Leah hits the Hallowe’en party circuit dolled up in her sexy schoolgirl finest.
My friend Sara told me about a Hallowe’en party on Friday night at a club she knows in the southeast. Deciding to save my better costume for a second party on All Hallows Eve, I choose the old standby, going as a schoolgirl.
I confess: the Lolita look is not the refuge of art, but the solace of women a decade older than their youths who ought to know better. The white lace bra shows through the gap left by the unbuttoned upper buttons of the crisp white shirt. The breasts overflow their restraints and spill over top. Only the middle button of the shirt is secured. I knot the remainder below the breasts to exhibit the narrowing of my waist, the flare of my hips, and the tightness at my abdomen. The shirt is one size too small and close-fitting against the back and shoulders. The sleeves are rolled up to the elbows. In addition to the clasps, I fasten the skirt, which wraps around, with a decorative safety pin over the flap. The hem stops an exact two inches below the buttocks and bounces behind me when I walk. The shortness of the skirt, the way it hangs loosely, and how, by design, it doesn’t quite close conspire to bare most of my left thigh. I have no right to the gray and blue tartan patterning on the cloth. White socks rise above my knees. Black Mary Janes with shiny silver buckles latch over the instep and complete the outfit. I am a cliché.
Sara dresses as a nurse in white vinyl. The upper bar of the red cross zips over her tits. We shiver in the line outside, but are admitted paying one cover for the both of us.
I dance. The skirt jumps as I move. My hair is knotted in pigtails. I wave it at the men in invitation. A few grab hold of the braids and wave them back at me as we rock together to the heavy beat. Perspiration makes the shirt go damp.
As the night advances, I am rutted against and pawed. Hands assess the swerve of my spine and the small of my back, the swells of my breasts and the slope of my belly. Fingers climb the shelf of hip and step up the ladder of ribs. One man slides his hand under the shirt and into the bra. He holds the nipples between his fingers. Multiple others squeeze the hemispheres of my buttocks, testing the flesh like fruit, some with the layer of fabric between us, some without, their grip skimming over the rump from below. The boldest slip a hand under the skirt where it splits. As long as they are fit, I make no attempt to stop them. I bend at the knees and elevate. I shake my rear and flow with the rhythm of the music.
A scrap of cream colored cloth covers my pussy. The ties to the side are thin as twine. The connecting string in back disappears into the crevice of the buttocks. The lips of my freshly waxed cunt notch the cotton. I feel the press of fingers over me. Wetness collects on the pubis.
I don’t know how many men I kiss or whose tongues I swallow.
Early in the night, I lose track of Sara in the surging crowd. I hope she has hooked up. I can’t imagine that she wouldn’t.
The man I select has me lower my weight onto his thigh. The skirt covers me while I ride. The friction is exquisite. I wear his fedora while we dance. He is dressed as a Chicago gangster and carries a water pistol in the pocket of his pinstriped suit. In the club, he squirts into my cleavage. Before the sun rises, I fellate his gun. He squirts into my cunt.