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‘Come as your hero,’ the invitation had read. For the male guests, that was someone they had particularly admired when they were 15, judging by the outfits on display. Two Indiana Joneses, one of whom was Tony, the party’s host, and three different incarnations of Doctor Who. In addition there was Laurel and Hardy, a bloke in full Chelsea kit and someone sporting a boiler suit and ski mask who could either have been Hannibal Lecter or a particularly sadistic plumber; no one who even inspired me to go over and chat, let alone pushed my erotic buttons.
So when I saw him strut over to help himself to a plastic cup of the vodka-laden punch, I thought he had been sent especially to treat me. Very few people could do justice to the costume he had chosen, but on him it looked magnificent. He was wearing very little more than a red cloak and a tight-fitting pair of leather-look shorts. His bare arms and torso were almost indecently muscular, his tousled, dirty-blond hair fell to his shoulders and I could happily have spent all evening licking his broad thighs.
The fact he was carrying an obviously plastic sword did little to damage the illusion that he was a proud Spartan warrior, and, even if it had, I could hardly complain. My own costume, cobbled together from what was lying around at the bottom of my wardrobe, consisted of a khaki-coloured T-shirt, black shorts and hiking boots designed to give me a passing resemblance to Lara Croft. I had scraped my hair back in a ponytail, letting a couple of strands fall over my eyes, and I had a water pistol strapped to my thigh. So, if nothing else, I had the fake weaponry as an opening conversational gambit – if only I could stop weaving dirty little fantasies in my head for long enough to say hello to him.
In my mind, I was already stripped to the waist and on my knees before him, hands secured behind me, while he lazily stroked his cock and looked down on me, smiling cruelly. In moments, that cock would be in my mouth, and I would be made to suck him till he came. It would taste good, salty and male, and though I would display a measure of reluctance to be used by him in this way, in reality I would be loving every minute of it.
The realisation that he had noticed me staring snapped me out of my pleasantly filthy daydream, and I smiled sheepishly at him. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I was just admiring your – er – outfit. I’m Lisa, by the way.’
‘Darren.’ I thought he was going to offer me his hand to shake. Instead, he ran it through his hair in a gesture which sent a spasm of lust through me.