Unmasking

A Halloween story for you all, beloveds. I'm almost at, what, nine hundred hits to this site? A thousand? Dear god.

Please enjoy, and have a wonderful holiday.


Unmasked

"It's time to get you ready," he tells me.

Halloween night. It's actually so close to our anniversary - the day I became His - we've taken to celebrating a few days early. He konws so many people, something is always planned...

This time, I know, the plans are different. I haven't gotten any explanations; only instructions. And as always with tasks he sets me, the promise of indescribable pleasure if I please him, of nameless, threatening "punishment" if I fail. Punishment that could never be felt more keenly than the shame of disappointing Him. That doesn't happen anymore. It won't happen this time, either.

Dressing me for the party takes almost an hour. The costume he'd chosen was elaborate, an Elizabethan confection in rose and gold. Padding in specific places - and lacing in others - swells my hips and breasts, shrinks my waist. The wig, glorious with ash blonde curls. Stockings and gloves, makeup and jewelry, a garter belt with cream lace and tiny pearls; adorable shoes with a low heel to help my balance and comfort under pounds of clothes.

His special touches lie under everything, of course, and they aren't contributing to my comfort at all.

Both ready at last - my Master darkly compelling, a caped swordsman in black and silver - we set out. His car is comfortable, but tonight, bound by my costume and stuffed at my core with the fitted plugs he'd given me... the first part of our anniversary present, cool thick metal filling my pussy and stretching my poor little ass, keeping my attention there as they slowly warm with my body heat...every bump in the road makes me shiver. Trying so hard not to writhe or beg, not to disappoint him. Tiny matching clamps hold my nipples erect, just barely loose enough to allow circulation; flat enough to be hidden by the clothes. Unless you know.

We enter the party together. A glittering mass of adults swirls around us, filling a golden stretch of ballroom rented by our hosts. Sparkling bejewelled webs descend from the chandeliers, carrying tiny onyx spiders. Shimmering champagne light gives everyone an etherial glow. Master holds my arm, solicitously guiding me through the throng, greeting friends, being sociable. I try. Hopefully anyone who notices my flush, my dark distracted eyes, thinks I've been at the cider early.

Suddenly we're waltzing, swept up in the dancefloor's gravity. I lean into His arms, try to concentrate on the steps, on following His lead. Trying with hopeless desperation to not come in the middle of the party, surrounded by all our friends. Each step, each turn pushes me closer, taking away all breath and reason; I can feel myself dripping onto my upper thighs...and as I tremble on the edge, Master leads me from the floor and helps me to a soft chair. Gratitude and frustration war within me and I can tell, by His smile, by the tone in His voice as He offers me a cool drink, that He knows.

He always knows. He revels in the knowing.

I sip my drink, lean back into the chair as well as I can in this costume. I've come to that wonderful place in my head that He always brings me to, where everything is soft as cotton and thought comes slow as honey. My presence here is for His pleasure, my secret torment for His amusement, my beauty His ornament. In this place, those things are not wrong or evil. They are beautiful, like forgiveness, like redemption.

For a while I drift in the sweet-thick haze of my submission; then, gradually, I realize someone is standing before me.

He is tall, more slender than Master, and all in red; crimson, carmine, deepest burgundy wine. The vest under his full-length cloak is embroidered with black in mesmerising swirls, and his gloves are black suede. They are soft when he takes my hand, presses a kiss to the palm, the contact sending a warm shiver through me, what they call a frisson. I blink up into his masked gaze and belatedly remember my instructions.

"He will be all in red," Master told me earlier, while he was dressing me for our outing. "He'll kiss your hand, and you will go with him."

Drink set aside, I rise, leaving my hand in his. Caught in that soft suede with the hand beneath it firm and unyeilding. Even the ostrich feather in his broad-brimmed hat is red. He leads me across the ballroom, to a series of curtained doorways at the far end, and before we pass through I've remembered where I know that costume from.

"A Poe fan," I ask him quietly as we slip through one of the heavy velvet curtains, "Or are you the Phantom tonight?"

"You decide," he murmurs into my ear. We continue. The curtain hides a dark hallway and he leads me onward, past several turns, and finally to a simple, unmarked door. It opens under his hand, but he does not compel, merely watching to see what I will do.

I hesitate...acutely aware of his presense, of the sensation of delicate femininity created by my costume; the perverse violation hidden beneath. Anything could happen behind that door.

"If he wants to have you," my Master had said, softly growling the words into my ear as he laced my corset, "Give yourself to him."

I bow my head, unable to look at his face even with the mask, and step through the door.

He follows and locks it behind us.

We're in a dressing room. Large, well-lit, with a vanity and a bench, one wall full of hanging costumes, wigs, shoe boxes stacked on the floor beneath. The Red Death removes his hat and sets it on the vanity, hangs up the massive crimson cloak. He is no longer seductive and mysterious. Now he is businesslike, brusque, the way Master can be brusque when he is giving me orders.

"We don't have long to change you," he says and turns me so that my back is to him. The wig is carefully taken away; then the outer garments, one by one, rapidly unbuttoned and slipped off. He takes no liberties and is very careful with the clothing.

In quick succession I am uncorseted, underskirts removed - I am particularly happy to be able to breathe deep again. The ex-Red Death moves with the speed of an expert, someone who has done this many times for many women. Soon I am naked, shivering in the cooler air of this unused room, and now he takes a moment, pays more attention. Smiling as his long, delicate fingers first trace the metal clips encircling my nipples - so plump and red now from the pressure - and then tug at them, making me whine.

"You are so lovely," he tells me; "We are both going to enjoy this very, very much. I promise you."

It starts again. He slides a panel aside in the wall, revealing a small washroom, and has me wash off the makeup Master so carefully applied earlier. Afterwards I take a moment, stare at myself in the mirror - my flushed unpainted face, eyes still wide and dark with arousal, wet eyelashes sticking together, water running down my neck and breasts. Red brings a towel and dries me, quick but careful, then leads me back into the dressing room, sets me before the vanity. On its surface lie a pair of exquisitely long black gloves, delicate leather straps around the wrists fastened with silver buckles. Beside the low bench, a pair of high boots, platforms, glossy black.

Red kneels before me. With gentle but insistent hands he presses my thighs apart. I am suddenly exposed to this man, my shame revealed. His thumb traces my labia, waxed smooth and dripping wet, and gently nudges the metal toy buried inside me, making me gasp. The sound pleases him, and he makes me repeat it several times, grasping the toy's base and ever so gently fucking me with it. Tilting it back so the front edge rubs against me inside.

Then it is sliding out of me, leaving me empty there, bereft; he pulls me forward and presses the blood-warm toy against my mouth. "Clean it," he says, and I do. I cannot stop trembling in his arms and I suckle at the toy pretending it is my Master's cock, that I can taste myself because He was fucking me. Comforting image, soothing, so different from being given to this stranger.

"Good girl," he murmurs as I suck. "Good slut. He was absolutely right about you. What a treasure."

And that is when I cry. Not sobbing, but softly, tears rolling down, the sheer emotion and tension and perversion of the moment overwhelming me. He wipes the tears away, he is very gentle with me.

"That's all right," he says, "I understand. But there's more to come. Breathe."

While I calm myself he is sliding my legs into the high boots; they fit as if they were made for me, reaching all the way up my thighs, almost to my hips. High platforms; he will have to help me stand. The gloves are next, soft and smooth, up to the shoulder; then he smooths back my hair into its little wig-friendly bun, finds a large complicated makeup box beneath the vanity, paints my face. His touch is extremely delicate, professional. "It won't matter if you cry," he tells me as he works, "these are designed not to run. But save your tears for a while. There will be time later."

Another wig; this one red; port red, almost matching his cloak. Pinned and spirit-gummed into place very securely. I wonder what he's going to do with me, that the wig must be so secure.

He helps me stand, turns me toward the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

This can't possibly be me.

I look...alien. Inhuman. Extraordinarily tall; in the boots I am as tall as he is. His artifice with the makeup has given me almond eyes, smoky eyes, practically Asian; changed my brow line, the depth of shadow beneath my jaw.

"Perfect..." he whispers into my ear; "Almost perfect."

He opens a small case, bids me open my eyes wide, and places a colored contact lens in each. Now I am a redhead with eyes the color of malachite, rich dark green.

From another pocket or pouch, two tiny silver bells. I flush; one final indignity, one more shame, one more ornament taking me from a strong, autonomous woman to this...object, this exotic gracile sex toy.

The bells attach easily to small loops on my nipple jewelry. The chime as I move is soft, but audible.

And as always, I find that I am wrong. There is always one more thing He can do to me.

The collar is, at least, physically comfortable; suede-lined, like Red's gloves against my skin.

"There," he says, and kisses my forehead delicately. "Now, we go."

He opens the door...

*********************

There has never been, in all my life, anything like the overwhelming terror of stepping back through that curtain into the ballroom.

Three hundred people there that night? Four? All adults, yes, all prepared for the 'exotic' entertainments the hosts are wont to provide. This would not be the first time a naked woman would parade through one of these midnight galas. But now, it's different.

Now, it's me.

Red presses me forward gently when I balk, stopped dead just behind the curtain, feeling simultaneously frozen and melted, poised on a knife's edge. Covered toe to hip, fingertip to shoulder; expertly disguised; my identity more hidden now than it was when I walked in with my Master less than two hours ago. And yet. Cool air raises gooseflesh on my exposed skin, tightens my nipples in their silver clips; the bells ringing with every shallow, unsatisfying gasp for breath. I feel my eyes are huge, and sweat is rising on the back of my neck.

Hopelessly I look to Red for escape. There is none.

There is only his gloved hand at my throat, the other resting on the curve of my hip; only his soft mouth brushing my ear as he murmurs to me.

"Let it go. You have no idea how beautiful it will be, how proud he will be of you. Let go your pride, your fear. Be what you are."

He nips at my earlobe once.

"Be His."

The curtain is swept aside and, before I can think, dazzled by the lights, Red leads me out onto the floor.

******************

Something breaks inside me when I walk out into the light; some wall of ice, shattering like Spring come early. The warmth flooding me afterward is like nothing I have ever felt before. It is as strong as the terror was, stronger; but I could bask in this feeling forever, I could lose myself in it.

From around me, there are gasps, murmurs, a low appreciative whistle. Slowly, applause begins and grows, bouncing off my skin as Red leads me through the crowd.

As the people back away to give us space, Red brings me to a low stage, a dais near the center of the front wall. Framed prettily between fluted columns. We climb three steps up and I am turned to face the crowd, who erupt in applause once again; and as I look out at them from my height, hidden and revealed, I see my Master.

I am beside him.

...No, obviously, not me. Another woman, roughly my size, in my costume, peering at me over the edge of the delicate ivory fan I carried when we entered the party. Mine, or near enough. With the mask and the wig and the paint and the clothes, no one could really tell who was underneath.

I stare, and while I am so distracted, Red lifts my wrists above my head. There is a clicking, and when he steps away...I am bound. The delicate-looking straps around my wrists, what I had thought a decorative touch to the long gloves, hold me securely.

The swelling warmth overwhelms me and for a moment I sway, dizzy. Red slips an arm around me from behind; the crowd sees him fondle me possessively, his gloved hand sliding down my stomach to curl between my legs, but he is allowing me to lean against him, murmuring encouragement into my ear. I breathe slow and deep, soaking in his warmth, feeling those sueded fingers find and caress my swollen clit.

He holds me, supports me, tells me how lovely and perfect I am, how everyone in the crowd wants me; kisses my throat, and brings me to a sudden, bucking, moaning climax there in the center of the room, spotlit, truly naked at last.

I hang exhausted in my chains and he steps away. Sound is distant and unclear, rising and falling like ocean waves; I concentrate on catching my breath, my balance, regaining composure in the face of all these glittering people...

And then, when I can finally hear and think again, the ominous, unmistakeable hiss of a cane. I meet my Master's eyes, shocked, and then the slender rod meets my flesh and I am awash in fire.

My hands clenched around the chains binding me, I close my eyes, grit my teeth, wait for the next one. Feet apart, back arched, every muscle taut, I know it's coming, I can't possibly stand it, and there is the hiss again, it's coming...

This has been done to me before. Master has quite the collection of striking implements, whips, paddles; there is no real danger...and I know that there is bliss in this pain, I know that it will come. Regardless, by the third strike I am sobbing like a child, and by the fifth I am screaming. The crowd is silent; my ragged cries echo through the enormous room.

After a while, the blows stop; I hear voices near the edge of the podium, footsteps; and then my Master is before me. He cups my chin in one hand, raises my face; looks at me as though I were a stranger. But deep in his eyes I can see the approval, the love and lust that are for me alone, and everything is all right.

He steps back from me; in his hand is a thin rod, flexible. I have felt this before, too.

The blows begin to fall and under this barrage, no matter how I try, there is no standing still. The cane leaves deeper marks that last for days, bruising, and can damage if the wielder doesn't understand what they're doing; the rod is kinder in the long run, and safer, but oh God, it stings. He avoids the previous caning marks, at least; there is that mercy. But when he is done - minutes? Hours later? Thin red welts rise on my ass, my hips, across my breasts. He seemed to particularly enjoy the music of the bells when the rod shook them.

I hang in my chains, conscious, but so deep in that emotional haze, I may as well have fainted. Master may continue hitting me, if he likes, I think dazedly. Master may fuck me, or give me to Red, or to the entire crowd, just let this go on...

His hand, my Master's comforting hand, is curled around the back of my neck, holding me close. "I love you," he whispers, and I lean my head against his shoulder and cry. He allows me that luxury for a moment before stepping away again.

"Shall I cool her off?" I hear him ask the crowd; they erupt in cheers. Red curls his fingers through the wig, his other hand under my chin, tilting my head up and back; "Enjoy the champagne," he whispers to me, and then I am showered in cold. The liquid strikes me with force, spraying over my nakedness, splattering on my whipped flesh; champagne right out of the bottle, chill and stinging, covering me, making me howl and writhe. Red holds me still until it is over. Liquid runs from my body in streams, soaking the boots, puddling between my legs on the stage floor.

Master cups his hand between my thighs, palm against my mound, two fingers sliding easily into my wet, exquisitely swollen pussy; I rock my hips into the caress as he works me, and again I am brought to a shuddering, gasping climax before the crowd.

He slides those fingers into my mouth, makes me suck them clean; then he captures me, kissing deep and rough. Red is behind me, reaching up to untie my hands; he bends his head and bites at the side of my throat, cupping his still-gloved hands around my breasts to play with the clamps on my poor, tormented nipples. Trapped between then, I beg softly to be fucked... here in front of everyone, I don't care, just please, I can't stand it any longer...

"Right here," Master promises me, and pushes me back into Red's arms.

And I realize, as I am lowered onto the slick stage floor with this stranger in red between my thighs, that he means it.