Alter Ego - A Halloween Short Story - Part One
So I wrote up Max's first BDSM experience and thought it would be fun to explore Show Me, Sir's costar's first foray into kink as well. So here it is. Hope you enjoy
Ben Hayato didn’t get Halloween. Having grown up in a very conservative, very traditional Japanese neighborhood, he hadn’t really celebrated it as a child. Had usually spent October thirty-firsts studying, not trick-or-treating.
“It’s fun,” his roommate, Peter Richards, insisted, futzing with the whip on his hip as they pushed their way through the overstuffed, past-capacity sorority house party.
Ben eyed his friend who was gotten up as Indiana Jones. “Aren’t we a little old to be dressing up in costumes?”
As it was, the best Ben could come up with—would put up with—was a Gryffindor T-shirt and a pair of thick, plastic Harry Potter glasses that he’d gotten for free with the book at the last novel-release. He fiddled with the fake, glass-less spectacles. Made for someone else’s face, the glasses pinched him, cutting off his periphery vision and tilting strangely on his angled face with every word.
“It’s not about us wearing costumes,” Peter insisted as they shouldered their way into the living room, pushing past a chainsaw killer and a unicorn. “It’s about the costumes everyone else wears.”
What did that even mean?
“Excuse us,” two girls dressed up in black lace lingerie and witches’ hats said, sidestepping them. Ben hissed as the crowd pressed one of the witches flush up against him, her small, firm breasts thrust up into his chest.
Ah. Okay. He understood that.
He re-adjusted the glasses as he watched the two giggling girls disappear into the throng. “So this is just an excuse for girls to wear socially unacceptable clothing in the guise of costumes?” Ben asked, looking around the room spotting a sexy nurse, a sexy paratrooper, a sexy umpire, and even a sexy headless corpse. All more scraps of lace and lycra than actual clothes. All more skin and body paint than cloth.
“Get in the spirit,” Peter urged, smacking him in the shoulder, sending his now righted specks askew again.
Peter sighed and gripped Ben’s shoulders. “Just,” he said, shaking him a bit, “have fun.”
Peter was a personable guy. A computer science major, he supplemented his own scholarships and grants by fixing and upgrading other students’ computers and gadgets, often on the cheap and with a blind eye to niggling legalities. While no quarterback or valedictorian, he was well-known and well-liked among the student body. Hence his invitation to this hedonistic bash.
Ben had grown to respect and admire—even envy—him that. Not much for going out, it was harder for Ben to network and mingle alone in his room with a book. It was a skill he’d never really mastered. He tended to shy away from people, which tended to make people shy away from him. It was an invisibility that was far more convincing than the sexy ghost flashing thigh as she tipsily collapsed on Peter’s lap.
“Do you remember me?” the girl asked Peter, wrapping her arms around his neck as she stared into his eyes.
Peter looked her up and down. “Sure do,” he assured. “You wanted to lift a copy of a design program your friend had on her computer. Couldn’t do it, but I did find you a comparable program for free.”
“Do you remember my name?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
Peter gave her a sheepish yet charming grin. “You could remind me.”
“Or,” she said with a mischievous smile, “we could go upstairs where you’ll get three tries to guess my name.”
“What do I get if I guess correctly?” Peter asked with a game grin.
“Me,” she answered matter-of-factly.
“And if I don’t?” Peter asked, obviously intrigued.
She leaned in, wriggling on his lap, as she whispered in his ear.
Ben’s friend’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s not really much incentive to get it right,” he murmured hotly as his grip on the girl tightened.
The ghost simply tipped her head knowingly.
“Uh,” Peter said as he turned to Ben. “You gonna be okay here?”
Ben just smiled ruefully. “Go.” It wasn’t as if he couldn’t handle a party by himself.
And, even if he couldn’t, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t make his way back to the dorms on his own.
He watched as Peter left, trailing behind the wisps of greyish white strips barely covering the girl.
For a long moment, Ben just sat on the couch, listening to the many conversations going on around him. Sometimes, he would meet the gaze of someone at the party—maybe even try to join in on a group—but, after a few awkward attempts, he got up.
He pushed his way through the crowd of people, thinking it odd and illogical that he should feel more alone in the thick of the loud, boisterous crowd than he ever did in the quiet of his room.
He made his way to the food table, picking at odds and ends he found there. A handful of grapes. A couple of crackers. A bite of cheese. Nibbling at a frosted pumpkin-shaped cookie, he stared at the many bottles and jugs sitting at the far end of the table.
He watched as people poured drinks. Rum and Cokes—one-third rum, two-thirds Coke. A lemon drop—one-half vodka, one-half lemon juice, sugar, and stir. He listened as partygoers mixed drinks with crazy names like “Salty Dog”—five parts grapefruit juice, one part gin, add salt and pour over ice—and “Four Horsemen”—one part tequila, one part Jäger, one part peppermint liqueur, and one part rum.
It seemed easy enough. Ben got out two glasses. In one, he poured small sips of random drinks to taste before discarding the bottles or pouring measured amounts into the second glass. Working his way around the table, he sipped and mixed his way into what he thought was the perfect drink. He took a sip of the concoction and smiled. It was delicious even as it spread a satisfying, glowing warmth through him.
“What is that?” a beautiful magician in coattails and a towering top hat asked him as she eyed his glass curiously.
Ben shrugged. “A Lazarus Pit,” he told the done-up Zatanna, his mind flicking back to the Batman comics he kept in his basement. Wrong character, he knew, but it was the best he could think of, at the moment.
The superhero magician smiled, dimples forming in her stunning, show-ready face. “Can I try it?” she asked, gesturing for the glass. As if the words were some kind of spell, he relinquished it to her, marveled and a little anxious as she put the plastic cup to her pursed, pink mouth. Licking her lips, she moaned. “That’s amazing.” Tapping a fairy on her glittered shoulder, the illusionist said, “You have to try this.”
Passing the glass, Ben watched with amazement as more girls sipped this drink like an odd, profane communion. He swallowed, a bit panicked, as a chorus of “Make me one” rung out.
“Uh, sure,” he said, uneasily, as he grabbed a stack full of glasses.
For the fairy, he made a “Stardust”—two parts citrus soda, one part peach Schnapps and a splash of sour apple liqueur. A sexy caveman couple got “Stone Throws” with hard cider and beer. He made a “Speakeasy”—three parts Guinness, one part whiskey, with a guzzle of coffee liqueur—for a flapper girl who’d drawn a lightning bolt on his forehead with a red ballpoint pen, along with her phone number—896-7853—on the back of his hand.
People kept coming, acting as if he knew what he was doing. So he kept doling out drinks, pretending that he did. It got easier as he went along; remembering the taste and mix of drinks. Vodka’s sharp bite. The smooth burn of rum. The bold richness of Jägermeister. He learned that citrus could bring out the crisp taste of the lighter beers. And, while the darker stouts reminded him of the bitter taste of coffee, he didn’t much care for them once they went warm.
By the time the crowd cleared, Ben had all but exhausted the combinations of drinks. Feeling flush with accomplishment and the alcohol’s warm, soothing effect, he mixed himself a little something. See, he thought as he took another deep and satisfied sip, this socializing thing wasn’t all that hard. He didn’t need Peter to have a good time. He’d done just fine on his own.
Ben turned, when he felt a tap on his shoulder, just in time to avoid the crowd of conga-ing costumers gyrating to some oddly mixed song that sounded strangely like French reggae. Stumbling a bit as a few of the line’s more enthusiastic—if not most coordinated—members bumped into him, Ben felt a pair of hands cup his, steadying him and his now sloshing glass.
He secured his grip on his glass as he looked up to see the costumed Zatanna in front of him, her blue eyes smiling—maybe even laughing—at him. The curve of her darkly painted lips seemed somewhere between a smirk and an invitation. Ben pondered which it could be even as his gaze slipped south, idly tracing the deep vee of her pearl white vest that—while not exactly canon-accurate—lay tantalizingly tight over black lace-covered breasts.
“Mix me something, Potion Master?” she asked, calling his gaze back up to her grinning face.
“Sorry,” he mumbled over the loud, culturally eclectic music, blushing at how he’d been caught ogling, as he set his glass aside and wiped his wet hand against his jeans. Maybe that was enough tonight.
She just continued smiling, seeming oddly and mysteriously omniscient. “Make me a drink?”
“Uh, sure,” he said, flustered by that gaze. Not knowing what else to do, he turned to start mixing again. His neck prickled as he felt her watch him, her gaze assessing while he grabbed and combined this and that. At first, he thought that she was judging the drink but, the more he mixed, he didn’t think so.
She was watching him. Not his hands, as the others had, trying to figure out formulas and recipes. She was watching him. The whole of him. And waiting. For something. Something Ben couldn’t even begin to guess at.
It was as if she knew him. As if, with so much familiarity from her, he really ought to know her.
But he didn’t think he did.
He was sure he would remember a girl like her. With clever, blue eyes that shone sharply with thoughts he could see but not decipher. Like him, she had a very angular face, sculpted in shapes that should have seemed wrong but somehow, together, were stunning and foreign. Riding that line between gaunt and gorgeous, the sharp planes of her nose and cheeks, her brow and chin, were as alien as they were alluring.
Long, dark curls framed her face and flowed down her back and over her shoulders, caressing her body as she leaned against the counter.
Though he tried—so very hard—not to, his eyes kept drifting to her breasts that were now propped up on her forearms as she rested against the back of a chair. He wondered if she’d done that on purpose. If her arms, that encased and displayed, were a deliberate attempt to draw his gaze down. Judging by her knowing grin, he thought yes.
“Ben,” she said, tilting her head as he handed her the drink concoction—some grab-bag of booze that he couldn’t have recreated to save his life, “right?”
He looked up a little sheepishly.
So she did know him.
He nodded, unsure if it were ruder to ask for her name now or pretend like he knew it. Not much for names, he didn’t normally pay much attention, if he could help it. He always figured that sort of thing tended to work itself out in the normal run of things, linking memory and importance in a completely organic way.
And, looking her over again—Ben was almost sure—if he’d once known this girl’s name, he would have made a point of remembering it.
“Halloween is the best time of year, isn’t it?” the magician continued, leaning a bit more forward on the chair to reveal the deep vee of her cleavage.
Those pale, round breasts were beautiful, rising—just a bit—with every breath as they pushed against the tight fabric of her vest. He knew it was rude to stare but, try as he might, he couldn’t look at her without staring. “Sure,” he said on a deep swallow as he forced his gaze to focus on hers.
“There’s magic in the air this time of year,” she said breezily, even while studying him as if she could read his every thought, as if she could witch out exactly where his mind had drifted. “One night a year, we all get a chance to be someone else. To be something else.”
Ben thought about that. About the magic in not being yourself.
Except he liked himself.
He was honors pre-law at the college of his choice. He’d been on the Dean’s List every semester. He was a National Merit Scholarship Winner, a National Collegiate Scholar, and the youngest member of an elite study group for law students.
He was on track. He’d been preparing for this, working his ass off, for as long as he could remember. Why would he want to give that up, even if just for one night?
“With a little makeup and a wig,” she mused, “you can step out of your life and into one of your own imagining. With just a wardrobe change, it’s like being given license to do all the things you normally wouldn’t. It’s like identity alchemy.”
Ben nodded and shrugged, not really sure what to say. To be honest, Ben hadn’t had all that much experience with girls outside a classroom. Mostly fumbled fits made in library reading nooks or someone’s dorm room bunk bed. And, while he’d certainly enjoyed himself and—God, he hoped—they’d enjoyed themselves, he wasn’t altogether certain he’d even know what to do with a girl like the magician, who was almost too pretty to look at, much less touch.
“You just can’t beat that,” she sighed almost wistfully.
Not that he was planning to touch her or anything. Hoping, sure. Fantasizing, oh yeah. But she’d only asked him to make her a drink. She was a sorority sorceress and he was a Potterhead in an unwashed T-shirt; he couldn’t even imagine what she would want with him beyond a little bartending.
He watched as she tipped the red solo cup back, draining the “Felix Felicis” in one long drink. Even over the party’s strange soundtrack of German punk rock, he heard the definitive crunch of the cup’s plastic as she all but slammed it back on the table. “I want to show you something,” she told him, her face a bit tight but determined. “Upstairs.”
He blinked. Upstairs? “What?” he asked blankly, sure he’d heard her wrong.
“Magic,” she told him, answering a question he hadn’t actually asked but was pretty sure he liked the answer to. “I want to show you some magic.”
Read Part Two Here