Nun of these

It is not one of the original five. After the Algorithm has spent days circling the same options you finally tell it you want something different, something that feels like a real costume instead of an open invitation. The Algorithm adjusts without argument and serves up a modest black habit, white wimple, rosary, and a long skirt that still sits high enough on the calf to show the shape of your legs in black stockings. You add the usual extras anyway: the gaff, the soft breast forms, makeup that will soften your face under the wimple, simple black shoes. The Algorithm notes the choice with a short line. Lower visibility. Higher contrast when discovered. Proceed.

The package arrives and you prepare on a quiet Saturday evening. Shaving is thorough. The tuck presses your modest cock flat and back until the front of the black skirt hangs completely smooth. The breast forms sit under the habit with just enough shape to suggest a soft chest. Makeup is lighter than usual. The wimple frames your face and hides most of your hair. When you look in the mirror the effect is convincing enough for a party. You look like a slightly too-pretty nun who decided to show up in costume. Your cock is already half-hard inside the gaff from the contrast alone.

The party is a mixed Halloween gathering in a large rented house. Music, fog, colored lights, the usual mix of elaborate and lazy costumes. You walk in and the nun outfit draws a few smiles and raised eyebrows but less immediate hunger than the shorter dresses would have. People treat it as funny more than seductive at first. You accept a drink, keep your voice soft, and move through the rooms.

The attention builds slowly.

A few people make the expected jokes about confession and sin. A woman in a devil costume tells you the look is unexpectedly hot and touches the rosary at your chest for a second. A guy in a priest costume tries a few lines and moves on when you only smile. You start to relax into the relative safety of the longer skirt and the covered hair. Your cock settles into a low, persistent half-hardness inside the gaff, the modest length aware of every step but not yet desperate.

He finds you near the back of the house where the lights are lower and the music is muffled.

He is tall, broad-shouldered, dressed as a classic vampire with an open shirt and a cheap cape. He looks at the habit for a long moment and then smiles in a way that is more interested than amused.

“Nun at a party like this. Bold choice.” His voice is low. “Most people go the other direction.”

You give a small shrug and a soft reply. He stays. Conversation starts with the usual Halloween noise and then narrows. He stands closer than necessary. His eyes move over the black fabric, the white wimple, the way the skirt falls. When he laughs at something his hand brushes your arm and then settles lightly at your waist.

The touching escalates in small steps.

His hand stays at your waist while he talks. Then it slides a little lower, resting on the curve of your hip through the habit. You feel the heat of his palm and the quiet assumption behind it. Your cock hardens further inside the gaff at the contact. You tell yourself to step away and instead stay where you are. He takes the lack of resistance as permission.

He shifts so his body blocks you from the main room. The hallway is dim. Music covers most sound. His hand moves from your hip to the small of your back, then lower, cupping your ass through the black skirt and giving a slow, testing squeeze. You make a quiet sound. He smiles and does it again, firmer.

“No one expects the nun to be this soft,” he murmurs. His other hand rises and rests against the side of your chest, feeling the shape of the breast form through the fabric. He kneads once, then again. “Really soft.”

Your cock is fully hard now, the modest length pressed flat and aching inside the gaff. The contradiction between the holy costume and the open groping makes the arousal sharper. He keeps exploring with slow confidence. One hand stays on your ass, lifting the skirt just enough to slide underneath and run his palm up the back of your thigh over the stockings. The other hand continues to map the front of the habit, squeezing the breast forms, then drifting lower across your stomach.

When his hand reaches the front of the skirt and presses inward he expects soft curves and empty space. What he finds instead is the firm, tucked shape of your cock under the gaff.

He freezes.

For a second his hand stays exactly where it is, palm flat against the evidence. Then he pulls back as if burned. His face changes fast. Confusion first, then sharp realization, then anger.

“What the fuck?” His voice is louder than before. “You’re a guy?”

You open your mouth. Nothing useful comes out. The wimple suddenly feels tight. Your cock is still hard inside the gaff, throbbing against the exact place his hand just left.

He stares at the smooth front of the skirt, then at your face under the wimple, then back down. The anger settles into something hotter and uglier.

“You let me touch you like that. Standing here in the nun outfit letting me grab your ass and your chest and the whole time you’ve got a dick tucked under the skirt.” He steps closer again, not with the earlier interest but with a rough, pissed-off intensity. “What is this, some kind of joke? You get off on guys feeling you up thinking you’re a girl?”

Your face burns. Embarrassment crashes through the arousal so hard it makes your stomach twist. You try to step back and he follows, keeping you in the dim hallway.

“Answer me.” His voice is low and sharp. “You hard right now? That little thing got hard while I was groping what I thought was a nun?”

The accuracy of the question lands like another hand. You are hard. Painfully so. The modest cock is straining against the gaff, wet at the tip, the entire situation feeding it even as shame floods your face and chest. You manage a tight, wordless nod because lying feels impossible under the weight of his stare.

He lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “Unbelievable.” His eyes drop to the front of the habit again. “Show me.”

You hesitate. The anger in his face makes the demand feel dangerous, but the same anger is mixed with a heat that keeps your cock throbbing. Slowly, hands shaking, you lift the front of the black skirt and ease the gaff aside just enough. Your modest cock springs free, hard, flushed, smaller than average and unmistakably male, the head already slick.

He stares at it for a long second. The anger does not leave his face, but something else joins it.

“That’s it? That’s what you were hiding under the holy clothes while I had my hands all over you?” He reaches out before you can move and wraps his fingers around the shaft, not gently. The sudden contact makes your hips jerk. “Little dick got all worked up being mistaken for a girl. Letting a guy squeeze your ass and play with the fake tits.”

He gives a rough stroke, then another. The friction is dry and intense. You make a broken sound that is half protest and half something else. Embarrassment burns hotter. So does the arousal. Your cock leaks over his fingers even as you want the floor to open.

“You should have said something the second I touched you,” he says, voice still tight with anger. “Instead you stood there and took it. Got hard from it.” He strokes again, firmer, using the wetness now. “Does that little thing always get like this when someone thinks you’re a girl and puts their hands on you?”

You cannot find a clean answer. The hallway feels too small. The music from the main party feels too far away. His fist keeps moving on your cock with short, almost punishing pulls while he talks, the anger and the residual heat from the earlier groping tangled together. You are dizzy with the mix of shame, fear of how loud this might get, and the raw fact that your body is responding hard to every rough word and every stroke.

He works you like that for another minute, long enough that your thighs start to tremble and your breathing turns uneven. Then he suddenly lets go and steps back as if he has only just remembered to be disgusted.

“Get out of here.” His voice is flat and pissed. “Seriously. Take the costume and the little dick and go. I don’t need this shit at a party.”

He turns and walks back toward the main room without looking at you again. The space he leaves feels colder.

You stand in the hallway with your cock still out, still hard, skirt lifted, rosary hanging crooked against the habit. The embarrassment is total. So is the anger at how the night turned, at him, at yourself for not stopping it earlier, at the way your body stayed interested even while he was angry and rough. You tuck yourself away with shaking hands, smooth the skirt down, adjust the wimple, and walk straight for the exit without looking at anyone.

The night air outside is cold against your face. You keep the habit on for the walk home because changing would mean standing still longer than you can stand. Every step makes the stockings shift and the gaff press against your cock, which has not fully softened. The memory of his hands on your ass and chest before he knew, and the rough strokes after he knew, loops without mercy.

By the time you reach your apartment the mix of feelings has settled into something tight and electric. Embarrassment sits heavy in your chest. Anger at the way he spoke and the sudden dismissal burns under it. And underneath both, stronger than either, is the persistent arousal that never fully left. Your modest cock is still half-hard, sensitive, marked by the memory of his fist.

You lock the door, lean against it, and finally let the habit come apart piece by piece. The wimple, the rosary, the black skirt, the stockings. When you are down to the gaff you peel that off too and your cock springs free again, flushed and wet. You wrap a hand around it and stroke once, then again, the shame and the anger feeding the motion instead of stopping it.

You come with a quiet, frustrated sound, spilling over your fist while the nun costume lies in a dark pile on the floor. The orgasm is sharp and unsatisfying in the way that leaves you wanting the exact thing that just went wrong. You clean up, shove the costume into a corner, and sit on the edge of the bed with your face still hot and your body still humming.

The Algorithm’s message arrives a few minutes later, calm and precise.

Elevated heart rate and skin conductivity during the confrontation window. Mixed affective response recorded: shame, anger, sustained arousal. The discovery event produced stronger physiological markers than any previous positive-attention scenario. Note logged for future calibration.

You stare at the screen, still half-hard, still embarrassed, still pissed, and still unmistakably turned on by the entire ugly sequence.