"You're already wearing it."

Shifting my gaze slowly downward, to where the scant, silken cloth clung around my hips, I see it tenting obviously and obscenely from my current 'excitement' and showing off the majority of my boner; effectively making the garment meaningless if I'm erect. Throwing a palm onto my blushing face, I groan. "You've gotta be kidding me Raquel. There's no way this napkin is actually a costume— It doesn't cover anything!"

"Well, I mean, you're not wearing all of it…" Raquel half-heartedly assuages, whilst pulling a pair of angel wings, and some strappy thigh-high sandals into my field of view.

I hesitantly accept the accessories for my replacement costume, then check to see whether the nearby mass of horny geek women were looking my way; right now, their full attention is consumed by Alan making them delete pictures from their phones, so I breathe in a harsh, steadying breath, before teasing the thigh-highs down my sexy, toned legs.

My best friend is attempting not to enjoy this too much, fighting to keep her eyes off me as I change into my barely-there new outfit, and as I bend over to snake a tall leather sandal up my elegant gam, she about faces; unable to find another reliable method to stop looking at the exposed portion of my ass, or the shifting muscles of my bare back.

After donning the only two accoutrements my cosplay possessed, I stop to consider what exactly the 'clothing' I have on is, because… seriously? A side-tie mini skirt with no underwear, a pair of angel wings, and thigh-high sandals. Nothing more. That was the entire costume.

Who the Hell was the character designer for this game? Why did both of my costumes have thigh highs?

This kind of crap always had to happen to me, didn't it? Well, if nothing else, my erection finally subsided.

Trying to seperate my humiliating misfortune from the rest of my conscious thoughts, I check to see how my boss is doing with those pictures— very well by the sound of it, "Good, now delete them from your deleted photos." Alan says, nodding.

A choir of thirty disappointed women sings an off-key, "Aw, come on!" in response to my boss's well informed request. Secure now in the knowledge that those con-goers weren't about to take home a souvenir in the form of my nude pinup photo shoot, I exhale a sigh of measured relief, before giving Raquel a belated hug of gratitude, and bringing her with me to see whether our other bashful friend—the six-foot-four, blonde beefcake who blacked out—is doing okay. I mean, she did take a nasty fall.