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In early February the town holds a fancy dress ball targeted at those who have just left school and are leaving town to go to Uni and outside jobs and those who have already left but have returned for the Christmas holidays. It’s sort of a farewell ball for all the town’s kids who are about to leave for the big city; although the kids who went to school with them and are staying in town are just as welcome to attend.

Greg had told me about it when the date was announced early in January and asked me if I’d be willing to go with him. It sounded like a good night, so I’d readily agreed to attend. Plus I admit, even back when he’d first told me about it I was already fantasying about the role playing stuff I’d now only recently revealed to him – so embraced it as a chance to let some fantasies rip.

Almost immediately I had started to plan my outfit and think about what I’d like to see Greg in, since I had very specific requirements in mind. As crude as it sounds, they had to promote fantasy sex at the end of the night.

From time to time I’ve hinted at the personality traits that made accounting a natural profession for me. Being a bit boring was one of them. But over planning things was another. I don’t mean things had to be perfect – probably quite the opposite – but I was always looking to see what collateral opportunities a situation might offer and plan a way to deliver that. And my sex life with Greg wasn’t immune to that; indeed for the last few months it may well have been the main focus of it.

From the photos I saw, Greg’s outfit in previous years had been a bit thrown together, so he didn’t have any investment in something that needed another run. That gave us (or should I say me) a fairly free hand. I wanted an outfit for me that I thought would both look and feel sexy and would be a matching theme to Greg’s; and I hoped we could find something for Greg that would hit my buttons too. I knew Greg well enough to be confident that if I was planning something sexy, he’d go along with whatever else I bolted on to that.

Some sort of heroes and villains theme seemed most likely to fit my fantasy, but the choices were a bit limited. There were plenty of sexy women’s costumes, but a lot of the guy ones were fairly ordinary. I definitely had something more like a well fitted muscle suit in mind than the oversized stretch cotton suits that tended to be associated with the, say, 1960’s versions of superman or batman.

Plus too many of them were wimpy about the crutch area – hiding it in excesses of material or a boxer shorts look, instead of retaining the fitted effect around that area. And just to really show my over-planning nature, I wanted him to have a suit that would let him access, shall we say, a certain part of his anatomy, without stripping himself right out of the suit. So a one piece lycra-suit just wasn’t going to cut it. After all people, these things are meant to be worn to parties which invariably involve an excess of drink. Surely somebody has thought about access, even if not for the purpose I had in mind.

For a while, the whole heroes and villains thing looked like it wasn’t going to work, so I considered other possibilities. I knew Greg would look fantastically hot in some sort of well cut military uniform and there were no shortage of incredibly sexy women’s sailor’s suits and other such stuff. But the well cut men’s outfits were pricey and I wasn’t really sure they fitted my fantasy.

The Greek/ Roman ancient warrior thing looked like the next best possibility and when I saw what looked like a really stunning women’s “Sexy Spartan Warrior” outfit on special on-line, I quietly ordered that for me as a back-up.

But in the end the heroes and villains concept came together. Around the middle of January we found for Greg a really nicely made well fitted superhero style muscle suit in a wet-look material. Best of all, the main lycra part of the suit had a sort of a key hole cut in the crutch. The suit was then finished (and made tolerably modest) by a pair of speedo like high waisted briefs that went over it. While the briefs were made of a much heavier stretch material than your average pair of speedos, the overall look of the suit on Greg was pretty hot. I was getting aroused just watching him try it on.

You shouldn’t think from my directing him towards a muscle suit that I think Greg would look better if he had more of a weight-lifter’s body. Far from it; indeed I think over muscled bodies mainly look gross. But if you’re going to convincingly play a super-hero, you have to look the part, and that is an aspect of it.

There was a range of female villain outfits I could choose from. It didn’t really matter to me (or Greg) whether they were a recognisable villain or something made up to avoid paying royalties. What I chose from the same shop was an outfit called “The Hemlock Kiss”; a yellow very short legged, short armed tight fitting Lycra playsuit, which came with a thigh high pair of high heel skin tight zip up boots that buttoned to the bottom of the play suit like a pair of mecidiyeköy escort suspenders. It had a deeply plunging front; so that even with the front zipper fully up it plunged to below the bottom of my breasts.

The effect was exaggerated further in this case because the one that fitted my girth was too short in the body. So not only did it stretch down the neckline till my boobs were just about ready to pop out, it also induced a deep camel-toe crutch. The bottom was cut so it moulded closely to the cheeks of my bottom; sitting deeply within my bum crack and dictating a G-string as the only possible style of underwear. Because the material stretched easily it wasn’t uncomfortable and didn’t constrain my movement, but the fact it was too short was readily apparent to even an untrained eye.

The things us girls have to do to make ourselves look hot!

The suit itself was trimmed with a number of black wet look stretch vinyl patches. The material on these matched the boots and they imitated a vine pattern seemingly running up from the boots and over the shoulder. Finally there was a little logo on one of the breasts announcing who I was.

Apart from the boots, it was accessorised with a short red cape, a good quality wide belt and a nice enough garland headpiece. The model on the front of the pack had on a bright yellow lipstick, which complimented the outfit really nicely and I managed to find one to duplicate that for the night.

Since I saw Greg just about burst out of his pants when I tried it on and showed it to him in the shop, the decision was an easy one.

On the day I bought it I couldn’t wait to get home to try it on again. It was maybe the only day during that whole Summer when I was almost pleased it was time for Greg to go so I could be by myself to put it on. I stood in the mirror to look at myself, already aroused just by the feel of it. Yes, I’ll admit I was admiring how hot I thought I looked; but what I was really doing was anticipating what I was going to get up to with Greg at the end of the night of the ball.

By my old standards, this outfit was pretty radical. Every aspect of its design was intended to appeal to the male eye. It was almost certain a boob was going to come out at least once during the night. But neither of these things mattered to me as much as they might have two months ago. I knew from the photos Greg had shown me of previous years what I was wearing was only middle of the road for what was worn at these events. This was not a fancy dress where you came in a panda bear outfit!

Both the feel of the outfit on my body and what I could see in the mirror was arousing me. My finger explored along the line of the camel-toe bisecting my crutch. As it did so it scored a direct hit on my already engorged clit. Pantiless, the thin sensuous material of the costume seemingly multiplied my body’s response; a thousand points of pure pleasure lit up. I did it a second time and the response intensified. A third, even better.

I was trying to tell myself to stop – arguing with myself.

‘You’ll get it all damp and have to wash it’ – ‘I should wash it anyway, anyhow look, it’s already starting to be damp.’

‘You had sex with Greg this morning, and will get it again tomorrow, this is too much’ – ‘But I need it and this is different.’

‘Your family will hear you’ – ‘I’ll be quiet.’

‘Someone will come in’ – ‘I’ve put the latch on the door.’

‘They’ll knock’ – ‘Then I’ll stop.’

‘Ring Greg and have him come over for a walk on the beach to satisfy you’ – ‘This is different and anyhow, what’ll he think of me.’

‘But he said you never needed to go solo while he was around’ – ‘But he wouldn’t understand this fantasy.’

‘Maybe he’ll bring his costume too’ – ‘Sure, how am I going to explain that to him.’

It was too late. My finger hadn’t rested through the argument. A dark damp stain could be seen spreading through the crutch. My mind was playing out my fantasy and, for the first time ever, I watched my own body respond to the sexual pleasures flooding through it.

My nipples were starting to push up in to the material covering them; the thin gossamer material conforming to every curve of my breast. The nipple was teasingly close to the hem of the plunge of the neckline; I slid my other hand inside and played with it – raising it up to its fullest extent.

In my brain there was a double screen. Screen A showed what my eyes actually saw. Screen B was playing out flashes of scenes from my fantasy in brilliant visual and sensual detail. The thoughts came randomly; they were not in order, not even part of a single narrative, but each was massively arousing in its own right.

Greg and I are both in costume – in character, he the superhero. I created in my mind my own back story. I’m the Hemlock Kisser. Infected at puberty by some terrible virus, a man who merely looks into my eyes is irresistibly drawn to me. The slightest touch of my skin causes him to be uncontrollably aroused; primitive nişantaşı escort urges force him to seek to make love to me. And then mid-coitus the kiss of my lips brings instant death.

We are wrestling. I can feel my hero’s hulking strength duelling with my feminine weakness and yet the match is evenly balanced. Our limbs, our torsos and other body parts are intertwined, pushing, thrusting and slipping and sliding past each other in the struggle. I am straddling his thigh; rubbing my clit on it. He has a giant erection which had grown up over the top of his pants. How can he be resisting me? I am trying to grab his shaft, knowing that once I have it in the palm of my hand, once I have even touched it, even he won’t be able to resist me further.

In our struggle I strike my head on the floor; passing into unconsciousness, my hand succeeding in a last grasp for his shaft; my body limp on the floor except for the hand and arm now supported by the hold it has on his shaft.

His passion unleashed by my stimulation of his cock, he picks me up with two strong arms around my waist. I am upside down, the top half of my legs over his shoulders. His hands grab the shoulders of my costume and with one powerful shake his flips me completely out of my garment, casting my limp body sprawling down on to the soft sand in the process. He kneels down between my legs, he has peeled down the front of his pants and his enormous erection is visible through my blurred eyes. It’s too big. It won’t fit. His strong body leans over me as he penetrates me. It doesn’t hurt. It goes in readily to a body already prepared for it. He thrusts hard, pushing my body around with the strength of his penetration. Receptors unknown to the science of anatomy are suddenly triggered. It’s like my whole vagina has become a giant clit. It feels so good. Thrust, thrust, thrust.

I’m lying unconscious, sprawled on my back still dressed in my costume. He bends over me, his erection hanging temptingly over my body. He’s too noble to let his passion get the better of him, but he knows the only way to chase the evil virus out of this beautiful woman and return her to a normal person is to bring her to orgasm; several consecutive orgasms. Three, maybe four should do it. His powerful hands cup my breasts and cause my nipples to engorge. A finger explores my crutch and finds it damp and aroused. Satisfied I am ready to begin the process, he pulls my costume off my shoulders and drags it off my body; it limply responding to each twist and turn as the garment is disengaged from me. His fingers start working on my cure. The first orgasm comes easily, but he realises fingers won’t be enough to complete the job. Nobly, he dedicates his whole body to the task, driving me through successive orgasms.

My eyes focus momentarily on screen A. Two fingers of one hand are rubbing hard and fast between my legs. The other hand still covers a breast, the fingers constantly changing their approach to the stimulation of the nipple underneath. My face shows the combination of intense pleasure, concentration and exhaustion caused by my efforts.

Back on screen B I’m lying unconscious, sprawled untidily on my back still dressed in my costume. He kneels down between my legs, he has peeled down the front of his pants and his enormous erection is visible through my blurred eyes. With a single push a finger pierces the crutch of my costume, making a round hole in it. His strong body leans over me as he penetrates me through the costume. He slides in easily; a shadow being cast over me by his hulking presence. His cape drapes down from his back, covering both our bodies. Again, in defiance of conventional anatomy, my whole vagina lights up to his thrusting presence, massively stimulating me with every action and my body is pushed and pulled by the power of his movements.

On screen A I roll over in to my real orgasm while on Screen B my superhero Greg comes. I imagine I can feel the head of his shaft swell just before I feel his cum hosing the inside of me, filling me up as the base of his shaft pulsates. My orgasm clamps his shaft, contracting on it as wave after wave of pleasure engulfs me.

His cum keeps blasting; impossible volumes of it filling me, penetrating deep into my body, overflowing past the seal formed by my contractions on his shaft and filling the back of my costume.

When it is all over I am left bent over the dresser, the hand which had been stimulating my nipple now taking the weight of a body that has lost all strength. The fingers of the other have done all they could to prolong the orgasm and are now wet with my body’s juices. My legs are wobbling. There is a dark wet stain running from the middle of my pubis all the way down between my thighs to the hem of each leg of the outfit. A breast is fully exposed; its nipple still enlarged.

Wow, that was a good one. Still, it’s only the second time in my life I’ve masturbated. It’s something I still feel an uneasy guilt about; more so given the mess I now have to clean up. I ease otele gelen escort myself out of my costume, trying not to make it any messier than it already is. If my parents thought it’s unusual that I need to hand wash my new outfit at such a late hour they don’t say anything – they’ve probably long since given up trying to work out the strange ways of their children. My brothers are oblivious to the whole thing; fortunately for me since they’d certainly take the chance to tease me unmercifully if they suspected anything.

The rest of January passed into February and the night of the ball rolled around. I still wasn’t sure where or how to play out my after ball fantasy. It wouldn’t really work at either of our parent’s houses; which just left the beach – although too much sand might have been a problem there. In the end Greg accidentally offered the solution. The hall the ball was in was on an offshoot of the river just back from the headland; so he suggested we go by inflatable boat again. Its large flat floor would make one suitable place as perhaps would a little beach which I knew dried at low tide and which we’d have to cross on each leg of the trip. The damp packed sand and still clear water of the river would make a great night time playground.

When the night came around I was quite excited as Greg picked me up and took me back to his place for the boat trip. He looked stunning in his costume and I could barely wait to get my hands on him at the end of the evening.

When we got there it quickly became evident that my outfit was indeed middle of the road as far as the girls were concerned. There were some girls who you thought just shouldn’t have really bothered wearing anything over their underwear for all the good it did and very few where you wouldn’t rate the outfit as fairly well into the ‘sexy’ range.

The guys were more of a mixed bag. Some, like Greg, looked pretty hot in their outfits; others hadn’t really made much effort. Still, even among the guys, it wasn’t the done thing to come along in the equivalent of a gorilla suit.

Kate followed her medical inclinations by wearing a sexy nurse’s outfit. She, being taller and much bigger breasted than me, while just as slim waisted, had even more trouble with sizing than I’d had. Like mine it had a deeply plunging front that could barely contain her breasts; especially as the zipper kept slipping down. The hem of the dress itself barely fell below her crutch and as the dress kept riding up the white G-string panties she was wearing underneath and the bum cheeks they failed to cover were clearly visible for most of the night.

As the night progressed a wonderful sense of bonhomie settled over the room. Now I’m not big on what always comes across to me as that false sense of bonhomie that occurs at some events; usually characterised by too much drink and some sort of public celebration. A large New Year’s Eve party would for me be a typical example. I know in part this comes from my own social instincts; which is to favour smaller more intimate events and eschews excessive displays of shallowly based affection. As I’ve said before I am after all studying to be an accountant! And in all of that Greg is the same. He was not Mr Popular amongst the guys at his school (and from what Kate tells me underestimated his popularity among the girls, even though he probably counted them among his better friends) and doesn’t really have any close male mates from his class.

But this went beyond that. There was an atmosphere of community, of something long shared and not quickly set aside as they partied in the knowledge that most would soon be departing town for their big city studies and jobs. For some the annual Christmas sojourn home would continue. For others the pressure of work, study or life in general would bring a change – a commitment to the big city that would see their past left behind forever – limited in the future to hurried visits to family as time permitted.

A little later a new wave of substance flooded the room and mixed electrically with that bonhomie. Sexual hormones – powerful hormones put out by those in those wonderful years between 18 and 23 when sex first becomes real and members of the opposite one are no longer to be feared but embraced, in all the meanings of that word. The dancing became closer. Limbs where no longer waved frantically at dance partners standing a meter away, but wrapped around them. Legs were intertwined, stomachs pushed together, the two bodies moving less energetically now and to the same rhythm.

It wasn’t limited to lover with lover, nor even just included those who for the night were to be hookee with hookee. Former lovers celebrated their past with one last close encounter. Those who’d kept hidden flames were allowed just for a moment to expose them to the oxygen of physical closeness and let them burn brighter. Mutual unspoken and unrequited loves that had never had the chance to cross the threshold were allowed to balance teasingly on the edge of something more before time moved on and pushed their owners in different directions. Suppressed lust was allowed to vent itself harmlessly in dance. But more than anything else, opposite gender friendships – friendships that had blossomed and been nurtured through those all-important growing years of high school – were allowed just for a moment to be expressed in physical closeness.

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