The Storage Room

He was supposed to follow her. Silke broke free from the crowd, pulling her skirt back over the wet slits, and slipped into the first opening in the hallway. For a heartbeat, the cape was gone. Then it was back again. Right up close.

She pointed at him. Her finger curled. He caught up to her. She kissed him right away, mask to mask, surprised at how quickly he’d reached her. The kiss tasted of beer and plastic. She asked, “You need a name. What’s your name?” He. “Uh, Peter.” She pulled him by the cape into the storage closet—cleaning supplies, a bare light bulb. No time for small talk. She wanted his cock. The beautiful one from his fist. Now.

In her mind, he isn’t called Anonymous. Anonymous sounds like spam. His name is Peter. She knelt down in front of him.

The floor was cold. The bunny mask stayed on. Pants up, then down, past his knees. His cock slipped out, no longer as hard as it had been on the floor. Softer, heavy. Silke took it into her mouth anyway, gently, tentatively, and thought: I can do this.

She pulled down the top of the costume.

Her tits were exposed; the bow on her lingerie was useless. She took it between her tits—warm, soft—and licked the head while squeezing her breasts together. Up and down. Mouth, skin, mouth again. It grew hard in the tight slit, pressing against her sternum, against her lower lip. Silke moaned against it, on purpose, for him.

Then she looked up. Of course he was filming.

The phone held at an angle—her mask, her tits, his cock in between. Not a word from him. Just the lens. She took him out of her mouth, placed him visibly between her breasts, firmly, and said loud and clear, so the mic would pick it up:

“The rabbit’s out of the bag. You can have it all.”

After that, she put on a show for the camera.

No tentative licking. A blowjob meant to impress. She held the shaft at the base, took the head deep, let it slip out again—a string of saliva—looked into the lens, took it back in. Her tongue flat against the underside. Her hand moving quickly. Her tits still bare, her skirt hiked up, her pussy exposed to the cool air of the room. She took him so deep that the mask bumped against his stomach, gagged slightly, held it there, pulled back, saliva dripping down her chin.

In her mind, this was seduction.

Peter. The assignment. Mouth. Whatever he wants. The line she’d said herself, so it would count. The door was unlocked. She sucked faster, smacking her lips, and guided his free hand to the back of her head—not because he was pulling her—but so the picture would be right.

“Everything,” she said again, his cock against her lower lip. “Mouth. Pussy. Whatever you want. You just have to say it.” The rabbit’s out of the bag.

He groaned. His hips thrust forward. The cock filled her mouth, hard, tasting of skin and her own fist from just a moment ago. Silke let the camera see how it disappeared between her lips, how her cheeks hollowed out, how she jerked him off while she sucked. Her knees ached. The light bulb glowed yellow on her bare chest.

He came without much warning.

Warm. Salty. Too much all at once. Silke kept him in her mouth, swallowed because the lens was rolling, and let the rest glisten on her lower lip before licking it off. A drop on her chest. She wiped it away with his cock, back into the lens once more, then let him go.

No hug.

She pulled her top up, smoothed out her skirt, and straightened her mask. The taste lingered. He was still standing there with his pants around his knees and his cell phone in his hand as she walked past him toward the door.

Escape.

Not out of fear of him. Out of fear of what else she would have offered if she’d stayed. Her pussy. Everything. The closet was too small for the rest of what her body already wanted.

Silke disappeared back onto the dance floor, her mouth wet, her slit wet, and waited until he found her again.

Behind her, the storage closet remained open.