The Night of the Mask That Turned Me Into Someone Else

Two nights ago I went to a costume party and something inside me is still trembling when I remember it. I’m writing it because if I don’t get it out of me, it’s going to rot in here.

The theme was masks. I bought a short black dress, some heels that made me two inches taller than was sensible, and a dark feather mask that covered half my face and left my mouth bare. In front of my bedroom mirror I slicked my hair back with gel, painted my lips a near-black red, and looked at myself for a full minute. The woman in the mirror wasn’t me. She was someone else. Someone who had spent years asking my permission to come out.

—Tonight I’m her —I said to the reflection.

The taxi dropped me off at an old house on the outskirts, with a garden and dim lights strung between the trees. The music could be heard from the gate. Inside there were about forty people packed together in costumes with no fixed theme: vampires, cardinals, soldiers, a bride and groom splattered with fake blood. It smelled of expensive perfume mixed with cigarettes and vodka.

—Coming alone? —the guy who opened the door asked me.

—I’m coming with myself —I said.

He laughed and let me in.

I poured myself a vodka with ice. Then another. The music got louder and people were dancing tightly in the living room. I stayed at the edge, watching, feeling the mask make me more opaque. No one knew who I was. I didn’t want to know either.

A woman dressed as a white cat asked me for a light. I gave her one. When she leaned in to light her cigarette, her neckline opened another inch more than necessary and I saw almost her whole tits, braless, with small dark nipples pointed at me. I looked down on purpose and held it a second longer than polite. She smiled and ran her tongue over her upper lip. Even them, my cunt is getting hard tonight, I thought, and I felt a new current climb up under my dress, soaking my thong all at once.

By the fourth vodka I noticed him. A tall guy dressed as a hunter, with a three-day beard and a gaze that never moved away. He was leaning against the dining room wall, glass in hand, and when he drank he looked at me over the rim. I held his stare. I didn’t look away. I wanted to know how far he would go.

He lifted his chin toward the back hallway. Just once. Enough.

I waited three songs before moving. So it wouldn’t be obvious. So it would seem like I was going to the bathroom by chance. I walked slowly through the crowd, my cunt already soaked through under the black thong and my nipples so hard they showed through the dress. I passed in front of a group of girls laughing beside a drinks table. One of them fixed me with her eyes when I brushed her back as I went by. I didn’t stop. He had called me first.

The back hallway led to two doors. One was closed. The other was ajar. I pushed it open.

He was inside, leaning on the sink, waiting for me.

—Close it —he said.

I locked it. He took a step, grabbed me by the nape, and crushed my mouth to his. He tasted like whiskey and tobacco. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was one of those kisses where a man tells you what he wants without saying it, with his tongue shoved all the way in and his teeth dug into my lower lip until I moaned. I let him do it. I felt his free hand hiking my dress up over my hip, fingers making their way over the thong, pressing. He slipped two fingers under the edge of the fabric, found how wet I was, and let out a low laugh.

—You’re dripping, whore —he said in my ear—. I barely touched you and you’re already like this.

—Yes —I gasped.

He shoved both fingers into me at once, all the way to the knuckles. He pulled them out shining and ran them over my lips. I sucked them without thinking. I tasted myself, thick and salty.

—On your knees —he said.

And down I went, onto the cold tiles of that stranger’s bathroom, not knowing his name, not knowing my own that night. I opened his pants, pulled down his boxer briefs, and his cock sprang right into my face: thick, veined, with a purple head and a heavy drop trembling at the tip. I ran my tongue over that drop first, to taste it. Salty, bitter, thick. Then I took the base in my hand and took him into my mouth without preamble, as far as my throat would let me, and there was still more. My eyes filled with water at the first thrust.

He held my hair with both hands and set the rhythm. I didn’t have to do much. He used my mouth like it was just another cunt. He went in to the hilt, pressed my nose against his pelvis, left me there two seconds without air, and let me go just before I choked. I stuck my tongue out between thrusts to lick his balls when he gave me a break. Drool spilled down my chin and stained the neckline of my dress.

—Look at me while you suck me —he growled, gripping my hair harder.

I lifted my eyes. His head was thrown back and his mouth open and his neck taut like a rope. He drove his cock into my throat one last time and came with a low grunt, hot spurts bursting against my palate and throat. He made me swallow without taking it out. I felt every thick drop go down, and when he finally let go and pulled it from my mouth, a thread of semen still hung from the head. I cleaned it off with my tongue without being asked.

I wiped the corners of my mouth with the back of my hand. He zipped himself up, gave me a light slap on the cheek, and left the bathroom before I could even get fully to my feet.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The mask was still perfect. My mouth was swollen, lipstick smudged in one corner. As if nothing had happened. As if everything had happened.

But I was still hot. Even more so. I slid a hand under my dress, pushed the thong aside, and touched myself. My cunt was dripping down my thighs. Two fingers slid in without resistance. I pulled them out and smelled them. I wanted to find another one right away.

***

I went back to the living room determined. If one had been enough with a tilt of the chin, another could be too. Men are much simpler than they like to believe.

I found the second one in the kitchen, pouring himself a double whiskey. He was dark-haired, broad-shouldered, with a wolf’s smile and a firefighter costume that looked tailor-made. I came up behind him, close enough for him to feel the heat of my body, and whispered in his ear:

—Want to dance?

We danced. From the first beat, I pressed my hip into his crotch. He grabbed my waist with both hands, no pretense, and pulled me against him as if he wanted to leave a mark. He was rock-hard. I felt him grow against my hip bone, long and thick, and I rubbed my ass against him as if I were dancing on a naked cock. I laughed softly.

—Want to go outside for a smoke? —he asked, hoarse in my ear.

—I want to —I said.

But one of his friends, well and truly drunk, hooked an arm over our shoulders:

—I’m going too.

The firefighter looked at me apologetically. I smiled at him. I wasn’t about to give up that easily.

We went out to the garden together. Moonlight barely reached through the branches of an old willow. It smelled of freshly cut grass, cigarette smoke, and the sweet perfume of some shrub that blooms at night. We crossed the lawn to a white-painted iron bench beside a planter full of large, dark leaves. The friend sat down. He pulled out a cigarette. The lighter shook in his hand. He took two long drags and his eyes closed. On the third, his head nodded. On the fourth, he fell asleep sitting up, his back against the bench, the cigarette burning down between his fingers.

The firefighter took the cigarette from his hand and ground it into the dirt.

—A miracle —he said.

—Take advantage of it —I said.

He grabbed my wrist and led me behind the planter. The leaves were so large they hid almost everything. You could barely see the house lights filtering through the green. The air smelled of wet earth, dense and vegetal.

He shoved me against the stone wall. The stone was cold through the dress. He pulled the shoulder straps down, yanked my tits out of the bra with two sharp motions, and bent down. He wasn’t gentle. He bit. He squeezed. He sucked as if he wanted to leave teeth marks I’d find tomorrow. He crushed one whole breast in his hand while his teeth sank into the other nipple, tugging until I let out a cry. I closed my eyes. I felt the stone at my back and a stranger’s tongue sucking my nipples and a moan escaped me that I didn’t want to hold back.

I lifted my hands to bury my fingers in his hair, but he lowered them. He pinned them to the wall, one on each side of my waist. Stay like that, he was saying without saying it. And I stayed.

He crouched in front of me. He pulled my dress up to my waist, ripped my thong off in one tug—I heard the fabric tear—and spread my thighs with his shoulders. He buried his face in my cunt without warning. He licked my lips first, long and slow, with his tongue flat. Then he pushed his tongue inside, fucking me with it, while his thumb found my clit and pressed it in circles. I arched against the stone and grabbed his head with both hands, asking for more without saying it. He ate me out until my knees went weak and I came against his mouth, with a long shudder that rose up from my feet. He stood up, licking his beard, shining all the way to his chin.

—You taste fucking delicious, whore —he said—. Now it’s your turn.

He opened his pants. He brought my hand down to his crotch. His cock was already out of his pants, thick, throbbing, wet at the tip.

—On your knees —he said.

On my knees again. But this time on the dirt, my stockings torn to pieces in two minutes by the little stones on the ground and my knees burning. I took him all the way in. He grabbed my hair with both hands and started moving my head to the rhythm he wanted, not mine. He slapped my face with his cock, ran it over my lips, hit my cheek with the head, leaving a trail of saliva and sticky fluid. He shoved it in me in one shot until I had to breathe through my nose so I wouldn’t gag. He squeezed my throat from the inside. I drooled and drooled and he only pulled out long enough to spit into my open mouth and push back in.

—Look at me —he said.

I looked up at him from below, with my mask crooked and my eyes watering, a thread of drool hanging from my chin. He smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. He pulled out and rubbed his cock all over my face, over the mask, over my hair, marking me like a bitch.

—Stand up —he ordered.

I got to my feet on jelly legs. He turned me around. He pressed my hands against the stone. He hiked my dress up over my waist. The thong was gone; he had torn it apart on the ground.

—This is what you wanted —he told me in my ear, and I felt the thick head of his cock sliding between the lips of my cunt, up and down, soaking in what I had there—. I saw it on your face when you came over.

—Yes —I admitted.

He drove it in with one thrust. All of it. All the way. I let out a cry that he covered with his hand over my mouth. He started fucking me against the stone without giving me time to adjust, with long, deep thrusts that lifted through my belly. He grabbed one tit from behind and with the other hand covered my mouth. I pressed my palms against the stone and bit the palm he was squeezing to keep from waking the friend sleeping three meters away. With every thrust my tits jolted and my nipples scraped against the cold wall.

—I’m fucking you so well, right? —he growled in my ear—. Say it.

—Yes —I panted into his hand—. Yes, very well.

—Tighter. Contract. Squeeze my cock.

I clenched my cunt around him as much as I could. He gave a groan and drove into me faster, deeper, until I could feel his balls slapping my clit again and again. I was coming again and he knew it.

—Come on, whore. Come on my cock.

I came with my mouth against his hand, biting him, shaking all over. My cunt pulsed around him, milking him. He didn’t stop.

He pulled his shining cock out and spat on my ass. He spread my cheeks with his thumbs. I felt the tip pushing into a place where no one had ever gone before.

—Wait —I said—. Not there, wait.

—You take it well —he said, and pushed.

Slow at first. Then not so slow. I pressed my palms against the stone and bit my lip so I wouldn’t scream. It hurt. It hurt for real. I felt myself opening, millimeter by millimeter, until the head was all the way in and I let out a long moan. But there was something else too, a current climbing up my back every time he went deeper and made me stay still, a mix of pain and something new, dirty, that made me press myself against him instead of trying to get away.

—Don’t move —he growled.

I didn’t move.

—Tell me what you are.

—Yours —I whispered, because that was what I wanted to say. Not what he wanted to hear. It didn’t matter.

—Harder.

—Yours.

He started really fucking me. He slid one hand in front and found my clit while he fucked me from behind. I pressed myself to the stone and let it happen. My cunt was dripping down, drops running along the insides of my thighs. Every thrust tore a short moan out of me that he silenced with his hand. This isn’t me, I thought. It’s her. The one in the mirror. The one with the mask. And after a while I stopped thinking that too. There was only the stone, the cock buried deep inside, the fingers squeezing my clit, and that vegetal darkness.

I came again, dry, almost without warning, with a strange tremor born in my ass and climbing all the way to my neck. I screamed against his hand. He sped up. A few seconds later he went rigid, squeezed my hips with both hands until it hurt, and came inside me with a dull groan. I felt hot streams filling me from within, four, five long spasms, while he kept me pinned to the stone. He stayed still for a moment, breathing against my nape. Then he pulled out slowly, and I felt a hot thread run down the inside of my thigh to my stocking.

He pulled his pants up and chuckled softly as he settled his belt.

—You’re dangerous in that mask —he said.

—I know —I answered.

I pulled my dress down. I brushed the dirt off my palms. I gathered up what was left of the thong and stuffed it, crumpled, into my fist. We walked back to the edge of the garden together without touching. His friend was still asleep on the bench, head fallen against his shoulder, oblivious to everything that had happened three meters away from him.

***

I went back to the house’s bathroom before leaving. I washed my face with cold water without touching the makeup. I wiped between my legs with tissue, and it came away stained. I fixed my mask. The feathers were a little flattened on one side and sticky on the other, but they were still in place. The woman in the mirror looked at me the same way she had when I left my room, except for one thing: now she knew things that the other one, the morning one, didn’t know.

I called a taxi. I sat in the back seat and watched the city pass by in the window without thinking about anything. My waist hurt. My knees hurt too. Between my ass cheeks it burned every time I shifted in the seat. My back was scraped up from the stone, and I had a bruise I discovered the next day on my right hip, with the exact shape of five fingers.

I got home, took my heels off in the entryway, got into the shower still dressed, and let the hot water wash away the mascara and the dirt and the near-black red from my mouth and the semen that had dried on the inside of my thighs. I left the mask on the bed, facing the ceiling, as if it were another person’s face sleeping beside me.

And here is the part I’m not sure I dare say out loud: I’m not sorry. I haven’t slept well for two nights, and every time I close my eyes I’m back in the garden, with the cold stone in my palms, the cock buried all the way in, the hoarse voice in my ear. This is what you wanted. Last night I touched myself thinking about it and came three times in a row, with two fingers in my cunt and the other in my ass, imagining it was him again.

Yes. It was exactly what I wanted. I just didn’t know it until the mask showed me.