The latest Hump Day Request story deals with more masquerade fun, hidden identities, and secrets revealed. Enjoy this brand-new story, my lovelies!
The address on the little slip of paper in my hand belonged to an austere, officious sprawl of a manor on the Gold Coast, a big, dark building of cool stone and creeping ivy. I took a long moment to appreciate it as I stepped out of the gleaming black limousine that had come out to my humble apartment to fetch me: perhaps I should have known, given the invitation I’d received to tonight’s event and the detailed instructions contained within. This wasn’t going to be just any old party.
Of course, no party is any old part if I’m invited.
The dinner of the limo had come around to open my door, and now as I stood on the impeccable white cobblestoned driveway, staring appreciatively up at the wide marble archway over the recessed entry, he bent low at the waist and held out a glittering object, balancing it on the tips of his fingers as though it were very, very delicate and the slightest undo pressure might shatter it. It was a mask: smooth, porcelain, hand-painted in an understated design of lavender and spring green highlighting Rensaissance features, beautiful and cold and aloof. A very fine shimmer of silver glitter gilded the edges, and I thought of how perfect it was going to look, icing on the cake of my own subtly shimmered skin. I was going to glow tonight… positively glow.
“Wear this,” the driver instructed. I took the mask, careful to treat it with as much care as he had.
“You will say nothing at all once you enter the house,” he said. “Your necessaries will be arranged on the table to your left when you enter. You may prepare in the foyer. At the end of the night, your compensation will be in a white envelope on the same table.”
I nodded, but I was still distracted, taking in the dark, marble grandeur of the place. I was used to these kinds of instructions, frankly, and I had a good head for such things. At the moment, all I could think of was how impressed my mother would be if she could see this place. How the hard, sure gleam of power, prestige and most of all, money, would strike her utterly speechless—which, for my mother, is saying something.
My mother never thought I’d done well for myself, never being interested in the sorts of things she thought best, like going to school to meet a wealthy business man or lawyer or politician, marrying into money, having a little horde of fat, spoiled babies to send to prep school and raise on the tenets of grand prestige. Maybe she was trying to push me across some silver line called success that she herself had never seemed to find, though I don’t see why she shouldn’t have. My father was no schlub: he hadn’t left her in any state of poverty when he’d died, in fact she was set to be quite well taken care of… or at least, she would be if she didn’t spend so much time and effort trying to land a new husband of her own, some rich bastard who would spoil and pamper her. It was good to know at least one of us had her priorities straight, I guess.
If she could have seen this, though—the absolutely gorgeous grounds, the lavish grandeur of my evening’s stage—her heart might just stop.
She doesn’t know what I do for a living. Or, I suppose it’s better to say, she doesn’t know what I really do for a living. She thinks I’m just a temp in a marketing firm downtown, and that is true. It’s just not all the truth. She’s never seen my website, and with her computer savvy it’s not likely she ever will, and even if she did I doubt she’d recognize her little girl under the smoky makeup, dolled up in leather and sometimes lace, pouting for the camera in a black collar or pink ribbons or velvety ropes or sheer veils. Frankly I think she’d slap shut any laptop or snap off any screen before she even got to the photo galleries. Just the sight of the cover page—Cara St. Rose, Professional Escort and Purveyor of Fine Erotic Fantasy—would have her grasping for a rosary and bellowing the Hail Mary for all she was worth.
The thought often made me smirk. She was always nagging me that I deserved better than my tiny little apartment, my dull-and-doldrums job, my seeming determination to wind up a spinster or worse yet, some kind of lesbian. Not that I’d mind. I’ve had a few lady lovers and found them gorgeous in every way. Mother would never imagine that really, my apartment is not so tiny after all and my job—my real job—is anything but dull, and as for being single… well, I’m more than okay with the state of my love life, thank you very much.
And on the phone this afternoon, she’d complained on and on that her own life was so boring, her own world so humble, her current boyfriend so maddening. She’d wanted to go to a show with him tonight, a classy and sophisticated theater performance where she could show off her good taste in wealthy lawyers who showered her with adoration, but wealthy lawyer in question had some stuffy private dinner to attend instead. She’d never have believed me if I’d told her I was going to be spending my evening rolling in luxury and splendor in a Gold Coast estate.
The driver had finished issuing my instructions, and I nodded politely in response.
“And how am I to know the guest of honor?” I asked. This was important. Tonight’s party was some sort of commemoration for a member of some haughty fraternal order, the high-powered boy’s clubs run by the kind of men my mother would just love to see me married off to. Yeah, right. Knowing the secrets I know? Dream on, Mom. But these organizations had very strict rules and expectations; that would be clear enough to anyone who had just listened to the driver’s meticulous instructions.
I had my own rules. One of them was that tonight’s honoree—and only tonight’s honoree—would have the pleasure of “finishing the deed”. I’d done other parties where that wasn’t the case, and I wasn’t particularly opposed to letting my clients share the honor—in fact I somewhat liked it when they did—but that option wasn’t on the menu tonight. Sometimes clients pay more for me to let them all take the honey pot: this time I was being paid a generous share more for just the opposite. Only the guest of honor got the sweet, sweet prize.
“He will be wearing a black mask,” the driver said. There was no tone or inflection in his voice. Discreet, polite, efficient. I liked it.
“Thank you, I said with a smile, and, giving him a little bob something like a curtsey, I turned to enter the grand house.
Now, I said my apartment wasn’t small, and it’s not. I’m quite happy with its size and its very, very comfortable.
The foyer I stepped into now could probably hold three of my comfortable, cozy apartment.
I tried not to stand there and stare too long. It’s not like I hadn’t attended parties in lavish mansions before. This one definitely set a record, though. It was all over rich, deep colors, golds and mahoganies and chestnuts and ivories. The entryway opened onto a grand sweeping staircase, operatic in its proportions, with a lush wine-red carpet spilling down the steps. Heavy curtains of the same color flanked the looming doorways on either side—the one on the right was dark, quiet, the rooms beyond already abandoned for the night; the one on the left was full of warm golden light, the murmur of men’s laughter drifting out like the subdued tones of an orchestra warming up.
The only thing left before the overture began… was me.
I looked to my left and, as promised, found the arranged sundries I would need before making my entrance. I’d worn a plush, heavy cape to protect my costume on the way over—a hanger and a garment bag were stationed just beside the little table of accessories, on a coat rack. I carefully removed the cape and hung it up appropriately, then looked over the things my hosts had thought I would need.
There was an elegant silk choker—lavender—attached to a fine white length of silk rope: a leash. Matching restraints for my wrists and ankles, all soft, innocent looking silk and delicate silver rings. A set of shining, non-piercing jewelry for nipples and clitoris. And finally, a flute of champagne. If the dewy gleam on the glass was any indication, it was freshly chilled and just poured, possibly while I had been standing just outside the doors, listening to the driver’s instructions.
Musing over these sundries, I thought it was unlikely I’d even need the champagne. Just the thought of sex is enough to give me a good, sweet buzz, and I’ve always been one of those women who can become aroused with only the slightest provocation. In fact, just picking up the fine, winking metal jewel of a trinket meant to slide prettily around the head of my clitoris and dangle exotically down over my pussy lips, I could feel my body responding, thinking of the sweet pleasure of that tiny pressure, the way it would tickle as some handsome masked stranger toyed with it. Just like that I was wet and practically squirming with anticipation.
The costume had been delivered to my apartment two days ago, with directions whom to contact if it didn’t fit. It had, though, and now I took a moment to appreciate how it would look when all these new pieces were in place and the illusion was complete. The theme of the night was clearly the theater: I was evidently the innocent young ingénue, soon to plumb the dark secrets of the arts. Everything about the outfit screamed virgin-on-the-cusp-of-sexual-awakening, a young doll of the stage who inner, deeper, sexual hunger was just waiting to bloom. I wore a dress reminiscent of a ballerina’s leotard, with a short skirt of drifting, gauzy layers like flower petals of tattered silk. No ballerina would have the breasts for this costume’s bodice, though: underneath the soft façade of a cap-sleeved peasant’s blouse was the firm paneling of a corset that pushed my tits up, making my cleavage so pronounced that the neckline of the dress only barely covered the pink outline of my areolae. In fact, as I applied the press-on crystal tattoos accompanying the two pieces of jewelry meant to dangle from my nipples, I realized that the arc of the pretty clear-and-lavender gems would in fact show. There were more little crystals meant to decorate the dip of my collarbone, too, so anyone looking at the shimmering design would immediately guess there was more to it underneath the outfit. The simple suggestiveness of the accessory made me smile: I used to wear these kinds of tattoos when I was a teenager. I ever used to apply them in just this sort of way, in places my boyfriend’s wouldn’t know about until we were getting really hot and heavy.
Adorning the clitoral jewelry wasn’t a challenge. Underneath the flimsy skirt I was already wearing nothing but the lacy garter that attached to sheer white stockings. My naked pussy, deliciously smooth, was easy to access, and already very wet. As I suspected, the jewelry slid over my taut pink nub like a slender sort of prong, applying a beautiful, naughty pinching pleasure, making me swell and throb, as the tiny stings of sparkling jewels dangled down to brush and tingle against my flush inner lips. I couldn’t resist giving myself a little strum with eager fingertips, the sensation so terrific I had to make myself stop before I came.
The restraints for my wrists and ankles matched the dress and blended with the design so well they might have been totally innocent, girlish little wristlets and silk ties for the soft ballet shoes on my feet. Anyone who didn’t know better would only think they were pretty little accessories, the silver rings woven in just for fun. The collar was a little less subtle, but in a moment of inspiration I would up the leash and tied it into a long, draping bow, turning the whole think into a girlish choker with dangling ties down my back, which anyone could very easily slip loose to reveal the acessory’s full function.
I’d been instructed to wash my long, fair hair but leave it loose and unstyled. It dried in a curly wave, hanging past my shoulders. I’d sprayed a very light, fine lavender mist on my palms and run them through it before being picked up, and now I felt very proud of myself. The sweet floral essence went perfectly with my role.
As I looked myself over one more time before entering the room beyond, I was very pleased with what I saw. I make great money doing what I do… but sometimes I think even without the money, I’d do it just for the fun.
I put the last piece in place: the mask, with its fluttering ribbons falling prettily against my hair. Then, I paused to take a long, slow sip of the champagne, letting its faint hint of juicy, citrusy tartness splash over my tongue and fizzle against my taste buds.
I was really, really going to enjoy myself at this party. I could already tell.