Give in to the overwhelming need and let Pan touch your breasts — she's offering to help, and you can't think straight anyway.

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 10:13 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

You stop fighting it. The rational part of your brain — the part that knows this is insane, that you're standing in a Halloween shop with tits and a pussy and a costume that won't come off — that part drowns beneath a tidal wave of raw, screaming need. Your breasts ache. Your nipples are so hard they hurt. And Pan's thumb is still circling, pressing, dragging pleasure through the velvet like she's playing an instrument she's mastered.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay. Help me. Please."

The word please comes out broken and breathy, and Pan's eyes flash with triumph. Her smirk deepens into something genuinely predatory — teeth showing, pupils dilating until the gold is nearly swallowed by black.

"That's a good girl," she murmurs, and the words send a fresh gush of wet heat flooding between your thighs. "Let me take care of you."

Her hands move with deliberate slowness to the neckline of the velvet dress. She doesn't pull it down — she peels it, inch by agonizing inch, folding the fabric back to expose the upper curves of your breasts. The cool air hits your skin and you shiver violently, but it's nothing compared to what happens when her fingertips finally make contact with bare flesh.

She cups your left breast from beneath, lifting its weight in her palm, and the sensation is so intense you actually whimper. The skin there is impossibly sensitive — every ridge of her fingerprint registers like a brand. She squeezes gently, kneading the soft, heavy flesh, and your pussy clenches so hard you feel your thighs shake.

"God, these are perfect," Pan breathes, watching your face with those burning amber eyes. Her thumb finds your nipple — bare now, swollen, jutting out hard and dark pink — and she rolls it between her thumb and forefinger. Lightning shoots through your chest. Your back arches involuntarily, pressing your breast harder into her grip. "So sensitive. The costume really outdid itself with you."

She doesn't give you time to respond. Her other hand slides beneath the velvet to claim your right breast, and now she's working both — pinching, rolling, pulling gently at the stiff peaks while her palms massage the heavy globes. The pleasure is unlike anything you've ever experienced. It radiates outward from your nipples in waves, crashing down between your legs where your pussy throbs and drips with each pulse.

"That's it," Pan coos, stepping closer until her body presses against yours. You can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her corset, the press of her own large breasts against yours. Something else too — something hard and thick pressing against your thigh through her skirt. You're too lost in sensation to process what it is. "Let it build. Don't fight it."

She bends her head and takes your left nipple into her mouth.

The wet heat of her tongue circling the stiff bud makes you cry out — a high, feminine moan that doesn't sound like you at all. She sucks hard, pulling the nipple between her lips, her tongue flicking rapidly across the tip while her hand works your right breast with merciless precision. Her teeth graze the sensitive flesh and you buck against her, hips grinding forward involuntarily, seeking friction that isn't there.

The orgasm builds from somewhere deep inside you — not in your clit, not between your legs, but in your chest, radiating outward from those swollen, aching nipples that Pan is worshipping with her mouth and hands. It's different from any orgasm you've ever had as a man. It's slower, deeper, a rolling wave that gathers momentum with every suck, every pinch, every swirl of her hot tongue.

"You're close," Pan murmurs against your breast, her breath hot on your slick skin. "I can feel it. Your little pussy is dripping, isn't it? Soaking through that pretty costume. Come for me, Trevor. Come from having your tits played with like the good little witch you are."

She bites down — not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to shock — and simultaneously twists your right nipple between her fingers.

You shatter.

The orgasm crashes through you in a wave that starts in your breasts and radiates outward through your entire body. Your pussy spasms violently, clenching around nothing, gushing slick fluid that runs down your inner thighs. Your back arches, your toes curl inside the fishnets, your mouth opens in a silent scream that finally breaks into a long, keening moan. Wave after wave pulses through you — your breasts throbbing, your nipples burning with pleasure, your cunt contracting rhythmically as clear fluid soaks through the velvet skirt.

Pan holds you through it, mouth still sealed around your nipple, hands steady on your trembling body. She sucks gently through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor until you're limp and gasping against her, your legs barely holding you up.

And then — with a soft shhhk sound — the costume releases. The velvet loosens. The fishnets sag. The pointed hat topples from your head.