Slinking amongst the overly bedazzled crowd, I slide my way to the bar, careful not to trip on my Cinderella slippers and long velvet gown.

While the shoes aren’t glass, they may as well be; they are clear, tall Lucite, more like stripper shoes than fairy-tale-princess footwear, but they seemed like fun, a modern twist on everyone’s favorite orphan. The fact that I’m at the party at all is only a testament to my friendship with Marlene, a.k.a. Princess Leia, who keeps swooping in and out carrying trays of food and admonishing people not to remove their costumes. She had a strict admittance policy and, fearing that I wouldn’t get in, I adhered to it, even though I wasn’t even sure I was in a party mood. Nothing like the chance of not getting in to make me want to be part of an inner circle.

I’m making my way through my cocktail while trying to find someone I know, or might want to know, when I see a gorgeous nymph of a girl, the kind my heart speeds up for, the kind who makes me want to pull her by the hair and never let go. She is dressed as a classic schoolgirl, not surprising in this crowd but charming nonetheless. Her hair spurts out in two brown pigtails, tied with those rubber bands with big pink beads on the end that I haven’t seen in 20 years. Her skirt is short and plaid, on top of strategically ripped fishnets, her shirt white and sheer, her bra the exact opposite.

A studded collar beams out from around her neck, but I’ve been watching her for a while now and know she is alone. This isn’t a slave collar, but an “I want to be a slave” collar, even if that desire only lasts a night. Her bottom lip is pierced smack in the center, a surly circle daring someone to touch it. Daring in that defiant way that really means “Stay away.” But I can’t, don’t want to. She is the kind of girl who challenges me, who makes me want to tie her up with her own fish-nets, make her defy all her own practiced coolness to beg me to fuck her. It’s Halloween, and although there are far more original outfits at this party, I have eyes only for her.

I approach her slowly, keeping my eyes on her until she is forced to look my way, even though others are vying for her attention. Her bright red lipstick glows against her pale skin, and though she’s probably all of 21 or 22, she could easily pass for younger. Her sullen eyes seem to be daring someone — anyone — to try to have their way with her. My hand is itching to grab her, to get her across my lap, her ass exposed, but before I race too far ahead of myself and completely scare her away, I pause and regroup, taking a deep breath and trying to pretend that she’s just a pretty girl at a party who somehow hasn’t set off a rush of heat inside my brand new black-lace panties.

As I approach her, my mind races with all the delicious games I want to play with her, but all I say is “Hi,” deadpan, not giving anything away. I lean against the table, trying to play it cool. She looks me up and down and then sticks a finger in her mouth, sucking on it like a lollipop, her eyes twinkling with girlish mischief. I take a step closer; I need to teach this brat a lesson.

She finally takes her finger out of her mouth and holds it out to me, approaching my lips as if she is offering a sample of the best dessert ever. She’s being deliberately naughty, but she doesn’t know the kind of punishment I want to dole out to her. I grab her hand. Instead of taking the proferred finger,

I push it behind her back and press her up against the wall. The choker is the kind that kinky girls like to wear to signal they’re not your ordinary school-girls, that they’re more cut-class-and-smoke-in-the-bathroom types than a ponytailed cheerleader in a miniskirt. Except the kinky girls don’t know that those ponytailed cheerleaders are often the kinkiest girls of all, so they dress up much like this. But on this girl, somehow, it works, less an act and more a display, an offering.

I tower over her, thanks to my sharp, spiky heels; it’s well worth the pinching and puffiness my feet will later feel to be able to look down at her like this.

I stroke her neck with my fingertips as she looks up at me, her eyes wide and mouth slightly slack.

The tables have turned in only a moment, but one that has brought us both exactly where we need to be. My cunt is threatening to go into overdrive if I don’t give it some attention, and with each second that passes, I’m torn between tormenting her further and putting her lipsticked little mouth to good use. I pause a few moments longer, looking deep into her eyes, making sure she wants this as much as I do. As we stand there not speaking, my hand wrapped around her wrist, daring her to break away, I can feel the infinitesimal changes in her stance, her breathing, the ever-growing red creeping along her skin, the quickening breaths escaping from her mouth as she tries to maintain her cool. We are playing a game of chicken, wondering who will break first, who will admit to being so wet she cannot stand one more minute of this tension-filled foreplay. Both of us will win, whoever goes first.

I inch closer to her, and almost laugh at how highly charged things have become between us before we’ve even told each other our names. I’m glad that I got a manicure today, glad my nails are just long enough and red enough and intimidating enough to make her flinch as I rake them lightly along her delicate neck, then bring them toward her mouth, which is open just enough for me to slide in two digits. Gone is the teasing lollipop offering she made to me earlier; she knows she has no choice as I push my fingers inside, feel her hot, wet mouth fasten around them. She closes her eyes and I watch the muscles in her neck contract as she sucks on my fingers, ready for anything I have to give her. Just as she’s getting really into it, has made my fingers the focal point of her entire body, I remove them and bring my hand up under her skirt. Her fishnets are like an optical illusion, only covering her up to her thighs; above that point I meet goosebump flesh and quickly make it my own, pinching along her upper thighs, claiming her for the night.

She doesn’t dare protest, and I know she likes the way I squeeze the tender skin between my fingers, the way that zap travels right up into her pussy, the way that my hand brushes across her cunt and feels her wetness. Although her skirt is short enough to be considered scandalous even in this crowd, she’s not wearing any panties, not caring who might get a peek at her; before I can think better of it, my fingers are stroking along her very wet opening, making my own cunt suddenly ache in a most torturous way. I’d love to sink to my knees and taste her, lick along this slickness my fingers are exploring, bury my face in her juices and suck on her clit, make her grab my head and claw the wall with desire. But as risqué as this party is, that would be going too far.

I loop a finger through the collar and tug on it, making her look at me, then pull her around so I can lead her into the private closet that only a select few know about, the one that rivals the size of my room and is perfect for fucking, according to Marlene. Pushing the girl along by the studded choker, my hand at the back of her neck, I prod her gently with the occasional brush of my knee against her ass. We are both silent but our walk speaks volumes. I tug on the collar and shove her inside the coveted closet, the walk having almost exceeded my patience.

I slam her against the wall and bring my hand back under her skirt, pressing urgently against her cunt, sliding the edge of my hand through her slick lips, then shoving three fingers inside her, my other hand holding her by the neck. “You’re a little brat, aren’t you? A tease?” I say as my fingers probe her sleek walls. “With that lollipop and little-girl look and those ’I need you to fuck me’ eyes. This is what you wanted, isn’t it, sweetheart?” But she surprises me; she’s more agile than I’ve given her credit for.

“Actually, no, that’s not what I’m looking for at all.” She pushes me away from her and then manages to get me up against the opposite wall with her tiny body. “Put your hands up,” she says. The cop lingo works for her, and I do as she says, too stunned, surprised, and aroused to protest. I hear her fumble, and then the awful sound of a knife tearing its way up my long velvet skirt, cutting it away until I feel a breeze against my ass. The bitch just ruined my precious thrift-store dress! I know I could take her, despite the knife, could turn around and wrestle her to the floor and show her who’s boss, but despite her appalling behavior, or maybe because of it, I am now soaking my panties, even more turned on than before.

Her fishnet-covered knee comes slamming into my pussy and hits me just hard enough to send a rocket of desire jolting through me. She leaves it there, kneading it against me, and I reach up and grab Marlene’s closet rod to keep my balance as the brat works her knee back and forth; she has my pussy clenching and way more than ready.

“You think I don’t know that you want me to fuck you?” she says. “You think I don’t know that your pussy is pounding right now, that you need it just as bad as I do?”

Every word out of her snotty little mouth sends me further into overdrive. She moves her knee and rips the dress even further, then yanks down my thin panties in one swoop; they land around my ankles. I try to lift a leg but she doesn’t let me, so I stand there, trapped by the flimsy fabric and my own lust, fully exposed to her.

She slides her fingers along my wetness, teasing me just as I did her. Tears come to my eyes as she taunts me with the nearness of her fingers, almost sliding them in and then right back out, not going near my clit either, but simply back and forth over my slit. She finally takes pity on me and slides those same fingers easily into me, pressing and pushing and expertly working my cunt, though by now I’m so turned on she could do practically anything to me and I’d respond.

And she does, her fingers somehow knowing exactly what I need, making me come in a fierce series of spasms that have me holding on to the rod above me for dear life as I push down against her hand, her small but powerful fingers that have tears streaming down my face. I haven’t come like this with someone else in years, haven’t let anyone that close to the real me, haven’t indulged in quite so much vulnerability. She keeps her fingers there, waiting, her other arm wrapped around me, hugging me as she presses herself to me, and I let her, any composure I once had gone as quickly as it took her to shove me across the closet.

I finally let go of the rod, wipe my face, and turn to look at her in the dim light coming in under the door. We still don’t speak, but she gets my message as my eyes probe hers, thankful and needy and just a bit shy. The dress is ruined but I don’t care, knowing Marlene will surely understand as I ditch it and slip into one of hers, a flowery sundress that has me feeling like I should be picking flowers or skipping along a field.

The girl still looks the same, but somehow all her outer symbols have taken on a new meaning, not quite menacing but not quite bratty either. I’m still not sure what to make of her, but I let her take my hand as we make our way out of the closet. The party is still in full swing; nobody seems to have missed us.

And then I’m not quite sure what to do. How do you make small talk after someone has rocked you to your very soul, gotten inside you so thoroughly and completely that you’re not even sure who you are anymore?

We smile at each other, sweet sad smiles, and then I go back to the punch table and she goes back to her corner, each of us more than slightly shaken.

I wonder if I’ll see her again. Even if I don’t, she’s taught me never to judge a girl by her costume.