John has the best Halloween parties ever. I attended the first one of his parties ten years ago. I’m not on the guest list, never have been, but no one knows that. There are always a lot of party crashers at John’s Halloween parties. Part of the thrill of John’s parties is that everyone is totally anonymous. Many years ago such masked parties were quite the rage, but modern costumes and disguises are so much better. In fact, reasonably priced modern latex masks and stage makeup are so good that some guests can arrive, participate in hours of decadent pleasure, and then leave without anyone ever knowing who they are.
It helps that John has a huge house way out in the country with an enormous back yard that can’t really be seen from the road. The pasture alongside becomes a parking lot for the evening with lighting, striped lanes and everything. There is also a pathway to the backyard which is always lit by real Jack O’Lanterns and guarded by skeletons standing practically shoulder to shoulder . Dozens of rental cars are carefully parked in the field before the guests walk over to the house for the party. No one ever brings their own car. Why spend a ton of money on exquisite costumes just to be recognized by the car you are driving. So if you have a designated driver or are not leaving until morning when you are sobered up, you rent a car, otherwise you arrange for a rideshare company to come out and pick you up.
Some guests are almost immediately known, however. Alistair’s costumes are unbelievable, but everyone knows it’s him. My favorite was when he came as a Fudgesicle. Only a man... or woman... with a full length prosthetic leg can pull that off. He has to hop around, so it is obvious that he is a one-legged man. But his prosthetic leg that straps to his body has such a strange way of moving that everyone would know who he is anyway. The woman who stays close to him all night is his wife, Victoria. Or at least it usually is. Sometimes a woman of similar height and build takes her place as Alistair’s escort while she circulates throughout the party doing all sorts of wicked, anonymous things.
It is amazing what people will do when they think that no one knows it is them. Gloria, who has several very elaborate and very well known tattoos, becomes an absolute slut. She is pretty much a slut anyway, but when no one knows it is her, she is even moreso. She has a professional makeup artist paint her skin to disguise the tattoos. Then she wears a costume that reveals almost everything. Only once has anyone come even close to recognizing her. Last year Frank, who ironically was wearing a rather elaborate Frankenstein costume said to her, “I wish I knew who you were. You suck cock almost as well as Gloria, and she is the best.” Gloria replied in the squeaky voice that she always uses for the party, “I try.” Then she laughed in that high pitched air-head style of laughter that causes everyone else in the room to join in.
I always wear the same costume to the party but no one knows who I am. Several have asked for the name of the costumer or shop who created my costume, but none have seen through it and guessed who I really am. That is all for the best. I don’t like to advertise who I am or that I am in the area. The original business that brought me to the party ten years ago should have only taken a few minutes, but when I saw what a wonderful party it was, I decided to stay. And then I decided to come back. I’ve been coming back every year now for ten years.
I think my favorite party was two years ago. Eugene was in a drunken rage about how men rule the world. Everyone knew it was Eugene. There is no costume or disguise on earth that can conceal such an asshole. His assholeness bleeds through whatever costume he is wearing no matter how expensive it is or how well it is crafted. By about one in the morning everyone knows which ghoul or vampire or ghost or whatever is Eugene. Two years ago, the drunk Dracula asshole was definitely Eugene. He was even drunk enough... or dumb enough... to answer to his own name.
Darlene was wearing a really elaborate witch’s costume. It wasn’t the black satin, sexy witch stuff you see at a lot of parties. It was cobwebs and filth and rags on an old hag stuff. Neither is actually what any witch– past or present– looks like, but that is another story. She pointed a green, crooked finger at Eugene and said in an almost croaky voice, “What makes you think that men rule the world? What about women?”
“Women are weak cunt pussies,” Dracula Eugene slurred back. “No woman can withstand what a man has to put up with in this world.”
“Wanna bet on that?” the old hag croaked back.
“You’re on!” he shouted back. Then in a loud, but amazingly clear voice he asked, “How do you propose we settle this?”
“Leather paddles at two paces,” someone in the crowd shouted. ... OK, it wasn’t someone in the crowd, it was me.
“How would that work?” the hag asked.
“Simple,” I explained, “you each have a long, flexible leather paddle that just reaches around the other’s torso to smack their ass. You stand at two paces, or at just far enough away so that you each have to lean in to deliver the swats.” I gave a nervous laugh as I looked back and forth from Dracula to the witch, after which I said with a shrug. “Then you just take turns until one of you says, ‘Uncle.’ Simple as that.”
Eugene drew himself up to his full height, wobbled slightly, and said dramatically, “Who knows what kind of padding she has under that witch’s outfit. It wouldn’t be a fair contest.”
The witch dropped the old hag voice and said angrily, “Then we even the playing field.”
She grabbed the front of the witch’s dress and pulled it up over her head. Beneath the dress she was wearing a rather substantial black brassiere and thigh-high stockings with alternate bands of black and dark green on them. There were no panties. Directly above her slit, a porpoise was jumping across her pubic area.
Someone... not me this time... said, “Oh, hi Darlene.”
A moment later Drunk Dracula Eugene’s outfit was in a neat pile next to him. He had been wearing underwear. The important words there are “had been.” Both Eugene and Darlene were now standing in John’s back yard basically completely naked except for their makeup. Eugene was still wearing his lift shoes and Darlene still had on her brassier and stockings. Actually she looked more naked with the bra and stockings that she would have completely naked.
“Now all we need are some leather paddles,” Darlene said.
“What about these two?” I replied pointing down at two very long, very black, very flexible leather paddles that just happened to be laying in the grass.
John, who had come over to see what the fuss was all about, picked them up and muttered, “Where did these come from?”
Eugene grabbed them out of John’s hand and said loudly, “Now we will see how men rule the world!” He handed one of the paddles to Darlene and then stepped back just enough so that the long paddle would wrap around Darlene’s ass if he leaned slightly forward.
“Who goes first?” he slurred out.
“In a man’s world, it is always ladies first,” a woman in a Tinkerbell fairy costume said, almost laughing.
“Yeah, right,” he said, gesturing toward Darlene.
She leaned slightly forward and swung with her paddle. I noted that she gave a hard twist of her wrist as her arm came around. The tip of the paddle arced slightly back as it swung through the air. It hit the left side of Eugene’s ass and then slammed around causing a loud “Thwack!” as the very tip struck directly on his right ass cheek.
Eugene struggled for a moment, but didn’t yell or scream. Then he swung his paddle in a big roundhouse swing that caused it to hit Darlene’s left hip and wrap all the way around to her right side. It made a respectable “Thwap,” but it was nowhere near as loud or as sharp as Darlene’s paddle had been.
Darlene breathed hard for a moment or two and then repeated her swing with the same results. The tip of the paddle hit Eugene’s right ass cheek with a loud “Thwack!” That “Thwack!” was immediately followed by a very high pitched scream... and then a low pitched laugh from Darlene.
Eugene swung harder this time and forced a grunt out of Darlene, but she did not cry out or scream. She did, however, swing harder the next time, causing Eugene to scream and then cuss.
This continued for seven complete rounds. When Darlene swung the eighth time, Eugene screamed and then started to blubber, “No more. No more.”
Darlene’s ass was red and purple all over. Eugene had some reddening all over, but the one purple, bleeding bruise on his right ass cheek was what had caused him to admit defeat.
“Accuracy dominates over force once again,” Darlene said softly as she pulled her witch’s hag dress back over her body.
“What did you bet?” John asked her.
She just smiled and said, “Some things a lady doesn’t tell.” Then she walked over to the bar tent for a well-deserved drink.
This year was a pretty decent party, but nothing spectacular happened... until around eleven o’clock. One couple arrived dressed as a Roman Emperor and, I assume, his wife. They were accompanied by two scantily clad female slaves. The Empress was only slightly more clothed.
Almost as soon as they got there I could hear a loud argument between them and a rather pompous sounding man who was dressed like the Monopoly rich guy. Pompousness also bleeds through a costume. It was Professor Anderson. He teaches western history at the local university and most of his students refer to him as Prof Prick or Prick Andy. There is a fine line between being pompous and being an asshole. Prick Andy somehow manages to be on both sides of that line at the same time.
I got over there almost at the beginning of the argument. “Those costumes are all wrong,” he said, holding up his right hand with the index finger pointing toward the sky. “Roman Emperors didn’t wear such simple clothing and no woman of Roman nobility would wear anything that slutty and revealing.”
He was right. The costume looked downright shabby and the Empress had many men’s... and women’s... tongues hanging out. Then the Emperor spoke. “I am Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus,” he said in a rather regal sounding voice. Then in a much more friendly tone he said, “And this is my consort, Empress Valeria Messalina.” He paused, looked around, and then said, “If you know your Roman history, you know that you may call me Claudius.” His voice seemed to harden as he said, “And you shall call her Slut.” He laughed and said in a much more normal voice, “Claudius really did dress this way, and the great slut Messalina dressed even worse than my current partner is dressed.”
The Monopoly Prof pulled himself up to his normal pompous pose and said, “You may be right about your dress, but I doubt Messalina can fuck a thousand men tonight.” He snorted slightly through his nose and said, “There aren’t that many men here.”
He chuckled and said, “I am, of course, referring to Messalina’s great night of debauchery where she held a contest with Scylla, the foremost whore in Rome, to see who could fuck the most men in one session. Scylla gave up with a very sore pussy just short of a thousand men. Messalina kept going until she had reached the big M. I doubt you can do that tonight.”
“Then I’ll go for at least a dozen,” the Empress said with a laugh. “And I’ll satisfy a dozen women at the same time.” She paused and then almost yelled out, “Any takers for a double train? Men in the tunnel, women on the peak?”
John seemed to appear out of the shadows and said, “Let’s use one of the tents for that.” He looked out toward the road and said, “I think it’s still a little early in the evening for something that... blatant.”
I don’t know what he was worried about. Half of the guests were already naked and there were blowjobs and outright fucking happening all over the yard.
“Show me to the tent,” Messalina said, holding up her hand. John took her hand and walked with her to a scarlet tent set up in one corner of the yard.
“It’s almost as if you expected me,” she said as he ushered her into the tent. She smiled as she saw a large pile of cushions and called out loudly, “Let the fun begin.”
The back side of the tent and the side of the tent not visible from the road were open so I wandered over the lawn to some chairs and tables to get a good view. I was not the only one sitting around one of the tables sipping wine and watching the action.
Emperor Claudius acted as the conductor for the train with the two slaves assisting him. He handed each of the men a condom and personally inspected... and sniffed... each woman to make sure that they were clean. He rejected one woman because she didn’t smell like she was turned on. She said, “Give me a minute,” and then stood there rubbing herself. She passed the re-inspection.
First in line for the men was Superman. He didn’t remove any of his costume except the red underwear. There was a rather large fly opening in the blue tights. And he had a rather large prick which stuck out at a really high angle once one of the half-naked slaves fluffed him. I knew that the slut Empress was going to enjoy herself.
She did. So did Superman and the other eleven men. And so did the twelve women who sat on her face. One of the women staggered out of the tent and said to her companion, “I have no idea who she is, but she has to have a tongue that is at least seven inches long. I’ve had men who didn’t get that far inside me.” She took a deep breath and said, “And she knew where my G spot was and what a clit was for. If she had kept going I would be totally exhausted.”
Several of the men also staggered out of the tent. They looked a little pale, but then a man always does when he fucks a succubus. Her real name is Drusilla. I sort of invited her but very firmly instructed her that she couldn’t milk anyone dry at the party. Her reply was that she would have to sip from many bottles rather than emptying just one. Something told me she was going to be in that tent for most of the party.
I heard a loud round of applause and cheering so I wandered over to see what was going on. Gloria and a woman disguised as a fairy were having a bottle race. Gloria was totally naked, which she often is by this time. The fairy had the lower part of her costume off. Her mechanical wings were continuing to slowly fan the air.
A very drunk hunchback of Notre Dame was explaining the rules. “The race lasts for four minutes,” he began. “The object of the race is to take as many of these bottles...” He pointed at two rows of empty long-neck beer bottles set up on the grass. “... take as many of these bottles down to the end of the yard.” He laughed and then added, “... using only your cunt.”
He waited for the hoots and cheers to quiet down and then continued, “Winner gets a one hundred dollar bill from me. Loser has to eat the winner right here in front of everybody.”
Gloria turned to the fairy and said, “You know I have the best tongue here tonight.”
The fairy looked like she was going to say something back but Quasimodo shouted out, “Begin!” and Gloria squatted and impaled herself on the first beer bottle.
She stood up and then, keeping her legs more or less together from the knees to the hips, ran to the edge of the yard using just her lower legs. She beat the fairy to the line by several seconds. She turned and started running back but stopped for just a second as she passed the fairy. It was only a second or two, but Gloria managed to stick her substantial tongue out and wave it at the fairy.
Gloria quickly squatted over a second bottle and started back toward the edge of the yard. Again, as she passed the fairy, she stuck her tongue out and waggled it. This continued for two more bottles. Both had four bottles in place and time was running out. Gloria squatted down for her fifth bottle just as the fairy got back. Again Gloria waggled her tongue before she started off.
“Looks like this could be a tie,” Quasimodo said loudly. “Both could end up with five bottles.”
But that was not to be. When the fairy squatted to pick up her fifth bottle, she couldn’t do it. No matter how hard she tried to squeeze her muscles, the bottle just slid right out.
When the timer on Quasimodo’s phone went off, Gloria was already back at the start line. She stood laughing at the fairy who looked almost like she wanted to cry. Then she said, “You should have kept your mind on the contest, not the prize. Once you started thinking about what you could win, you lost.”
Gloria took the hundred from the hunchback and then said to the fairy, “I have a feeling that those wings don’t come off very easily, so you are going to have to be on top.” She lay down on the grass and said, “And you can’t do a really good job unless you are coming in from the top side.”
The fairy arranged herself so that she was on all fours over Gloria. She started out rather tentatively, but when Gloria moaned out, “You’ve got a pretty good tongue, yourself,” she seemed to really get into it.
It wasn’t clear whether it was Gloria who pulled the fairy’s slit down to her mouth or if the fairy just lowered herself, but in either case they were soon engaged in a very torrid 69 session. The fairy’s high pitched keening wail provided the descant to Gloria’s much deeper moans up until the point where they both climaxed together. Then it was almost impossible to distinguish between their shrill cries of passion.
They both lay panting on the ground for several minutes. Then Gloria stood and offered her hand to help the fairy to her feet. “Thank you for not crushing my wings,” the fairy said, looking down at the ground.
Gloria used her fingers to tilt the fairy’s head up so they could look into each other’s eyes. “So it’s not a costume?” Gloria asked.
The fairy blushed slightly and gave a very crooked smile. “It sort of is,” she said weakly. “I used an enlarging charm.”
“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t,” Gloria said softly. Then she said much louder, “Maybe we can do that again next Halloween.”
The fairy smiled and replied, “I will be here. I might even bring some of my friends.”
“Consider that an invitation,” Gloria said with a smile. Then she added, “See you next year.”
The party was winding down when I went over to talk to John. “This is a very elaborate Halloween Party,” I said as a way of starting the conversation. “Why do you put so much effort into it?”
He smiled at me and said, “Ten years ago I had stage four cancer of the liver. The doctors gave me only a few months, so I decided that I was going to treat myself to the best Halloween party ever.” He shrugged and continued, “But I didn’t die. So the next year I did it again, and then again, and then again. I’ve kept that up for ten years now. My doctors don’t understand it... me still being around. The cancer is gone and no one can explain it.”
I laughed and said, “Maybe death came to your party, but enjoyed himself so much that he wanted to come back for another year.”
John laughed and I laughed. Then John said, “See you again next year.”
“I’ll be here,” I replied. Then I walked to the back edge of the yard and disappeared into the darkness.
