I run my long, sharp black fingernails along the table, touching the trinkets that have begun to fill the space. I linger on a shiny onyx ring but don’t pick it up.
The sun has set, and it’s black outside, except for the stars in the sky and the blazing yellow torches I’ve placed along each stone walkway and surrounding each firepit. Ten fires this year.
It’s the perfect night sky, black with dark purple and blue streaks.
I look up the hill, across the party, and at my house. Everyone calls it the house of windows. I even called it that when I saw it the first time. It has a two-hundred-year-old brick exterior covered in gray, moss, and ivy from years of heat, storms, floods, and life. But what really draws attention are the floor-to-ceiling windows for three stories, the insides of the home hidden by black drapes.
I open my home to the neighborhood twice a year. Once in the summer and once when the new year begins.
Everyone on this street and the next will have received an invitation months ago.
Crow Party
House of the Windows
11 pm, June 21st
Dress in black
Don’t forget your treasures
Don’t be late. Don’t be early
I glide, slipping in and out of conversations, nodding, offering a hand on a shoulder, or a brief smile. My guests have gone all out this year. The men are dressed in black hats, shiny-toed shoes or combat boots, and black gloves. The women wear black lace, masks or face coverings, oversized hats, and flowy black dresses.
They’re beautiful.
I’m the most elaborate in a vintage midnight satin gown, black lipstick, and black hat with netting over my face. For tonight, I’ve chosen black lace ballet slippers that tie around my ankles and up my calves. The only thing not black on me is my waist-length white blonde hair, curled and cascading around my face and shoulders.
Tonight, I’m insatiable.
Lust has been weaving through my veins, organs, and soul.
The prize for choosing the best trinket–
is a night with me.
My guests know this because it’s the prize every year.
It’s not about the trinket you bring but the one you choose or trade.
If you know anything about crows, they love finding hidden gems and shiny trinkets. Soon, I will find my hidden gem.
It may be the husband of the lady next door or the single teacher. It may be the handsome bisexual yoga instructor who lives in the tiny, worn-down house at the end of the street. It may be the single mom who lives behind me or a friend she’s invited.
I follow the path down to the next fire, entranced by the blood red of the fire, the smoke moving in and out of faces and between legs and arms. I’m aware that everyone is watching me, and I like it.
It’s 1 am now.
I drink from the black flask I have in my hand — Bourbon. As I feel the burn in my throat, I spot a gorgeous redhead a few feet away. I approach her and take her hand, opening it softly and slowly to reveal what treasure she has chosen — a silver key. I look up at her through my heavy black eyeshadow and thick lashes. Her breath catches in her throat. I close her hand.
A key. So goddamned boring. It’s too bad, I would’ve worshipped her pussy.
I move along, opening hand after hand, disappointed at each discovery. A button. A spool of thread. A cross made of sticks. Same shit, different year.
And then I see you.
You’re wearing a long black hooded robe. I see a shock of gray hair on the side. Long hair. One eye is covered with a black jeweled patch, and the other studies me calmly. I walk toward you, and we hold eye contact.
I haven’t seen you at one of my parties before. I want to fuck with your brain, so I walk past you.
“FUCK YOU, WHORE.”
I think you’ve said it out loud, but you haven’t. I hear it in my head and feel it in my veins. I turn back to you sharply. You’re watching me. I walk back to you slowly, angry, because this is my party. I grab your wrist and open your hand. It’s a black pendant necklace with a black cat charm. The cat has one long vicious spike where the tail should be. You slam it against my palm.
I wince, “Fuck,” I whisper. I tear my hand away from you. You’ve drawn blood. I look at the blood trickling down my hand onto my slippers. I look at you and nod.
I bow my head, and you put the necklace around my neck. I motion with a long nail for you to follow me, and heads turn. Dark faces and dark eyes stop in their tracks, and it goes silent. They watch us walk to the house.
The party will resume for a while after the door closes, after they know for sure that I’ve chosen. But by the time I’m done with you, they’ll be gone.
The gothic chandeliers let off a dull yellow light; other than that, it’s pitch black. That’s how I like it. You roam slowly around the dark living room, touching things softly. You stop at the fireplace and pick up a candle.
“No more light,” I say.
“Just one,” you respond.
I shrug. I let you do it.
Shadows on my face, I pull the shoulders of my strapless black dress, revealing just the swell of my round tits.
Your eye patch is off.
“Pull it down more,” you say.
“No.”
You snarl at me, a cruel smirk. I’m on fire. I’m always the dominant one on this night, and you have the balls to try to make me submissive.
I hear your voice in my head again. “You’ll do what I tell you to do.”
The fuck I will.
I lift my dress up to my hips with one hand and pull my black lace thong over lazily, running my fingers over my pussy. Your eyes drift down as I slide one finger in and out.
Your jaw clenches.
“Stop,” you say.
“No.”
I spread my legs a little wider and continue to touch myself, throwing my head back slightly.
You take a step toward me, still fully clothed. You’re pissed off.
I don’t know what you thought tonight was supposed to be, but I’m in charge.
And I think you’ve heard what I just said in my head because your eyes go even darker.
I’m near the windows, shades drawn. You’re near the fireplace. The only thing between us is a black coffee table. We’re in a sort of standoff.
“Take. It. Off.” you say.
I point one long black fingernail at you, the other still swirling around my pussy.
“You take it off,” I say.
“Do what I say, bitch.”
That’s not how this works.
And you hate my defiance, so you pick up the candle you lit several minutes ago and heave it at me in full force. It misses me and crashes against the windowpane, splashing hot wax all over the black drapes, floor, and my ballet slipper feet.
I wince, but only on the inside. I don’t want you to see the fear.
But you feel it.
My nipples are hard, cutting through my dress by the time you get to me. Three long strides, heavy boots on the wooden floor, and we are face to face. You stay hooded, stay clothed.
You tear my dress off with one move, straight down the middle. I’m naked in front of you, except for the slippers tied up and laced around my calves and the black netting around my face.
As you rip the hat and the netting off my face, I’m a statue.
Slowly, deliberately, you unzip your pants and let your cock fall out, hard, big, and glistening. You push my head down hard, and I resist until you twist my nipple, flick, twist, flick, and finally, I crumble to the floor.
“Put it in your mouth,” you say.
I start to part my lips slowly, but you jam them apart, crushing them into my teeth and forcing your cock in. You hold my head in both hands and guide it slowly down your shaft.
All the way.
It’s a long way down.
I gag.
You laugh.
I’m going to vomit on you, I can feel the drinks and the food and the fear rising– but then you stop and pull out. My chest is heaving, I can’t catch my breath.
You do it again.
Over and over.
I fight you the third time, but you smack my hand away and thrust your knee into my throat while you move slowly down my throat and back. My eyes are welling up from gagging.
I can’t take anymore. I pull my head back quickly and chomp down on your thigh, just left of your cock. You howl and pick me up by my throat, so our lips are touching. My feet are a few inches off the floor. My eyes start to roll back, but you drop me back down and spin me around. I feel your arm against my back.
You’ve pinned me to the windows, the curtains break open, and I’m staring into the black sky, unable to move. Barely able to breathe. I feel your other arm between my legs. My pussy is throbbing, both from fear and excitement. You smack my pussy, and I feel a sharp pain right above my slit.
You’ve somehow removed the cat pendant from my neck, and it’s in your hand. The thin leather strap hits against my legs, and you smack, smack, smack. My skin is breaking, my blood is hot. I beg you to stop. You move the pendant down to my thigh and grind the spike into my skin. At the same time, through the pain, you spread my ass apart. One quick finger moves down to my pussy and coats my asshole with my juices.
I feel you then; hard, thick, breaking the barrier into my ass.
I beg you to stop.
You don’t care. You push in, deeper and more demanding, your breath finally coming out in ragged spurts.
“I can’t do this,” I plead.
“You WILL do this,” you say.
I feel my body let go because you’re going to break me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. And suddenly, it feels good. You wrap my body in your robe, you bite down on my shoulder, and you keep pumping into my ass.
I’m going to die from pain.
I’m going to die from pleasure.
You reach up to pull the curtains back even more, exposing us completely to the outside world. My face is pressed against the glass, my eyes wide. I feel warm with your hood covering all of my body, one arm wrapped fully around me, keeping me inside and holding me to you as you pound into me.
The only thing besides my face left out of the robe is my tits. They’re smashed against the glass too. The soft white pillows shake the window every time you push into me.
Guests start to make their way up the path to walk home. One by one, I feel their eyes land on the scene in front of them. They watch, walking slowly but never stopping as the robed man possesses me, my face twisted, my body glued to the glass window. They hear the window giving in, creaking, ready to burst under the pressure of our fucking. Each guest makes eye contact with me and walks away.
I’m screaming, and you make your fist into a ball and start beating my clit with it; my cum is running down my legs, onto your robe, and my body is finally wrecked; I collapse, but you hold on to me. I’m limp, bent over, held only by your arms around my hips, and I feel it, feel you pulsing into my tight ass. Your load is enormous, filling me and running out the sides, dripping to the floor and mixing with my juices.
You let go of me, and I hit the ground softly.
You stare at me for a moment, challenging me to speak. I don’t. You zip your pants and walk out the door.
Every year I throw this party to treat myself to a special guest, my little treasure, something new and shiny that I’ve found and will play with and then throw away.
I realize this year I didn’t find a trinket. I was the trinket.
quaking!
Amazing. Very good. I am now going for a lie down.