Stay. Ask Pan what the next costume would feel like — what new sensations are waiting.

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 11:42 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

My hand drops from the door handle.

I don't turn it. I don't push through. Instead, I lean my back against the cold glass and look at Pan — really look at her — standing there in that blazer with her arms crossed, her amber eyes burning with patient hunger. My cock is still half-hard in my loose boxers. My phantom pussy throbs with an emptiness that makes my teeth ache. And the question that comes out of my mouth is the one I swore I'd never ask.

"What would the next one feel like?"

Pan's expression shifts — something flickers behind those slit pupils, a flash of genuine surprise that melts instantly into radiant satisfaction. She uncrosses her arms and takes a step toward me. Then another. The click of her heels on tile is deliberate, measured, each step a countdown.

"Oh, Trevor," she breathes, stopping close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off her body. Her hand comes up and cups my jaw, tilting my face toward hers. "You beautiful, stupid boy. You're actually asking me to sell you on it."

"I just want to know," I whisper. My voice cracks. "What it would feel like. The next costume."

She traces her thumb across my lower lip, her touch feather-light but burning through my enhanced skin sensitivity like a brand. Her other hand drops to rest on my hip, fingers curling possessively into the denim.

"The witch gave you sensation," she murmurs, her lips close enough to mine that I can taste cinnamon on her breath. "The schoolgirl gave you submission. The next one..." She pauses, letting the silence stretch until my pulse is hammering in my ears. "The next one would give you hunger. Pure, animal, insatiable hunger. Every nerve in your body would be rewired for pleasure — not just your pussy, not just your breasts. Your skin. Your tongue. The tips of your fingers. You'd feel everything at ten times the intensity, and you'd need more. More hands. More mouths. More cocks filling every hole until you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but come and come and come."

Her hand slides from my hip to my stomach, pressing flat, fingers splaying downward. I feel every ridge of her fingerprints through the thin cotton of my t-shirt.

"I have a catgirl costume," she says softly. "Soft ears. A tail that curls when you're aroused. A body built for being bred by multiple partners at once. The condition is... generous. It requires being filled completely — every hole — until you overflow. I have friends who would help. Creatures who are very, very good at what they do."

She leans in and presses her lips to my ear. Her cock — still half-hard — brushes against my thigh through her skirt, and I shudder violently.

"You'd feel them all at once, Trevor. Tongues and tentacles and thick, throbbing cocks, stretching you open, pumping you full. You'd come so hard you'd forget your own name. You'd forget you were ever anything but a desperate little fucktoy begging for more."

She pulls back and looks at me. Her amber eyes are molten gold, pupils blown wide with arousal.

"Or," she says, stepping back and gesturing toward the door behind me, "you can walk out right now. Go to your party in whatever you've got. Spend the rest of your life wondering what it felt like to be completely, utterly devoured."

She waits. The shop hums around us — a low, expectant vibration, like the building itself is holding its breath.