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“I’m tellin’ you, I don’t want to go.”

“Well, you’re comin’, Chris. I went through a lot of trouble inviting every unattached girl in the bar last night. If you’re not over here by eight. I’m sendin’ Corry to come get you.”

“Shit, Paul, you invited Corry?”

“Yes, I invited Corry.”

“You know I can’t stand that dick-wad, don’t y’?”


“Now I’m really not comin’.”

Paul teased out his next words. “He’s bringin’ Krissy.”

“Who the fuck cares? Corry’s bangin’ her.”

“Dude, make a better offer.”

“Yeah, Earth to Paul. It’s me.”

“I know, Dude. You’re like the King of Halloween, or should be. Those costumes you make. What is that dweeb thing you do? And the swords.”


“Yeah, that too. But what’s thing where you run around and whack each other with swords?”


“Yeah, that! You’re like super-dweeb. No girl wants to touch that. Not no normal girl at least. But right now, Halloween, you’ll be the best dressed man and I’m tellin’ y’, the best dressed man’s getting laid tonight.”

“I don’t want to get laid.” A stirring of the one eyed serpent made a lie of that.

“Stop talkin’ shit, Chris, and get over here.”


“You’re commin’?”

“Yes, I said yes.”

“You’re not comin’ as Sam Gamgee something dumb like that, are you?”

“I happen to like Sam.”

“He’s a lame duck. Not chick magnet material. Come as Aragon, the girls will dig that.”

“I can’t do Aragorn. Not built for it.”

“Yeah, too small. But shit, you’ve got like a million costumes. Do something cool.”

“I’ll do a knight or something.”

“A knight?” A heartbeat pause where only static came over the line. “That’s cool. Do that, you’re getting laid tonight!”

There was a click and the phone went dead. Chris shoved his cell back in his pocket and looked about his apartment. He’d rented or lent out a good few of his costumes to other students so the standard clutter didn’t press quite so close. He began rooting through what was left and . . .

Well, shit, I lent Zak my chainmail.

In the end, Chris settled on going as something between a foppish medieval lord and a minstrel. Period codpiece he selected was odious but proclaimed his lordly pride. At a quarter ’till eight Chris found himself knocking on Paul’s door.

There was no answer, but that didn’t stop a gaggle of students from plowing past him and letting themselves in. The thunder drums that pulsed from the portal when it opened explained the lack of response. Chris tipped-toed in behind the other students.

Strobe lights, mist and way too many people greeted Chris. There were wizards, 007 spies, musketeers, kingpins, barbarians, super-villains and pirate captains. And for every one of those, there were two witches, naughty nurses, French maids and Harley Quinns. The press was so tight Chris got stuck in the entry hall. That’s where Paul found him.

“Damn, what is that?”

“It’s a mandola.” Chris had to shout just to hear himself.

“No, that!” Paul pointed at the brass codpiece.

“It’s . . .” Chris blushed.

Paul hit Chris on the back. “Wait until the girls unwrap that prize. Damn, I never knew you were so hung.”

“It’s not like–“

“Let me show you around!” Paul elbowed between guests and dragged Chris in his wake. “We’ve got everything.

“Dancin'” Paul pointed to the living-room. The alcohol fueled orgy that greeted the eye in there writhed with might’ve been a beat. A trio of zombies were clearly attempting to slam dance within the mess.

“Alcohol is there. Oh and there. There’s a keg out back. Oh, and they’re doing shots in the kitchen.” He grabbed an IPA and shoved it at Chris.

“There’s a whole truck load of bourbon beans in there too. Grab a girl and feed her those. How can you lose, chocolate and alcohol.”

“What’s goin’ on up there?” Chris looked up the narrow stairs to the second floor. He jerked his gaze away when he got an eyeful of a zombie’s bloody panties.

“Tracy’s telling fortunes in my room. Pete’s rentin’ out his room for some private bangin’. Kyle’s manning the ouiga board in the basement. Makin’ sure no one cheats.”

“What happened to bobbing for apples?”

“Apples? Oh damn, your funny. We got something adult like, Dick or Teat.”

“Dick or Teat? What the hell is that?”

“It’s like this–” Paul swiped a red poker chip from the counter. Its face value was thirteen. “Some girl has a blue thirteen. You got to go find her and tweak her tit. Course, she’ll blow your dick.”

“You’re fucking me.”

Paul pasted a Joker grin across his face. He held if for three heartbeats before the laughter escaped. “Shit Dude, you should see your face.

“Yeah, I’m shitting you.”

Chris made a disgusted noise.

“No, really–” Paul’s face turned red with the effort of holding back his glee. “–you do. You find the girl with the blue thirteen. You place your poker chips on the ouige board and you ask if you’re dicks or a teats. anadolu yakası escort If she’s a dick, she’s got t’ wear your boxers. If you’re a teat, well, you get to wear her bra.”

“I’m not wearin’ some random girl’s bra.”

“Shit man, what’s wrong with you. The ouige board is by the spare bed. Kyle checks your results and locks you in the room. You can’t leave until you’ve changed. At the very least you’ll see her tits and the way you’re hung, she’ll get an eyeful too.”

“You know that’s a costume.”

“Shit Chris. Have some fun.” Paul slapped Chris on the back and then dove back in the crowd.

Great. Chris didn’t recognize anyone in the crowd. Just fuckin’ great. He tipped his IPA back while eyeballing his potential escape routes.

“Dick or teat?” a high pitched voice said. Someone pushed behind the little red-head nurse and slammed her breast to chest with Chris.

Startled, Chris gulped his IPA. He burped carbonation into his nasal cavity. “What did you say?” he said, when he recovered.

“Dick or teat?” the too close girl said. She hadn’t stepped back.


A sour look washed over the girl’s face. “God, you’re dumb.” Her voice dropped from a happy squeal to a snide soprano. “What’s the number on your chip?”

“Oh–” He double checked his chip. “–thirteen.”

“Thank God.” She pushed past him and made for the kitchen.

A moment later she knocked back a bourbon shot. She shivered violently which gave a pleasant shake to her tight rack of formula dispensers.

“Enjoying the view?”

Chris tore his gaze from the heavenly delight. “Kris, you’re here!”

“Yup, I’m here.” Her smile complemented her twisted Tinkerbell apparel.

“I — I — I what brings you?”

Kris jaunted a hip and spun a slow twirl in the air with her finger. “Uh, the party. The booze. Corry.”

Whatever vapor had clouded his earlier thinking fled. “Uhg, Corry. You still with him? Where is he anyway?”

A troll the size of a linebacker bowled over a half a dozen zombies to pinch Tinkerbell’s rump. “Right here, dick-wad.”

Kris yelped and jumped a good hand-span off the floor. Chris caught her as she came down on an ankle wrong.

Corry yanked Chris back leaving Kris to stagger.

“Hands off, dick-wad. Come on Krissy, let’s get a drink.”

Kris quirked an eyebrow at Chris and mouthed, “Sorry.

“Oh, wait–” She yanked her arm from Corry’s grasp. He abandoned her for the alcohol.

“–dick or teat?”

Chris’s eyes dropped to her Tinkerbell melons and then rocketed straight back to her eyes. The quirk of her lips said she’d seen. He blushed.


“Really?” Her happy note crescendoed. “Me too.”

Suddenly dick or teat was the best game in the world. “That mean’s–“


Kris’s pony-tail lashed her face as her head jerked towards Corry’s yell. She was bouncing on her toes when she turned back to Chris.

“Not now. Later.” A roseate tide flooded her fair-dusted face. “I — I — I need a few drinks.” She shuffled a few paces towards the kitchen. “Sorry.” She fled to Corry’s side. He grabbed her ass.

She’d knocked back a shot of something viscous and reached for a second before Chris tore his eyes away. It was nearly midnight when Paul found him slouched in an easy-chair, watching some nurse’s dancing ass, while knocking back his dozenth or so drink.

“What gives, Glum-dumb? Didn’t you dick or teat?” Paul yelled over the slam dance beat.

Chris didn’t even look up at his friend. “Yeah.”

“I take it you were the dick and she was the teat.”

“Don’t know.”

“What? Don’t know? You didn’t find your partner?” Paul paused. “You didn’t ask did you?”

“I found her.”

“Then who is she?”


“Kris? Krissy! Shit, Dude, what’s stoppin’ you.”


“Fuck, Corry. He’s already been in there. And if the screams were any indication, Kate got dicked good. If he’s stoppin’ you and Krissy–“

“She prefers Kris.”

“–from takin’ your turn I’ll–“

“You’ll what?” Chris roared. An ethanol rage pounded his veins. “Corry’s like three times your–“

“Hi. Is this a bad time? I can . . .”

Both Chris and Paul jumped at Kris’s words.

“I–” Chris looked for Paul to help but he was very suddenly absent. “–no.”

“Corry’s out back.” Kris’s cheeks pinked. “We can . . .”

Chris launched to his feet and then wished he hadn’t. The room spinned and for a heartbeat the beer bottle scattered dance floor looked very inviting.

Kris’s grasp upon his arm kept him upright although she was not much better than he. Together they banged and battered their way to the basement, often groping each other in an attempt to stay upright.

They were crying with giggles by the time they reached the ouige room. Kyle was no longer standing guard so Tinkerbell led the way in. Chris helped Kris into the folding chair on one side of the table atalar escort but completely missed his. He dragged his ass off the floor and nearly folded the chair on himself in an effort to find his seat.

“I thinsh oursh chipsh go here.” Kris slid her blue token back and forth over a circular depression in the unusual board until it clicked in place. The number fourteen was face up.

Chris clicked his red thirteen on the board with a modicum less precision. “Shomethin’s nosh right,” he said, eyeballing the two numbers.

Kris reached across the table towards him. “Wesh holsh hansh and read thosh words.” Her breasts strained against her Tinkerbell dress. Although not big, Chris found himself praying they might fall out.

“Oh voodoo shpirit of woohoo — Chrish, read wish me.”

“Oh voodoo shpirit ofsh woohoo am I a dick–” Kris giggled the laugh of the damned. “–or a teat?”

They waited expectantly. Kris’s grip slowly grew tighter until Chris’s fingers began to hurt. After a bit, her head drooped and she leaned back.

“What a washte.”

The twin markers rattled. The one closer to Kris jerked. The one closer to Chris joined it on the U. A heartbeat later they jumped to the R. They rattled apart and took separate paths. Kris’s spelt out dick. Chris’s skipped from T to E to A to T.

“Oh fuck.” There was a note of awe in Kris’s voice. She tried to stand up but sat back down hard. “Nowsh what?”

“I’msh shuposhed to — I’m shuposhed to — you’sh got to givesh me yoursh bra.”

The color under Kris’s smudged fairy dusted cheeks paled. Her eyes rose to Chris’s. She slipped her gown’s near invisible straps from her shoulders. The breast paneling sagged, but not enough to put her on display. Still holding Chris’s gaze, she reached behind her back.

She frowned. She fumbled a second time behind her back.

“Chrish? A little help?”

Chris fell out of his chair, tripped, knocked over table and chair and walked on his knees to Kris. Not able to look away from her eyes he leaned into her, finger fumbled about her back until he found the trail of lace that spanned between shoulder blades. By the voodoo spirit’s grace, or beginners luck, he popped the catch on his first attempt.

Modest, twin peaks slipped free of brassier and dress. Chris’s hand jerked up but hesitated just short of the prize. Kris leaned into his touch.

Impossibly soft, smooth flesh pressed into his open hand. The pinnacle kissed dead center between life line and heart line. A chocolate warmth licked at his palm, spread to his hand, crawled up his arm and flooded his chest. It filled him. It melted away stress and fear and thought. There was the warmth, his palm, her breast and Kris. All else ceased to exist.

Kris took his second hand and placed it on her other breast. The warmth within him tripled. Not even alcohol could dampen the pressure growing in his codpiece.

He was too stunned to act, so she leaned towards him. Their foreheads touched. Their noses slid side by side. Her lips were so close he could taste her breath, bourbon, mint, Kris.

Her lips moved, brushing the crest of his. “Now,” she said, “I need your boxers.”

The spell broke and Chris rocked back on his heels. Heat seared his cheeks. Alcohol reasserted its hold and his phallus wilted. I can’t. Corry’s a monster. Not that I’ve ever — I mean he’s so big. It must be big. I’m — She’ll laugh. Fuck! The black-hole of despair devoured any lingering warmth within his chest.

Kris reached out and took his chin. She raised his eye back to hers. He had no idea what she saw but a crooked smile scrawled itself across her face. She stood. And sitting on his heels as he was, his nose was below her navel.

The smell was not strong, but it was Kris. So Kris. Undeniably Kris. It was a perfume unlike any other. It was divine.

And while he was lost in olfactory heaven, she hitched up her too short skirt, hooked her fingers in the elastic of Tinkerbell green panties and pushed. A Brazillian styling riveted his gaze.


“I — fuck — you’re–“

“Your boxers?”

Chris rocked back and up on his feet. He struggled with that horrible cod-piece. The lacings of his breaches above his bulge were stretched taunt and nearly wouldn’t come free in his fumbling fingers. He’d barely stripped his bottom half bare when Kris shoved him into her still warm seat.

Pinning him to the chair with hands and gaze, she slid into his lap. Heat blossomed where her core first touched him upon a knee. Tight curls tickled his flesh where she pressed herself into his leg. Without releasing his eyes, she dragged that softest part of herself up his leg until her hot center met his phallus.

She kissed him then, shared this air, tasted his tongue and nibbled his lip while below, she ground against him. Her seat rocked upon his hips. His penis, trapped between them tapped at her belly. The mouth of her center licked hot, liquid heat up and down his ataşehir escort shaft. The tension within his groin grew to previously unimagined heights.

The pressure became nearly unbearable. But for the alcohol, Chris should’ve already come.

“Oh, fuck,” Chris said into Kris’s mouth. Sweat dripped from his brow.

Kris let loose their kiss but in leaning back to look at him smeared her other mouth up the length of his shaft. Chris actually felt a little pop as her crevasse slipped over his head and he rimmed. She gave him a quirky smile, lifted her hips off his seat, pushed her breasts into his face which re-angled their alignment and eased her way back down.

Delicious heat impaled herself upon him. It held him. It coxed him. It drew him. The pleasure was beyond bearing. His whole world narrowed to Kris, her heat and where they were joined.

Kris kissed him. He growled. She sat back and uttered an obvious mock moan.

It was too much. Already impaling her fully, he strained to push his way in further. She tightened about him and cinched down about his bade.

“Fuck.” He began to shake. His member tapped a weird dance against the walls of her core where she’d suddenly hollowed. “Fuuuuuck!”

The door exploded from its hinges. Kris’s entire body clamped about him with sudden violence. A sludge-hammer fist nailed him in in the side of the face.

“Hands off my girl!”

Everything went black.

There were images in the void. Colors. Things rose up. They took forms. Memories.

Chris’s sister was screaming at him. He’d — she’d — oh, fuck, it didn’t make sense.

She was at an arcade playing games. Except — except — in the memory she was — she was — she was with a boy.

Then there was that time she’d — he’d — oh hell — snuck off with some friends to explore a construction site his — her parents had expressly forbid. The value — the logic — it didn’t add up.

She was in the back row of high-school history. Two rows up and one to the side was — was — was herself. As she regarded herself a pressure grew in her groin and the zippers of her jeans bit into her — her penis.

More memories poured in. Logic. Manhood. Nothing. Nothing at all, added up.

Chris screamed herself awake. A wrecking-ball hangover crashed into her skull. Sweat matted hair and tee-shirt jammies to her flesh. In her memories, her entire life, she’d been a boy.

And with that realization, a cauldron brew stirred in Chris’s stomach. She fell from her bed, tripped to the fortunately easy to find bathroom and heaved out her guts. Spew splattered her hair.

“Oh fuck. Yuk!”

Trying not to let her hair touch anything, she crawled into the shower-tub. For a time, delicious heat rained down upon her. It grew lukewarm. Then cooler. Eventually her shivering grew so bad the she had to face reality, in the mirror.

How many shades of lipstick were their anyways? Rouge? Pink? Red? And eyeliner. Her memories didn’t equip her to understand the plethora of cosmetics in her cabinet.

But there were some things that she did understand. That was not her razor. Hers was the pink one in the shower, she was sure of it.

There were other tell-tells of a man’s sometimes habitation as well, such as the cologne. Even her male memories of herself told her who it belonged to.

Corry. Oh fuck no. It was definitely past time to get dressed.

Chris ran back to the bedroom of her dinky three room apartment; bedroom, bathroom, kitchen-livingroom. She tore open the closet.

Tank-top and plane-jane-bikini-briefs were easy but how the hell was she supposed to get those jeans on. They had to be tighter than her own skin.

And then a little burble of glee burst in her belly. There were as many pairs of shoes as there had been shades of eyeshadow. She had six pairs of sneakers and — and–

The eruption of joy rocked her up on her toes and she clapped once. Even though she was still in her panties, she spun a pirouette.

She tripped out of her spin and as she did so, the front door opened.

Chris froze. Cory shut the entry and then leaned against the bedroom door-jam. He ran his eyes up her bare legs.

Chris’s heart started beating once more. She clasped her jeans in front of her breasts. “Cory, don’t you knock!”

“Since when do I knock on your door?”

“I–” I — I– Her memory was entirely blank.

The amused expression on her asshole boyfriend’s face fled. “What were you doing with Chris last night?”

“Chris? I’m Chris. What do you mean, Chris?”

“Krissy!” His tone was dangerous.

Heat touched her cheeks. Krissy was an airhead name.

“Damn it, Krissy. You’re mine! You understand me. Mine!”

An image flashed before her mind’s eye. Kris, her, fucking Chris, the boy Chris. No — no she’d been Chris, the boy, and Kris, someone else, had been riding her.

Fuck, was she confused. Had someone slipped her some acid last night?

“I’m not yours, Corry. I . . .” She backed away when she met his eyes.

Corry advanced. “Like shit, you’re not.”

She backed into a wall. He didn’t touch her but his hand rooted to the wall beside her head. Biceps as thick as her leg corded his arm.

Oh fuck, he’s big. She wilted against the wall. Electric fear tap-danced along her nerves. And something low between her thighs welcomed that vibrating voltage.

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