impressive: a red brick Georgian mansion on several acres, beginning with landscaped gardens close to the house and fading into uncultivated woodland in a middle distance made obscure by the gathering evening fog. Tres parked her borrowed car, and sat for a moment arranging her thoughts. She had come to the first minor crisis of the evening: which costume? Her hair was down and carefully styled. The film noir hat would screw that up. Once on, that fedora really couldn't come off. On the other hand, the trench coat tempted her. It was stylish without being particularly revealing. Whereas the dress...her eyes caught movement in the headlights of an arriving car, and she slumped down in her seat. Well shit on rye toast! So much for choices.
Dr. Weidner, her thesis advisor, waddled towards the party dressed in an aviator's leather jacket, scarf, cap and goggles. He looked like a 1917 Luftwaffe version of Mr. Potato Head. Tres had no desire to encounter the man. He was eminent in his field; possessed of a brilliant historical mind. He was also a hard-drinking, cantankerous and probably gout-ridden 68, although he looked closer to 80. Outside of his field, he had the conversational skills of a traffic cone, and at all times the hygienic habits and appearance of a flatulent and overweight pug. If she were to stay at this party, she would have to wear the costume in which she was least likely to be recognized. She sat thinking of nothing much for a few minutes. She considered leaving. She reconsidered. Well fuck the world in general and Weidner in particular. She'd come this far, she was going inside, for a while at least. She reached for the lovely red mask, brought it to her face, and reached around the back of her head to tie the ribbons.
Again there was that warm feeling where the leather touched her skin; again the slight but pleasant pressure on her forehead just beneath the two short horns. Tres felt as if she'd just slipped into a hot bath. Her entire body relaxed as moisture began to gather between her legs. Her nipples tightened as her imagination began to conjure up dark and carnal images. She could almost feel her everyday persona dissolve like sugar in hot water. All the tensions, insecurities, small lacks and petty needs melted away and she was a Succubus again: confident, seductive, predatory. In the glow of the car's overhead light, she looked at her reflection in the rear view mirror, then she reached for her lipstick. She twisted the tube and watch the red, glossy stick emerge from its sheathe. As she brought the make up to her lips she imagined a man—it didn't matter who; some random victim: the young Vietnamese student who had sold her a cup of tea earlier that evening perhaps. She imagined him on his back on a bed watching her as she brought his hard cock to her lips and painted them with the precum she had coaxed from him. She thought of holding his eyes with hers as she ran her tongue slowly and lasciviously over her lips before taking his swollen cockhead between them and running them slowly down his shaft. In her mind she heard him moan and whimper... Without warning, a small orgasm exploded through her, and her body jerked slightly with the pleasure of it. The lipstick, which she had finished applying perhaps half a second before, flew from her hands and landed on the dashboard. Mechanically, she recovered it, closed the tube and put it aside before looking back into the mirror. No smear. No mess. Her lips looked red and full, wet and inviting. Without removing her trench coat, she got out of the car, and headed for the lights surrounding the house's front door.
She found a bell recessed to the right of a pair of massive white double doors, pressed it, and listened to the distant and sonorous chimes. Almost immediately the door on the right swung open, and a middle-aged man dressed in the livery—tailcoat and black trousers, stripped vest and white bow tie—of a Victorian butler stood before her.
"Good evening, Miss. May I see your invitation?" Tres found herself bemused by the casual gravitas of the man's behavior in conjunction with the slightly nasal Bronx-y sound of his voice. She handed over the card Nina had given her. The butler, if butler he was, nodded, and ushered her inside. "My name is Mr. Franconi, Miss. May I take your coat?"
"Thank you, Mr. Franconi." replied Tres formally. She found herself in a grand two story entryway with public rooms to her left and right, and a marble staircase curving up to a balustraded balcony above, off of which she imagined bedrooms and perhaps dens or studies. She felt the butler's hands at her shoulders, and she slipped out of the trench coat, feeling the cool air of the entryway play across the exposed flesh of her legs, back and chest. She turned and found Mr. Franconi examining her with an amused if slightly rueful smile. "I take it you approve, Mr. Franconi?" she asked archly.
"Have a nice evening, Miss." he said, and turned away to hang up her jacket.
Tres looked to her right. Three steps led down into a large brightly lit living room, beyond which was a paneled dining room containing a bar and buffet table. Perhaps twenty people, all in costume, sat and chatted, drank and flirted. The costumes ranged from the standard: a chubby, red-faced cowboy, a nervous-looking young priest, a tall, awkward princess, to the inventive: a slot machine tottering around on a pair of long, shapely fishnet-clad legs, and topped by a pretty face with a bob of bright purple hair, to the risqué: a vampire with a mesh shirt exposing a muscular chest, Wonder Woman in red, white, blue and gold one-piece with three-inch stilettos on her long red boots, a cheerleader in a tight varsity sweater and a short flared skirt. Guests ranged in age. A small woman dressed as Harry Potter looked like a young grad student, while a couple in khaki shirts and pith helmets were well past sixty. Most were in their thirties and forties: grad students and young professors, intelligent, pleasant, charming people, no doubt. Tres had been one of them herself. She had enjoyed parties very like this one: good food, pleasant music—coming from a live acoustic band in what looked like a small ballroom to her left—intelligent conversation. Tonight, however, she saw the whole thing differently. To Tres the grad student, these were her peers; to her succubus self, they were prey.
Perhaps it was Nina's original injunction to come to a costume party for anonymous sex. Perhaps it was the erotic impulses which suffused mind and body whenever she tied on her devilish domino, but as her gaze wandered between the costumed figures, she imagined guest after guest in her sexual thrall. She had entered the room now, making her way across it towards the bar in the dining room, and she felt eyes upon her, appraising, admiring. She nodded and smiled at a compact man dressed as Robin Hood, picturing him tied spread eagled to a bed tearing open his white peasant shirt as she impaled herself upon his swollen cock. A bottle blonde dressed in a black leather jacket and poodle skirt caught herself staring and turned quickly away. Tres imagined the woman on her knees servicing her sodden pussy. Her mind conjured an image of herself with her hands gripped in that dyed blonde hair as she ground her naked cunt against her squealing victim's pretty face. Even the elderly couple in jungle gear wasn't exempt from her voracious imagination. A short fantasy danced behind her eyes. In it, she danced seductively before the man, hypnotizing him with the promise of her body as her eyes sapped any will he had to resist. She then ordered him to bind his wife's hands and feet, so that the woman could watch appalled as her husband stripped himself naked and mounted his demonic mistress from behind, fucking her like the mindless animal he had become. As scenario after scenario played out in her mind, the corners of her mouth turned up in a lascivious half smile. She had almost reached the three steps leading into the dining room, when she noticed for the second time a young man dressed as a priest.
