Say you're looking for something masculine — a vampire, a werewolf, something cool and manly.

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 9:52 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

"Something masculine," you say, squaring your shoulders in a way that probably looks more pathetic than confident. "Like a vampire. Or a werewolf. Something cool, you know? Manly."

Pan's eyebrows arch upward, and something flickers behind those amber-gold eyes — amusement, certainly, but also something hungrier. She tilts her head, letting that cascade of violet-black hair spill across her shoulder, and her full lips purse in a theatrical pout.

"Masculine," she echoes, drawing the word out like she's savoring a particularly interesting flavor. "Manly. Hmm."

She turns away from you and begins walking toward the racks, her hips swaying with that same hypnotic rhythm. You watch the hem of her plaid skirt bounce against the backs of her thighs, the black stockings clinging to calves that seem sculpted from bronze. She runs her fingers along the costume racks as she passes, trailing her nails across plastic packaging with a sound like whispered secrets.

"I'll be honest with you, Trevor," she says over her shoulder, not slowing down. "I don't really do... masculine."

She stops at a rack near the back and pulls something out, holding it up without turning around. It's a costume — you can see that much — but from here you can't make out the details.

"Every shop in town sells you the same tired bullshit," she continues, finally pivoting to face you. She's holding a costume on a hanger, pressed against her chest so you can't quite see what it is. "Plastic fangs. Fake fur. Foam muscles that make you look like you're wearing a mattress pad. Is that really what you want? To show up at Megan's party looking like every other guy who bought the same Dracula cape from Spirit Halloween?"

She steps closer. That sweet, heavy scent hits you again — cinnamon and musk — and your cock gives another involuntary twitch. She's close enough now that you can see the faint sheen of moisture on her lips, the way her slit pupils dilate slightly as they lock onto yours.

"Or," she whispers, lowering the costume just enough for you to catch a glimpse of deep purple fabric and something lacy, "do you want to be something that makes people stop breathing when you walk into a room? Something that makes Megan's jaw drop? Something that makes every single person at that party unable to take their eyes off you?"

She holds the costume out at arm's length now, and you can finally see it clearly. It's a witch costume — but not the cheap, baggy kind you'd find at a discount store. The dress is made of rich purple velvet with a plunging neckline, sheer black panels along the sides, and a skirt that would barely cover your thighs. A pointed hat sits atop the hanger, along with fishnet stockings and a pair of elbow-length black gloves.

"I know what you're thinking," Pan says, her smirk widening. "'But Pan, that's a girl's costume.' And you're right. It is." She leans in, her breath warm against your ear. "But here's the thing about my costumes, Trevor — they don't just cover you. They become you. When you put this on, you won't be some guy wearing a witch dress. You'll be a witch. A real one. Gorgeous. Powerful. Magnetic."

She pulls back and watches your face with those predatory eyes, waiting for your reaction. Her tongue traces her lower lip — slow, deliberate.

"So what do you say, sweetie? Want to try it on? Just to see how it feels? No commitment. You can always take it off."