I adjusted the mask securely into place. No strings or ribbons, this baby was getting glued on with the same stuff Hollywood starlets used to stop nipple slips on the red carpet. I was nervous as it was—I’d have lost my nerve altogether if I thought there was a chance I’d be recognized.

I alternated between tweaking my costume and the hairpins holding my long, brown hair off of my neck, anything to keep my hands off of my face until the glue was dry and the mask fastened tight. Looking at my reflection, I thought it was possible no one would recognize me even without the mask. Hair that normally fell to the middle of my back was piled on top of my head in tendrils held up by copious amounts of bobby pins. My makeup, too, was a 180 from my usual mascara-and-lip-gloss routine. Dark, smoky eyes and pouty red lips stared back at me from what I usually considered a fairly non-descript face. Brown eyes, brown hair. Boring, boring, boring. It had certainly never attracted anyone worth attracting.

My body was a different story. Though only 5’2″, I had an exaggerated hourglass figure. Slender, yet curvy legs led to a bit of a backside and a waist so narrow I could almost fit my small hands around it, but 32DD breasts were the focal point, and a source of shame for almost my entire life. It was bizarre to see them all but on display beneath the flimsy white material of my goddess costume. My large nipples were standing at attention, unused to the friction of going braless—I even wore a bra to bed! I thought I could see the shadows of my areolas behind the peaked fabric, but considering the skirt of the costume barely cleared my panty line, I wasn’t going to stress it, which was easier said than done.

I knew I wasn’t in small-town Utah anymore, and that the chances I would be recognized here were microscopic, but even after three years at college in the state capital, it was hard to shake the paranoia induced by ridiculous religious standards.

Far from being considered unlikely, abstinence was the end all be all of my town’s high school society. Not only was sex verboten, but so were oral sex, hand jobs, and masturbation. Anal sex wasn’t even thought of as an option! No one of any quality did any of those things, and if they did, they were too ashamed to talk about it. So, while I’d had the same amazing dimensions since junior high, they were considered a liability rather than an asset. Rumors of my promiscuity started the same day I started wearing a bra, and it didn’t abate until high school when it became painfully obvious that I didn’t date at all.

Despite the near-constant barrage of chastity propaganda (Modest is Hottest!), I held a secret. I had dark, sensual dreams that often bled over into my waking thoughts, lust that while never acted on, was always just beneath the surface. I often fantasized about writhing naked with one popular boy after another—sometimes more than one at a time.

Maybe because it was because it was completely different from the way I should be thinking that I hid away, or maybe the vein of lust that was always at a slow burn was why early rumors had spread—the result was the same. I was ostracized as a scarlet woman, and the fact I’d never even been kissed didn’t seem to make a difference.

The end of my senior year I finally started seeing a boy in my graduating class. I was aware that he wasn’t the most…anything (attractive, intelligent, ambitious), but my self-esteem was low enough to accept his proposal the day after graduation. All we’d done at that point was exchange goodnight kisses (not even involving tongues!), but that evening, finding ourselves alone, we let our guards down. We were going to get married, so we’d be doing things eventually, right?

His tongue in my mouth led to his hands up my shirt led to shirts coming off led to dry humping until he came in his pants. Guilt wracked him…until his erection recovered. Then my bra coming off led to him sucking on my nipples led to me fishing his cock (disappointingly small) out to immediately come on my hand. Guilt wracked him again…until his erection again recovered. Then my pants on the floor in the corner led to his fingers inside me (disappointingly rough) led to him penetrating me missionary-style for three or four pumps (disappointingly fast) until he pulled out and came on my leg. More cycles of guilt and recovery involved him licking my pussy (disappointingly clumsy), me sucking his cock (have I mentioned disappointingly small? I could have easily deep-throated him…if it had reached to my throat), and shock and outright refusal at my suggestion of anal play. After he’d come often enough (final score: Him- 6, Me- 0), his guilt/recovery cycle landed firmly on guilt and he asked me to go home. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. He didn’t even kiss me goodbye.

The next morning I woke to a break-up voicemail, I “wasn’t the marrying kind”. Whispers and pointed looks emanated from everyone in town until etiler escort I left a month later for college. Even surrounded by new faces in a new place, I had enough residual guilt that I was too timid to act on my desires amid the gorgeous college boys that now surrounded me, hiding myself in bulky clothes.

I made great platonic guy friends in my dorm, which was nice, and initially thought I’d lucked out with roommates. They were a lot more open-minded than any girls I’d known before, and they were adamant about setting me up on dates to try and get me experienced. I went, and I had a good time, and I even got laid a couple of times (much less disappointing than my hometown hump, but still not the libidinous adventures I was hoping for). Unfortunately, I eventually realized that the reason I wasn’t getting calls afterwards wasn’t because my dates were ashamed (though that attitude certainly had its place in the city, too), but because my new “friends” thought it was fun to steal boys out of my grasp. I was more than willing (i.e., desperate) to do just about anything with a guy I found attractive, but I couldn’t compete with the promise of a front-row seat to a lesbian tryst like they provided. My roommates offered to let me into their Sapphic circle, but the idea of being with another woman held no interest for me. And honestly, as much as I wanted to express myself sexually, I didn’t feel like guys that passed me over for that were worth fighting for.

So for two and a half years I’d withdrawn back into celibate hermit mode, focusing on my studies. Though absent of orgasms that weren’t self-induced, my life had had a lot of success scholastically. It was the reason I was standing in front of a gilded mirror in a penthouse suite at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas, trying to work up the courage to make my way down to a hedonistic costume party.

I’d easily earned a place on the debate team that had met here for a national competition, and surreptitiously made plans to stay a couple more days on my own for the event downstairs. The mere idea of anonymity was titillating, offering me the opportunity to act out every depraved sexual act I’d dreamed about without the attached slut stigma that would follow me at home.

I adjusted my gold arm band and tugged at the hem of my filmy skirt again—it barely cleared the crotch of my white thong, and neither were going to offer any coverage at all if I bent over. I peered at my body and tried to determine whether or not I could see the sparse, dark diamond of neatly trimmed pubic hair behind the fabric, then gave up with a shrug. For my purposes, either way would be fine.

My hands moved up to the clunky gold necklace that I’d adjusted into a small clutch for my key card and ID, and smiled. I wanted my hands free. Determining I’d let enough time pass, I tentatively pressed at the mask. It held fast, and my smile widened. The stranger in the mirror strapped on gold gladiator heels to complete the outfit and I opened the door before I lost my determination. The hall was empty as I waited for the elevator, nagging doubts of my puritanical past whispering through my brain. Before I could give in to them, the golden doors slid open smoothly, revealing an empty car lined with mirrors.

In front of me, I didn’t see a shy, shunned girl, or a desperate, awkward girl. I saw a sex goddess, a literal embodiment of my costume. I strode into the elevator that delivered me directly to the lobby in front of the party rooms. Walking much taller than my 5’6″ (with those gladiator heels) should have allowed, I wore my new confidence like a heavy perfume. I don’t know if I was actually turning heads, but I felt like eyes were on me, and it emboldened me further. Making my way through the lobby, I saw women wearing even less than I was, their costumes literally painted on. You go, girls! Passed through my mind. Men weren’t as bold, but almost every costume seemed to have been modified to allow for bare chests. Sexy centurions, sexy sultans, sexy devils, sexy Willy Wonkas, for fucks sake!

Still, I had to laugh, because as ludicrous as the costumes might be, they were being pulled off well. Every exposed muscle was toned and tight—biceps and pecs and abs, and those muscles that seemed to serve only to point to what you hoped was a big, rigid cock—I didn’t see one that I wouldn’t like to spend the night tracing with my tongue.

The only thing we all had in common were our masks, they were mandatory for the party. As I made my way to the door, my key card allowing me to skip the line, the unmasked bouncer gripped the podium in front of him as he looked me up and down.


I smirked, basking in his lustful gaze. He was tall, at least 6’2″, with red, wavy hair and striking blue eyes. Regrettably, he was one of the few men wearing a shirt, his sleeves straining around impressive biceps. I handed him my key card to admit my entrance, but eskort istanbul instead of handing it back, he held on to it and leaned down in my ear to be heard above the pounding techno.

“Watch yourself. I don’t even play for your team and I want to fuck you.”

The tawdry compliment carved an arrow of heat down my stomach straight to my pussy. I moaned inwardly.

“Remember my room number. Girls like it up the ass, too.” I flicked his earlobe with my tongue and patted the bulge in his pants.

He moaned outwardly and gripped the podium again, watching me as I tucked the card back into my necklace and walked into the strobe-lit room.

Who said that?!?!? I could hardly believe the careless way I’d offered myself to a total stranger, but the further I waded into the sea of writhing, grinding bodies, the less I felt like it had been uncharacteristic. This was the real me, the sex goddess looking to be worshiped. The quiet college student hiding behind oversized clothes was the alter ego I upheld to camouflage my true identity to the world; the Clark Kent to my Superman.

I found a relatively empty space and let the throbbing bass caress my body; any inhibitions I may have still had disappeared as I gyrated to the music, completely lost to the beat. I was approached by a sexy firefighter (regular firefighter?), and I let him pull me into his broad chest, enjoying the muscles straining against my body. He leaned down to my ear.

“You wanna suck my dick, you hot little bitch?”

Small-town me would have shrunk away, ashamed that I’d behaved in a way that would elicit that kind of a suggestion. Sex goddess me was cool, calm, and collected. I stopped moving and put my palm against his face, pushing with all of my strength. Caught off guard, he stumbled and fell on what I was sure was a very nice ass. Before he could recover I stepped on his thigh, making sure to press as hard into the heel as I could as I bent into his shocked face.

“That’s not the way you address a goddess. Go fuck yourself, because I’m sure as hell not going to.” I ground my heel in deeper as I turned and found another space on the dance floor.

Recovering the beat I began to move again, noticing my reaction to the firefighter had made other men watching give me a little more space. I was frustrated, but it was fine until that space filled with women that were far more aggressive toward me than any man had been. I knew men liked to console themselves over a rejection by postulating their rejecter is a lesbian, but I didn’t realize actual lesbians would see that as a call to arms.

Irked, I pushed my way to the bar for an ice water. Though not wearing a mask, the bartender was a painted girl, her obviously surgically enhanced breasts made up to look like puppies. My mood had shifted enough that I found it pitiful, especially when she pressed them against my arm and suggested she wanted a wet nose, too. I rolled my eyes and turned back to the erotic exhibitions on the dance floor.

I still felt much more self-assured than small-town me, but sex goddess me was starting to doubt I was going to realize the pleasures of the flesh I’d hoped for. At the same time, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. The idea made me tingle from head to toe, so not all hope was lost. My gaze landed on a sexy police officer, then kept moving as I could already hear a bad pickup line based around handcuffs. A sexy Boba Fett and a sexy Batman crossed my path, but the nerd in me couldn’t get over the inconsistencies in their costumes. If only they’d paid more attention to detail, they’d be getting some tail. A sly smile curved around the rim of my glass.

Something out of the corner of my eye drew my vision to an area not far from the bar. Two very sexy gladiators were standing on the outskirts of the gyrating crowd, heads close. Despite the silver masks that concealed the upper halves of their faces, I could feel their eyes boring into me. Penetrating me. My breath caught, nipples instantly hard, wetness saturating my insubstantial thong—all accomplished with a look. I finished the rest of the ice water in my glass and set it on the bar, ignoring further innuendo from the canine-laden bartender.

Fearlessness restored, I walked toward them, hips rolling purposefully with every step. They stood rooted to the spot, devouring me—one of them bit his lip and I thought my wetness was going to drip down my legs. I passed by coolly, giving them a coquettish grin over my shoulder once I was on the dance floor proper. It was a gamble, but it paid off, as I saw them turning to follow. The grin spread as I found a spot big enough to accommodate the three of us, but just barely.

Without turning, I felt their presence behind me, watching me as I swayed to the heavy beat, arms above my head, inhibitions dropped. A large hand appeared on my waist. My eyes closed in rapture as the gladiator attached to the hand escort levent pressed his hard body against my back.

I blindly stretched an arm forward and felt the powerful chest of the other gladiator, his skin warm and glistening with a light sheen of sweat. My hand slid up over his broad shoulder as I pulled him against me. His lean, muscular frame pushed me back against his friend and made me especially aware of their generous anatomies. Are those swords in your pockets, or are you happy to see me? My grin had grown into a broad smile; I felt drunk with lust.

The hand on the shoulder of the gladiator in front of me wandered up to the nape of his neck and twisted fingers into his short, dark hair. He crushed his lips against mine, driving his hot tongue into my mouth. I responded eagerly. His hands travelled from my waist to my ribcage and back as we moved to the beat, exploring a little further every time. He came to a halt right under my breasts, his thumbs caressing the curves through the sheer fabric of my costume. I sighed, simultaneously enjoying the touch and wanting him to move those thumbs to my nipples. The gladiator behind me kept one hand planted on my waist and splayed the other down across my belly, fingers on top of the diamond-shaped patch of hair I’d left when I waxed, and tantalizingly close to my clitoris. I realized his position would force him to feel his buddy grinding into me, and the thought of him rubbing his friend’s cock made me moan. I felt hard bulges jump against my pubic bone and the top of my ass. It made me moan louder.

The gladiator behind me moved the hand from my waist to cup a heavy breast, kneading and pulling on my nipple through the gauze of my dress. The gladiator in front of me kept one hand on a breast and slid his other down to cup my ass and pull me tighter against what felt like a very large cock. His hands were on my bare skin, positioned so he must have felt his friend’s cock grinding into the string of my tiny thong. It was crazy erotic to think about the two of them pleasuring me and each other.

I snaked my free arm back and twisted lighter hair between those fingers, too. The arousal they provoked and steady rhythm between us was bringing me close to an unexpected orgasm. I pulled their hair harder and harder as it built, feeling lips and tongues on my neck, hands on my breasts and bare skin. One of them, I don’t know which, stuck his tongue in my ear and I came suddenly, almost violently, and oh my god, did it feel good.

Soft lips brushed my ear as a husky voice broke the silence between us.

“Are you ready to leave, or would you like to stay longer?”

I was more than ready to make fantasy reality.

Still breathless from my orgasm, I hoarsely replied, “I’m only leaving if you’re coming with me.”

The voice behind me returned. “Which one?”

I opened my eyes to see the dark-haired gladiator looking at me expectantly, lust burning from behind his mask. I had to choose? I spoke without thinking.

“What do you mean, which one? I need you both.”

They exchanged a look over my head, and I saw shock in the dark-haired gladiator’s eyes, but I heard the voice behind me again.

“Fuck, yeah.”

The blonde gladiator pulled away and grabbed my hand, leading me through the swarm of gyrating bodies. The dark-haired gladiator quickly took his place behind me with his hands on my hips. When we had to pause on our way through the crowd, he’d use those big hands to pull me back against him, grinding his cock into the cleft of my ass. My legs were jelly; I’m positive his hard body against me was the only reason I was staying upright.

Once out in the lobby I could see my gladiators clearly and I was even more aroused. In identical costumes, they were also similar in build. Tall and slender but muscular, the leather straps that crossed over one shoulder and down under the other arm highlighted well-defined, hairless chests and strong arms. My eyes were drawn down to rippled stomachs and the “suck me” muscles that peeked out from the tops of their short, leather-plated tunics—tunics that were clearly defining gravity in a couple of places. Blue eyes flashed from behind the mask of the blonde one, while the dark-haired gladiator’s eyes were as black as his hair, but that seemed to be where the differences ended. Both jawlines were sharp, both sets of lips full and begging to be destroyed. Even their hair, though different colors, was cut similarly—short and styled in Caesars to match their costumes. The nerd in me approved. We stared, gawking at each other until the blonde cleared his throat and said,

“I’ll go get a cab.”

His raspy voice spurred me into action.

“No need.”

I revealed my key card and walked towards the elevator, missing the pressure of their bodies. They were beside me in an instant, caressing my arms and back, occasionally tracing the swell of my hips—stimulating, but much more reserved contact out in the light. My breathing was ragged; I had to hold my hands by my sides to keep from reaching under their tunics and stroking what I found beneath.

The doors slid open to reveal an empty car. I stared at their reflections as we entered, my mouth watering.

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