Party Favors
Page 1
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ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-649-6
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PARTY FAVORS, 2003.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.
© DANCING IN THE DARK, JENNIFER DUNNE, 2003.
© TRICK OR TREAT, MADELEINE OH, 2003.
© LOUISANA HEAT, DOMINIQUE ADAIR, 2003.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without author and publisher permission.
DANCING IN THE DARK, edited by MARTHA PUNCHES.
TRICK OR TREAT, edited by SHERI ROSS CARUCCI.
LOUISANA HEAT, edited by KARI BERTON.
Cover art by DARRELL KING.
Warning: The following material contains strong sexual content meant for mature readers. TITLE has been rated RATING erotic, by a minimum of three independent reviewers. We strongly suggest storing this book in a place where young readers not meant to view it are unlikely to happen upon it. That said, enjoy…
party favors
Dancing In The Dark
By Jennifer Dunne
-5-
Trick or Treat
By Madeleine Oh
-66-
Louisiana Heat
By Dominique Adair
-128-
DANCING IN THE DARK
Written by
JENNIFER DUNNE
CHAPTER ONE
Keri Montero clicked on the television remote and sat down on the couch to leaf through her mail while she waited for tonight’s rerun of Charmed to begin. It was one of the episodes with Cole.
The darkly powerful demon transformed by love made her weak in the knees. Even though she had every episode from his three seasons on tape, she still watched the reruns. Knowing that women across the country were sighing and swooning over the same man at the same time made her feel less alone in the empty apartment. And she was still trying to place the accent of Julian McMahon, the Australian actor who played Cole. It changed throughout his three years on the show, from a strangely delivered but undeniably American accent to something indefinable yet incredibly sexy. The closest she’d come to identifying it was that it sounded vaguely French Canadian.
A black envelope with gold lettering drew her attention away from thoughts of hunky half-demons. It was the size of a greeting card, made of heavy, high-quality paper. Wherever it was from, it hadn’t come from Hallmark.
There was no name on the return address, just an address, somewhere in the newly renovated arts plaza. She volunteered as an usher at the theatre once or twice a month, allowing her to attend operas and concerts for free. Maybe it was something connected with that?
Slowly, she slid her finger beneath the loosely glued flap and pried the envelope open, prolonging the suspense. Nothing unusual ever happened in her neat and orderly life, and she was strangely reluctant to end the mystery. But finally, the envelope parted, and she pulled out the invitation tucked inside.
“I’m invited to a Halloween costume party to benefit the opera? They must have confused the names of the volunteers with the names of the donors.” She glanced at the price tag for the evening. $100 per person. These definitely hadn’t been meant for the volunteers.
She watched the good-natured squabbling of the sisters on the television, but their witty dialogue no longer captivated her. Instead, her thoughts turned to the invitation. Should she go?
Cost wasn’t an issue. She could afford the ticket. She volunteered as an usher because it was the most efficient solution, helping the theatre and other theatre patrons at the same time as it allowed her to see the performances.
A car salesman shouted from the screen, bragging about the huge discounts his stores offered. First commercial break. Unthinkingly, Keri stood up and walked into the kitchen to put a frozen dinner in the microwave.
She stopped, staring at the box in her hand. “What am I doing?”
Her nights all fell into the same routine, if she wasn’t volunteering or working on an urgent project she’d brought home from the office. Read the mail while watching Charmed. At the first commercial break, heat up a dinner. Eat dinner and watch the rest of the show, cleaning up at the second commercial break. At the third commercial break, write checks for any bills that came in the mail, discard junk mail, and otherwise handle all incoming papers. When the show was over, turn off the TV and head to her craft room to work on her latest quilt. Efficient. Predictable. Boring.
She tossed the box in the microwave and gave it three minutes on high, while she retrieved silverware and a plate. Regardless of her sudden dissatisfaction, she still needed to eat.
As she settled back down in front of the television, her mind continued to worry at the problem of the opera party. Normally, she avoided parties. She’d never Mastered the polite chitchat and small talk required for social mingling. It all seemed so pointless. No one really cared about the weather, or the traffic, or any of the other things people discussed at these events. Why, then, did they spend so much time and effort conversing on these subjects? It was one of those things she’d just never understood.
She wasn’t shy, and she was perfectly capable of holding her own in a discussion on any number of a wide variety of topics, from the latest in network security protocols to the intricacies of creating a double wedding ring quilt. As the team leader for her group of consultants, she’d led plenty of meetings over the years, both internally and with customers. Efficient, well-run meetings that accomplished more than any of her peers, which was reflected in her high contract closure rate.
The problem was that she just couldn’t grasp the subtleties of the social roles. They’d moved frequently when she was growing up, following her father from job to job. As a freelance efficiency expert, he never spent more than two years in the same place. No sooner had she learned the complex rules governing social interactions at one school, than she was thrust into another school where those rules didn’t apply at all. The other children ostracized her for her missteps, until she gave up trying to fit in with them, and focused on the student-teacher interaction that remained essentially the same from place to place.
Her parents approved of her good grades, which were high enough to get her a full scholarship to college. And she wasn’t a complete loner. She had friends, gregarious people, who made the first move and approached her.
She’d even had a boyfriend at college, who’d been determined to thaw her ice princess reputation. The reputation mystified her. She wasn’t frigid. She just didn’t like wasting her time. Brian seemed to understand her feelings, because he hadn’t wasted any time before getting her into bed. They were together for three years, but both knew it would end when they graduated.
With her grades, she easily found a job as a well-paid computer consultant, where the analytical skills she’d learned at her father’s knee were highly prized. She understood her role. She fit in. So why the sudden feeling of discontent?
She reread the invitation. “Live a legend. Come dressed as your favorite character from any opera.”
If she went to a party as a character from an opera, she didn’t have to make pointless chitchat or wonder what the correct social niceties were. It wouldn’t be her attending the party, it would be the character.
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Keri smiled, picturing herself as the Merry Widow throwing one of her famous masquerades. Or perhaps Carmen, enticing all the soldiers present. They had well-defined, thoroughly understood roles. She could follow their social rules for an evening, and enjoy herself with no risk.
But which was her favorite? What part did she want to play?
She cleaned up her dinner according to schedule, reviewing all the parts she knew. She quickly discarded the ingenues. They simply looked beautiful and waited for someone to rescue them. They’d be no fun at a party.
Someone like Carmen, on the other hand, would be tons of fun at a party. Perhaps too much fun. Did she really want to spend an entire evening doing nothing but teasing and flirting? She’d be exhausted by the time the party ended.
No, what she needed was a role that was similar to her own personality. Something that would allow her to be herself, yet give her the security of an external endorsement of her behavior.
That was harder. They didn’t write operas about computer consultants.
She needed to think outside the box. Not the lead roles, but supporting characters, ones who were similar to her. She laughed. The stereotypical spear-carrier, that was her. Marching straightforwardly from one side of the stage to the other, in the most efficient and expedient manner, speaking to the leads only when spoken to.
Spear-carriers tended to be male, though. Keri vaguely recalled an opera with Amazon women warriors—maybe Aida? But she didn’t want to be an Amazon. She wanted to be soft and feminine. Like…Images of opera scenes flipped through her mind’s eye, one after another, too quickly for her to get more than a quick impression. She could almost sense the unifying thread. Almost.
The common character burst into her awareness. A slave girl.
Perfect! A warm glow of contentment settled in her stomach, as if she’d just eaten a big bowl of cinnamon-sugar oatmeal. As a slave, she couldn’t possibly make any social errors. She’d just be doing what she’d been told to do. Complete freedom.
Ignoring her usual habit, Keri didn’t wait for the show to end before unpacking her laptop and connecting to the Internet. She needed to find a costume, and order it to arrive before Halloween.
She quickly disregarded the usual Halloween slave girl costumes. They’d be fine for a house party, but not if she was planning on donating it to the opera after the event, as the invitation discreetly suggested. She needed an authentic stage costume.
Finally, she found one. There was no picture, but the description sounded promising. “Authentic female slave costume. Silver colored chains, belt, and halter. Pale blue harem pants/skirt of washable gauze.”
She blinked at the price. The costume cost more than the ticket. But that made her realize it must be authentic. She knew that stage costumes were terribly expensive, which is why they were designed to be easily altered to fit a wide variety of sizes. And why the always-short-on-money opera company was hoping to pick up some free costumes from this party.
She clicked the appropriate buttons to purchase the costume and typed in her credit card information. An entire evening of partying with the A-list of the city, without having to worry about any of the rules of social mingling. It was worth the money.
* * * * *
Keri’s heavy laptop case swung in front of her body, getting in the way as she struggled to pull the stack of mail out of her box. She hitched the strap firmly over her shoulder, twisting her upper body so that the padded case thumped into her back. From experience, she knew she’d have about fifteen seconds to finish retrieving the mail before the awkward case overbalanced in some other direction.
The piece of yellow card stock that had wedged itself into one of the box’s metal seams finally ripped free, and Keri staggered backward, bumping into the mailboxes lining the opposite wall of the vestibule.
“Ow.” She slammed her mailbox closed with more vehemence than was necessary. Then she realized what she was holding. She had a package.
Finally! The Halloween party was tomorrow night, and her costume had yet to arrive. She’d worried that she wouldn’t be able to go to the party after all. There was no point in attending if she couldn’t dress as a slave girl. Her normal social shyness would keep her hidden in a corner, and fumbling for words on the few occasions she ventured out into the crowd. And she refused to wear some cheap nylon and spandex Halloween costume from the nearest party store, not to a party where some of the guests would be wearing outfits that cost thousands of dollars.
She unlocked the inner door and turned to the supervisor’s apartment. One of his duties was accepting all packages for building residents. A trim, energetic man in his mid-40’s, he traded his maintenance skills for a rent-free apartment and workshop, spending his off-hours on the scale reconstructions of steam trains that he crafted and sold. Instead of aftershave or cologne, he always smelled of metal filings and solder.
Dave answered his doorbell immediately, still stuffing the rag he’d wiped his hands on back into his jeans.
“Keri. I was expecting you. I’ve got your package.”
A standard shipping box sat on his kitchen table, surrounded by tiny pieces of cast metal, delicate rasps, and a large magnifying glass on a stand. He waved her inside the apartment as he got the box for her.
It was smaller than she expected, not much larger than the box her Nikes had come in. But when she took it from him, the box was reassuringly heavy.
“Thanks, Dave. I was waiting for this.”
“Costume supply, huh? Going to a Halloween party this year?”
Keri smiled, thinking of her plans. “Yes. At the Opera.”
The supervisor raised an eyebrow. “Mingling with the jet-set, now? What, did you win the lottery and forget to give me my share of the winnings?”
She laughed. “Just my reward for being an unpaid usher the rest of the year.”
“Well you have fun, kiddo. You deserve it.”
Her smile faltered. The conversation was heading into personal territory not defined by the tenant/supervisor dynamic she understood. As if realizing his comment had made her uneasy, Dave broke the tension with his normal affability. “Smuggle some hors d’oeuvres out in your napkin for me, okay? I can’t sit through hours of people yowling in some language I don’t understand, but they always put on a great spread.”
Keri blinked. “You’ve been to the opera? I never saw you.”
“You couldn’t have missed us. Twenty old guys wearing engineer’s caps.”
She laughed, remembering her fellow ushers’ horror at the group of men who’d worn baseball caps to the opera. “I wasn’t volunteering that night. But why’d the train society go to the opera?”
“It was a mix-up. We were supposed to be seeing a traveling production of Starlight Express.” He hesitated, then obviously feeling he should say something nice about the opera that she donated so much of her time to, he added, “The show wasn’t bad, for something that had no trains in it.”
“And the food was great, right?”
“Right! Remember, bring me back some hors d’oeuvres.”
“I don’t think the costume has pockets.”
“Too bad. Eat some for me, then.”
Still chuckling, Keri headed up to her apartment to open the package. But when she slit open the shipping tape and looked inside, her eyes widened with horror. This was no stage costume.
A printed flyer lay on top of a pile of folded blue gauze. It featured three eye-popping photos illustrating how the outfit could be worn.
“Authentic slave costume,” she read. “Designed to cater to all styles of slaves, whether your desires are for submission, bondage, or discipline.”
The first photograph showed a woman wearing blue gauze harem pants with a calf-length gauze overskirt, also in blue. The interlocking rings of a chain mail bikini glinted beneath the overlapping layers of gauze, and the metal disks covering her nipples were clearly visible beneath her halter top of twisted blue gauze. Her head was bent subservie
ntly, and her arms were extended in supplication. Bold red letters beneath the photo proclaimed “Submission”.
The second photo, labeled “Bondage”, showed the same woman, standing on tiptoe with her arms stretched above her head. The gauze had been wrapped tightly around her legs and chest until she looked like a mummy, but from her expression, she clearly enjoyed being rolled up like a carpet. Keri’s nipples tightened in sympathy.
Almost afraid to see what the final picture showed, she turned her attention to the image labeled “Discipline.” The woman knelt on her hands and knees on the floor, at an angle to the camera. She wore no overskirt or halter top. The gauze panels that formed her harem pants were bunched at her hips, exposing the pale skin of her ass, bisected by the thin silver chain of her thong. A reddened handprint was clearly visible on one ass cheek. Her breasts hung down, a second chain connecting the disks clipped to her nipples. Just visible in the picture, a man’s hand tugged lightly on the chain. The woman’s head was thrown back, an expression of wild ecstasy transforming her features.
Keri’s breath came quickly, embarrassment heating her cheeks and flooding over her tingling breasts to pool in her stomach. No, below her stomach. And it wasn’t embarrassment.
Desire pulsed between her legs. Oh, God. These pictures were turning her on. She wanted to be that woman. She wanted to be the slave girl whose nipples were tugged upon until her breasts were hot and swollen. She wanted her ass slapped until her Master pushed apart the tender flesh and thrust his cock inside her, making her subjugation complete.
She opened the flyer, eagerly reading the instructions for how to assemble and wear the costume. She could wear the Submission design to the Halloween party at the opera. It covered enough to be considered acceptable, if somewhat daring, clothing. If she wore a mask, so that no one recognized her, she could have a fantastic time playing the part of a slave girl for the evening.