Switch to Megan's first person perspective...

Megan's House, Westwood Heights, at 10:32 PM on Thursday October 31st, 2024

Something is wrong with this party.

I've hosted four years running and I've never seen anything like tonight. The energy is wrong — too charged, too desperate, like everyone's been slipped something in their drinks. Three of my girlfriends have disappeared into bedrooms with guys they'd normally never touch. Half the men at this party keep drifting toward the back hallway like sleepwalkers, drawn by something I can't see. And that woman — the one Trevor brought — I've never seen anyone move through a room like that. Like gravity bends around her.

I take another sip of my rum and coke, adjusting the tiny pirate corset that's been riding up all night. The costume is deliberately slutty — a cropped velvet vest that barely contains my tits, a microskirt with lace trim, thigh-highs, and a captain's hat perched on my red curls. I wore it to feel powerful. Instead I've spent the evening feeling watched, feeling pulled, feeling like something enormous is breathing just behind my neck.

And now Trevor is walking toward me.

Except — it's not Trevor. Not really. The Trevor I know is a scrawny library kid who can't make eye contact. This version is taller, broader, his shoulders filling out a flannel shirt like he's been lifting for years. His jaw is sharper. His eyes — amber, almost golden — lock onto mine with a confidence that makes my stomach flip. He moves through the crowd like he owns the room, and every girl he passes turns to watch him go.

My thong is soaked. Has been for the last twenty minutes, ever since I first noticed him across the kitchen. I don't understand it — I've never been attracted to Trevor, not once in two years of sharing classes. But something about the way he's looking at me right now makes my pussy clench so hard I have to grip the counter.

"Hey, Megan." His voice is deeper than I remember. Richer. It rolls over me like warm honey. "Having a good party?"

"Great," I manage, but my voice comes out breathy. I can feel my nipples hardening beneath the thin velvet of my corset. "You look — different. New haircut?"

He laughs, and the sound vibrates in my chest. "Something like that." His eyes drop — just for a second — to where my tits strain against the fabric. Then back up. A slow, deliberate appreciation that makes my cheeks burn. "You look incredible, by the way. That costume was made for you."

I should laugh it off. I should deflect. I'm the hostess — I have seventy-five guests to manage. But my thighs are pressing together and my clit is throbbing and every rational thought in my head is being drowned out by a single screaming demand: let him touch you.

"Where's your date?" I ask, trying to sound casual. Failing.

"Trixie's busy," he says, stepping closer. Close enough that I can smell him — something earthy and dark, like ozone before a storm. "She's... making friends."

His hand finds my hip. Just resting there. Casual. But the heat of his palm through the thin lace of my skirt sends electricity straight to my cunt and I gasp — actually gasp — like some freshman at her first frat party.

"You okay?" Those amber eyes. So close. The pupils are strange — slightly elongated, like a cat's.

"Yeah," I whisper. "Just — hot in here."

"Come with me," he says, and his thumb traces a circle on my hipbone that makes my knees buckle. "I found a quiet spot upstairs. You look like you could use a break from hosting."

Every alarm in my brain is screaming that something is wrong. That this isn't Trevor. That the party has gone insane. That the woman in the back bedroom is doing something unspeakable to half the men at my party.

But his hand is so warm. And my thong is so wet. And my body is saying yes, yes, yes with a conviction that silences everything else.

"Okay," I breathe.