Dressing Up

 

Lisabet as the Black Widow

By Lisabet Sarai

I've always loved Halloween. When I was a kid, I would count the days until October 31st. It wasn't the candy that I craved; it was the costumes. I adored dressing up and becoming somebody else. As soon as the magical night was over, I'd already be planning what I'd be the next Halloween.

In more than half a century, I haven't changed. I'm still excited by the opportunity to discard my rather ordinary self for one night and become someone else: someone exotic and beautiful, seductive and powerful, maybe a bit dangerous. As an adult, I've always loved to create costumes that were a bit risqué. The irresistible and insatiable black widow spider. The kinky demoness. The naughty harem girl. On All Hallows Eve, the inhibitions come down when the pumpkins light up. 

Creature of the night

In preparation for this October 31st, I thought I'd exhume some of my old costume photos from the crypt and share them with you. I have to admit that I rarely looked as ravishing and sexy as I felt, but who cares? On Halloween, it's imagination that counts.

Harem girl and her Sheik

My characters reflect my love of costumes. Here’s a snippet from my Halloween short, Rendezvous. Rebecca, the heroine, is a lot like me. She views Halloween as a chance to escape, to dress up and magically transform herself into someone else. She's heartbroken when Halloween finds her stranded by a breakdown at a seedy motel a hundred miles from her best friend's party. Little does she know that she's about to experience some genuine enchantment—to be seduced by someone more powerful, and perhaps more dangerous, then she'd ever dreamed.

The costume worked its magic. I was astonished at how regal I looked, and how desirable. The bodice pinched my waist to tiny dimensions, and forced my breasts upwards. The square-cut neckline drew attention to my swelling flesh, barely hiding my nipples. In fact, they were not hidden at all. Though I'd lined the top with muslin as the pattern specified, the tight nubs were clearly visible through several layers of fabric.

I cradled my breasts and used my thumbs to trace circles around those sensitive buds. With each cycle, the spring of tension in my cunt wound tighter. A light flick of my thumbnail sent electricity down my spine and triggered spasms of pleasure. I worried briefly that the juices trickling out of my cunt would spoil the satin. But after all, what did it matter? There was no one to see me tonight, no one to please but myself.

"You certainly do look sexy. Like something right out of de Sade.”

“What? Who...?” I whirled around in confusion, my heart slamming against my ribs. The voice had been close, right next to my ear. Yet the room was empty, unchanged. The same rippling walls, the same thread-bare carpet, the same rusty stains on the ceiling. The rumpled bed where I'd had my tantrum. The almost-empty glass on the dresser.

Ah, the liquor. I must be more drunk than I thought. I turned back to the mirror, searching my face for signs of intoxication, and yelped as something, someone, pinched my nipples.

“Hey! That hurts.” Indignation overwhelmed fear.

“It does, at first. But afterwards, it changes, doesn't it? Afterwards, it feels quite delicious.” I stared at my image, mouth hanging stupidly open, as invisible hands caressed my breasts. Strong hands, gentle hands, hands that seemed to know exactly how to make me shiver with delight. “That's what most people don't understand about pain. It's the gateway to the most exquisite pleasure.”

And here’s a bit from a more recent Halloween tale, Coming in Costume, which makes the same point:

I should have realized Greg had something up his sleeve. Normally he hates big parties. His work requires him to interact with all sorts of people, but I know he finds it stressful. To relax he prefers more—how should I put it?—intimate gatherings. So I really should have understood he had some deviant plan in mind when he told me about the Halloween masquerade.

“Samson-Sewell Advertising—you know, Bella, they’re one of our biggest accounts—anyway, they’re throwing a huge Halloween party. Pulling out all the stops, I gather, to impress their clients. They’ve actually hired the Roosevelt Rotunda at the Natural History Museum for the event. I’m surprised that’s even possible, but I guess money talks, and these days they’ve got plenty. Which is great for our firm, of course.”

“And you’re going?” I looked up from my breakfast to scan my husband’s darkly handsome face. A half-smile played on his lips.

“We’re both going. It’s next Saturday night. And they want everyone to come in costume.”

I clapped my hands in delight and his grin broadened. Greg knows how much I adore costumes and role-playing. “Oh, wonderful! Maybe we can go as a pirate and his captive! Or the sheik and the harem girl… Or how about a Roman aristocrat and his slave?”

“You want everyone to know you’re my sub? My filthy, kinky, obedient slut?” He revved the motor of the vibe strapped to my clit. I moaned and clenched my muscles, struggling against orgasm. Fortunately, he released the switch before I lost control.

“Greg—sir—please!” I gasped. “It’s Halloween. The one night we can be someone else!”

“Sounds to me like you want to show off your true self, Bella.”

“I—you know, I just like to play with those fantasies.” Rising from the table, I went to hug him, moving carefully so as not to dislodge the BenWa balls he’d slipped into my pussy before we got out of bed. “But we can wear less—um—revealing costumes if you prefer.”

He nuzzled my hair; I burrowed deeper into the warmth of his arms “I guess that might be better,” I continued, fighting to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “For your business and all.”

“Leave the costumes to me.” His lips grazed mine, triggering a sweet spasm between my legs even though the vibrator was off. “You’ll be pleased, I promise. Trust me, love.”

“You know I do, sir. Always.”

Greg had more than made good on his promise, dressing us as a schoolgirl and her stern professor. I loved the short, pleated skirt of green plaid and the crisp white blouse with the Peter Pan collar the minute I laid eyes on them. Matching knee socks and black Mary Janes completed the outfit. Underneath—somewhat to my surprise—Greg insisted I wear simple white cotton panties and a stretchy training bra that didn’t quite contain my woman’s breasts. I braided my hair, tying the plaits with matching Kelly green ribbons. The final look was sassy, even suggestive, but perfectly decent. Still, the way the skirt swished against the back of my thighs made me imagine, a bit wistfully, what it would be like to be bare underneath. I pushed the thought away, determined to act respectable if that was what my husband required.

As for his costume—well, it really didn’t matter what Greg wore. He always looked devastating. He’d gone for a bookish style: a white shirt with thin blue stripes open at the throat under a corduroy jacket with, believe it or not, suede elbow patches. He must have scoured the thrift stores to find that relic, but it really fit the part. A slide rule case was strapped to his belt. Glasses with dark plastic frames sat on his nose. His black locks were deliberately mussed.

His clothes didn’t really matter, though. What made his costume convincing was his serious, even severe expression—his aura of total authority. No one could look at him without immediately understanding that he was in charge.

To complete the role, he carried one of those wooden pointers that I remembered from my mother’s photos of her sixth grade classes, at least a yard long and perhaps half an inch in diameter.

“That must be practically an antique,” I commented in the cab.

“A classic instrument of correction,” he replied. “Passed down through the family. My father used this on my brother and me when we needed to be punished.”

Hmm. Why is it that I seem to associate Halloween and kink?

Maybe it’s because, for me, D/s partakes of the same sort of magic.