Admit to Pan that despite everything, the sensation was incredible

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 10:37 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

I pull my jeans on, still fumbling with the zipper because my fingers won't stop trembling. The denim drags across my skin and I flinch — everything feels amplified, the rough texture of the fabric like sandpaper against nerve endings that are still firing in unfamiliar patterns. My nipples brush the inside of my t-shirt as I pull it over my head and I have to bite down on a gasp. They're still wrong. Still too sensitive. Still remembering.

But I can't deny what I felt. I can't pretend that wasn't —

"It was incredible," I say, before I can stop myself. The words come out raw and honest, stripped of any pretense. I'm still sitting on the floor of the fitting room alcove, knees drawn up, and I look up at Pan with what I'm sure is a devastatingly pathetic expression. "What just happened to me — the transformation, the — the orgasm — that was the most intense thing I've ever felt in my entire life. By a lot."

Pan's amber eyes widen with genuine delight. She uncrosses her arms and drops into a crouch in front of me, her face level with mine, close enough that I can see the faint striations of gold in her irises. That musk-and-cinnamon scent rolls off her in waves. Her lips curve into a smile that's almost tender — almost.

"There it is," she murmurs. "Honesty. I was wondering how long you'd fight it." She reaches out and cups my jaw with one warm palm, tilting my face up. Her thumb traces my cheekbone. "Most people spend hours in denial. You lasted, what, fifteen minutes? I'm impressed, Trevor. And flattered."

"So what else do you have?" I ask, and I hate myself for the eagerness in my voice. "For the party. Something that'll — I don't know — make an impression."

Pan rises in one fluid motion, towering over me again. She extends her hand and helps me to my feet, and the contact sends warmth flooding up my arm. She doesn't let go immediately — holds my hand a beat too long, her thumb stroking across my knuckles.

"Oh, I have so many options for you," she says, already pulling me toward the racks. Her hips sway as she walks, that plaid skirt bouncing against thighs that gleam like polished bronze in the jack-o'-lantern light. She stops at a rack near the center of the shop and runs her fingers along the hangers with practiced ease.

"Let me think about what would suit you," she continues, pulling costumes aside one by one. "Something that plays to your... newly discovered appreciation for sensation. Something that would absolutely devastate at a college party."

She stops and pulls out a costume, holding it up against the flickering light. It's a schoolgirl outfit — but not the cheap polyester kind. The skirt is pleated tartan, short enough to barely qualify as clothing. The white blouse is sheer, clearly designed to show everything beneath it. A tiny plaid tie hangs from the collar. Knee-high socks. A pair of Mary Janes dangle from the hanger by their straps.

"This one," Pan says, her voice dropping lower, richer. "The Naughty Schoolgirl. Very popular at Halloween parties. And the transformation..." She steps closer, pressing the costume against my chest so I can feel the fabric — impossibly soft, like the velvet was. "...well. Let's just say this one has a much more intense curriculum than the witch."

She watches my face with those burning slit-pupiled eyes, waiting for my reaction. Her free hand drops to rest on my hip, fingers curling into the waistband of my jeans.

"Want to try it on, Trevor? I promise I'll be a very attentive teacher."