A Working Title Halloween Party Story
by (Hidden)
Erotica Sex Story: Shy white college boy Jack is transformed by his Black roommate Tashard into "Jacky"—little black dress, fishnets, spikes—and paraded through a BNWO Halloween party as Tashard's property. Claimed by women, abandoned to mingle, then taken upstairs and deflowered in a "blacktizing" ritual that confirms what he's wanted all along.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Coercion Reluctant BiSexual CrossDressing TransGender Humiliation Interracial Black Male White Male .
Halloween
The shower runs; Jack is lathering his body, his hand caressing himself. Using baby body and hair wash, he’s lathered up. With a forefinger and thumb, he strokes his tiny cocklett. The fingers of his other hand squeeze his balls. In less than ten slides over the dick, he shoots a few spurts.
“Oh, Tashard, you’re so strong,” Jack says, becoming Jacky. He keeps pumping, his free hand running over his small pecs, squeezing one nipple, and the other. After he finishes four or five orgasms, talking dirty in Jacky’s sultry voice, he stops playing with himself and lets the warm water run over him.
Once he lets the sin of lust wash away, he turns off the shower, gets out, pats a little of beaded moisture away, and wraps the towel around his chest. The place he dreams of having small breasts someday.
Standing at the mirror, he imagines putting on makeup and practices his voice.
“Tashard, it’s a lovely dress. Where we going tonight ... Tee-hee, I thought you said we be eating out ... Oh, my, you’re a beautiful ass. Oh, sir, yes, sir, please. But, Master, you better kiss me before I start. Mwahh, mm, you’re so good to me.”
Outside the door, unknown to Jack, Tashard is listening to him. He does this every time he comes in. Opening the door, looking in, if Jack is studying, he makes a noise. If not, he’s quiet and stands and listens to Jack be Jacky as he talks to an imaginary Tashard. As soon as he realizes that Jack’s done, he moves to the desk between the two beds.
When Jack comes out, he says, “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Hey, Jack, got an idea for the party tonight. Let’s discuss it, and you go along with it.”
Perching himself on the edge of the mattress, his toes barely reaching the floor, it sinks a tad under him. Keeping his hands on his knees, he holds the hem of his own hoodie so it won’t ride up.
Across the room, Tashard opens his closet. Moving silently, he slides off hangers, followed by the snick of the zipper on a duffle. Without looking at Jack, Tashard pulls out a black tee, shakes it once, and lays it across the bed next to him.
The tee is his: cut tight through the shoulders and half again as thick as the shirts Jack buys, after the shirt, dark jeans, a gold chain coiled in one fist. He drops it all into the bag without folding.
Jack watches.
Nothing in the room moves except Tashard’s hands, so Jack follows the hands. When Tashard turns, he fills the whole doorway, shirt stretched tight across his chest. He regards Jack the way a teacher checks to see if you caught the question or need it repeated.
“You’re coming with me,” he says without waiting for a reply. “Wear this.” The bag gets upended onto the bed next to Jack, and out slides a crumpled black scrap.
Jack’s hand reaches, uncertain, and Tashard shakes out the scrap and the shape of a dress flutters down to rest beside Jack’s thigh. Next comes a rolled wad of fishnets, heels: glossy, black, and sharp-toed, with spikes at the back.
Jack’s hand drifts toward the dress before he can stop it. He snatches the hand back and folds it into the other, returning to holding his knees. No one says anything.
The silence goes on long enough that Jack thinks Tashard will say what this is for, or at least the destination, but Tashard only zips the duffle and slings it over his shoulder. The gold chain glints at his throat. Jack pretends to read the shoe label, the fishnets, the cut of the dress, like there’s a trick to it. There isn’t.
“No underwear, no fucking thing under the dress,” Tashard says.
“Okay,” Jack says. His mouth dries, and the word slips, while he wonders if it’s a joke.
Tashard crosses the space between closet and bed. He stands directly above Jack. Jack has to gaze up. The lights in the room go hard on Tashard’s face and make a shadow line under his jaw. Tashard bends at the waist, close enough that Jack smells clean sweat, and taps Jack’s chin up with one finger.
“You’ll be my sexy little hooker tonight, Jacky, okay?”
Jack’s whole body shudders. “Yes, Tashard,” he says. “If that’s what you want.”
Tashard grins. “Naw, not what I want. What you are. You know that, girly-boy, don’t you? You’re about to transition. If you aren’t, why’d you get electrolysis and have your face and body hair burnt away?”
There’s nothing to say, and Jack goes still.
A heat rises from his ears, and Jack thinks he must look stupid, but there’s nowhere to hide except his own hands, which grip the knee harder. “You won’t be embarrassed?” he asks, voice thin. “If people see us?”
Tashard shrugs with his whole torso. He lifts the dress and holds it open at the neck. “C’mere,” he says.
Jack stands. Hoodie and jeans drop to the floor. He hesitates over the boxers and steps out, bare except for the socks. Tashard slides the dress over his head. The fabric snags a little on Jack’s chin, settles, nothing to fill the curves, two flat panels and the straight line of Jack’s shoulders. Tashard’s hands run along the seams, no hesitation, and smooth the dress down against his ribs and hips, and further, palms flattening against the bony sides.
The zipper— zzzzzips along Jack’s spine. Tashard’s thumb traces from Jack’s collar down, stops at the base. The touch says: this is mine, and you’re mine, and this is what you wear.
“Such a girly boy,” he says, pulling Jack’s back to his chest.
Jack’s chest—flat as ever, two small nipples barely making shadows—shapes under the dress as the fabric tightens. He doesn’t fill the dress. Spinning Jack around, Tashard gazes at the way it sits and grins again, the dimple in his cheek appearing.
Fishnets next. Tashard kneels and drags them up Jack’s legs, works the mesh past the knees, up the thighs. The last inch sticks, and Jack has to balance on one leg, heel digging into the carpet, to help. He wobbles. “That’s the point,” he says. “Heels look better when you can’t walk in ‘em yet.” Tashard laughs.
Inside Jack’s Jacky, she on fire. The micro-dick’s hard, and she hopes it isn’t showing.
“How do I look?”
“Sexy. Now girl, you get dem feet in the shoes.”
Jack nods, doesn’t try to defend himself. He slides a foot into the shoe and nearly falls forward. Tashard steadies him by both hips, lifts him clear off the ground, and sets him back down, feet together.
Wearing the dress, fishnets, and shoes, Jack’s legs show pale through the netting. Taking a deep breath, he stands, unsteady, arms awkward at his sides. His face burns, but it’s not shame. He’s wanted this, and now that it’s here. The beating of his heart races and gooseflesh rises.
Tashard’s eyes take in the sight. “Mmm, missy, you dress up sexy as shit.” Standing behind Jack, his hands on both shoulders, he stares at them in the mirror.
Jack blinks. At first, the person in the glass isn’t him. Shaggy dark hair. Collarbones visible through the dress. Black mesh up both legs, skin showing. He doesn’t know where to put his arms. The stranger in the mirror doesn’t either.
Deep inside Jack, he’s longing for this transformation. And the longer he stares, the more he becomes a version of himself he’s been rehearsing forever. Tashard’s head rises over his; the effect is total: Jack, remade in black, and Tashard, holding him in frame.
Tashard presses his mouth to Jack’s neck, a kiss. Jack’s eyes close.
When he opens them, he studies himself. The reflection waits for instruction.
“Don’t call it a costume,” Tashard says, close to his ear.
“Am I passable?”
“Since the day I met you, you’ve been more passable as a girl than a boy.”
“We’re going to a Halloween party. A BNWO party. Tell me what that means.”
“Black New World Order. Black is better; I’m white, so I’m inferior,” Jack says.
“Since you’re going to be a girl, you’ll be treated well. But at the party, you’ll be alone for a bit. No one uses you; if anyone tries, you scream out my name.”
“Yes, sir. What am I to do?”
“Be respectful. You may dance with the women, but that’s all. Any man who asks you, say, My Master, doesn’t share me, understand?”
“Yes, I’m your slave?”
“For tonight. Or were you teasing me in the bathroom?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Now,” Tashard said, “go put on your makeup. You hide in your overnight bag along with the nail polish. Do it all, baby girl.”
“Yes, Tashard. May I call you Tashard?” Jack is gone, only Jacky remains.
“Yes, Jacky, you may.”
The car slips into the parking lot across the street. The Corvette’s rumbling has Jack body vibrating, and he worries his dick will leak onto the dress. All the way there, Tashard guns the engine every chance, to see Jack’s body trembling.
While Jack tries to suppress the buried needs, they’re all he thinks about. Knowing that Tashard’s cock is huge, because he spies on him in the shower, he can’t wait to lose his virginity. For months, when Tashard’s at practice, in classes, or on the road with the football team, he practices sucking a black dildo.
Always in the hope of being of service to this man, Jack prepared himself.
All this time, he only hopes that Tashard has feelings for him. Now, he realizes he at least wants Jack to Tashard.
As they walk across the street and up the walk, up ahead, the porch steps appear to be dangerous, at least in these shoes. Each toe-off wobbles. The spiked heels add height Jack doesn’t have. He keeps his elbow locked in Tashard’s grip, the best way not to fall before reaching the landing.
Orange string lights bounce off the jack-o’-lanterns, casting shadows of teeth along the sidewalk. Fog clings to the front walk, leaking from a hidden machine, and trails the two of them into the house.
Loud, wall-to-wall, every doorway jammed with shoulders and backs. Smoke—tobacco, or weed—threads through the perfume, tangling with the smell of cheap beer and something greasy on the stove. Each song out of the speakers shakes the floorboards under Jack’s shoes, bass rising through the narrow heels up into his calves. Each step takes effort, and he can’t hide the need to hold onto Tashard as they move.
Eyes follow them. One black man, built to take hits; a woman, a wisp of a person in a black dress as short as his and fishnets, flashes her shaved cunt to them. Jack shivers and tries to be smaller, which doesn’t work with his arms bare and dress clinging to ribs.
The draft pushes through his fishnets, his flesh, right down to the bone.
Someone shouts Tashard’s name. He acknowledges the greeting, but doesn’t stop. Instead, he moves lower on Jack’s back as they pass a group of women sharing drinks.
“Relax, sweety,” Tashard says. Sliding his hand to Jack’s ass, he squeezes and releases. Establishing his ownership of this piece of property. Lust rises at his Master’s touch.
As they move deeper into the party, the crowd tracks them. Two men in a hallway pause. One nudges the other, eyes dipping from Jack’s face to the dress, and to Tashard’s hand on him.
The second man grins, says something close to the first’s ear. Both laugh. Jack wants to disappear, but Tashard steers him on.
In the kitchen, cups stack in a tower on the counter. Anything horizontal holds bodies or drinks. Jack tries to blend into the space behind Tashard’s shoulder, but can’t—he is the only white person in the room, the smallest by half, and the only man in a dress cut for someone with hips. He shifts his weight to one foot, knees bent for stability.
Someone offers Tashard a shot, which he refuses with a nod, guiding Jack toward the next room. Every time Jack tries to regain control of his feet, the heels betray him.
In the next crowded space, a heavy-shouldered man leans into Tashard’s path, eyes pointed and direct. “That your girl?” he asks, lifting his chin toward Jack.
“That’s Jacky; she’s mine. Keep your hands off.”
A man looks Jack over, leering, and claps Tashard on the shoulder.
“Right lovely white gal, Tash.”
For a second, Jack considers correcting the man.
Someone else, a woman in a silk blouse, blocks the path for a second, and turns to get a better look at Jack. Her gaze lands first on Jack’s face, slides down to the shoes.
“She-he,” she says and steps aside.
“Your point,” Tashard asks.
“No disrespect.”
They march on from the door to the center of the party. In each room, Tashard presents Jack as his property, and keeps the pace steady.
When his dress rides up, Jack tugs it down, a man leaning against the fridge, giggling at his erect tiny penis. Jack tugs the dress lower.
He bobs his head.
The music changes from jazz to rock-n-roll, and later rock to Rhythm-n-Blues. Someone throws a ping-pong ball across a room, and it bounces and rolls to a stop at Jack’s feet. He bends to grab it. But Tashard snatches first and throws it back to the partier.
“Showing too much merchandise, sweety-pie.”
In the largest room, a table has chips and drinks, and a crowd packs tight near it. Tashard brings them to a stop, parks Jack facing him. He smooths the hair, brushes some away from Jack’s eye, and puts both hands on his hips. Tashard leans in close, lips at Jack’s ear.
“No, behave yourself, gotta talk to the host for a bit. Mingle, Jacky girl, okay?”
Tashard kisses him and lets go.
“Hush your mouth, baby girl, do what I tell you.”
The absence of his hands leaves Jack off-balance. He tries to step after him, but the heels disagree. He stands alone, watching Tashard’s shoulders part the crowd as he heads to a door in the back, which closes behind him.
The silence around Jack is absolute. Nobody says his name. The heat of Tashard’s hands lingers on his hips, the pressure of his thumb on Jack’s spine. A red cup sits abandoned on the table; Jack takes it, unsure if it is full or empty, but grateful for something to do with his hands.
He checks for Tashard in the crowd, but the other man is gone.
The dress is more embarrassing without Tashard.
The fishnets are too tight. The flexing of Jack’s knees pulls the mesh tighter across his thighs. He stands next to the snack table, clutching the cup for protection. The cup is empty, rim sticky. He considers putting it down, but keeps it to shield himself from anyone offering him anything.
Speak only when spoken to. Laugh at jokes. Smile when complimented. Refuse when asked to dance with a man: “I’m the property of Tashan.” Give no kisses to men.
Mingle with black women.
A draft of air stabs through the living room when the door opens. New arrivals bring the mountain’s cold with them.
Jack checks the crowd, scanning for the back of Tashard’s head, or the chain glinting under a lamp. He sees neither.
He shifts his feet. The heels force all his weight onto the balls of his feet, so every minute demands a change. He moves from foot to foot, careful not to tip or rock forward. He keeps his knees soft, aware that a straight-leg pose would pitch him over. The instinct to cross his arms loses to the need to keep the hem of the dress from sliding up.
A group of women in matching cat ears blocks the kitchen door. One of them makes eye contact with Jack, and goes back to whatever she’s doing. A man with two red cups tries to slide between them, presses his hips to the side and leans, and yells, “Excuse me, damn, girl, you a fine white, tranny whore. Tash, bro, can tape me some o-dat?” when he gets trapped.
“Naw, brother, she be my private reserve. Keep your fuckin’ hands off.”
“Take pill, Bill, didn’t mean no disrespect.”
All around, people operate on their own channels—no one invites Jack in, but no one pushes him out.
He tugs the bottom of the dress half an inch lower, catches a glance from a woman posted on the stairs. Her lips pull sideways in a not-smile, and she tilts her head. Jack tugs the dress again, stops.
He’d love to text Tashard, but his phone is in the dorm, in the top drawer, right where he left it. A place where he could sit and hide.
But all he is left with is the empty cup.
Jack remembers Tashard’s hand on his back, the warmth from his touch. He wants it back, and hates that he needs it. Scanning again for his Master, Tashard, he sees only a wall of shoulders. Most of which are higher than his head.
Two women from earlier are scrolling through their phones. One cackles and shoves her cell into the other’s face. They spot Jack staring and can’t take their eyes off him.
Jack steps back, trying to blend into the crowd.
“Sorry,” he says when he bumps a black man.
“What’s your name, lil’ girl?”
“Jacky, but I have a Master.”
“Lucky man. Move along now, doggy, ya master’s whistling for you.”
Spotting the table loaded with chips and salsa sits. For a few heartbeats, he considers perching on the edge but decides against it. If he tips the whole table, every eye will be on him.
Instead, he slides a hand along the rail of the banister, stands with his hip popped out.
The most stable way to stand in these shoes is with his hips forward and knees bent, which makes him expose more than he should. He holds the position.
He watches the room. Men nodding at each other. Women working the perimeter in packs.
Jack belongs to none of them.
How can the walls close in, in a room crowded with people?
Noise rises as someone turns the speakers up. The music drowns out the conversations, so people have to lean closer and speak into each other’s faces.
Jack can’t hear his own thoughts. This is almost a comfort. The vibration in his chest matches the shake in his legs.
He turns to the nearest window. Wanting fresh air, but it’s locked and fogged over. Condensation streaks down the glass. In the pane, his reflection shows the whole of him—the whoreish makeup, shadowed by hair, dress tight, nipples erect, legs pale. This beautiful woman’s a stranger in the window, gazing at him in wonder.
“Fuck me, isn’t she amazin’.”
A man pushes past Jack, brushing his shoulder. The touch is accidental, but Jack flinches. The man turns, eyes him for a moment.
“Mmm, ain’t you da sexy thang,” he says, and moves on.
When Jack’s hand cramps on the cup, he tries to relax.
A picture frame on the wall shakes. The photo inside is a white family surrounded by blacks. He focuses on the frame; it shudders off-kilter. The image of the whites and blacks all hugging together reminds him of people in an earthquake clinging to one another for support.
The party doesn’t close around Jack. It keeps going.
People pass him in both directions. Some carrying cups, plates, bags. A pair of men in matching green jackets pause near him, one nodding toward Jack and away again.
He stands as if posed.
The realization that Tashard brought him to be shown off isn’t a bad thing; the thought Jack’s rolls inside his head.
At first it lands as humiliation. The crossdresser is the spectacle, the outlier, the white boy in the black dress, the only white in the room—and it shifts. Tashard wanted this.
Jacky did, too, cause this girl wants out of the closet.
He stops squeezing the cup. The pressure in his shoulders drops. He doesn’t need to escape; he can stand here. He shifts his weight to the other hip, toes digging into the carpet, calves burning from the angle.
A voice nearby says, “Who dat?” and another answers, “Tashard’s girl,” and a third adds, “nah, dat’s a dude, I think.” “Fine-looking white, pussy boy.” The first voice laughs.
Jack stays silent. The voices move away.
In the crowd, through a narrow gap between people, Jack spots Tashard at last. The other man stands with his back to the room, facing the host, a man in a tight burgundy shirt.
The conversation is intense. The bodies close, heads dipped, Tashard’s hand moving in circles while he talks. Jack recognizes the confidence in the set of Tashard’s shoulders, the way his feet plant.
Jack knows Tashard expects him to stay put, so he obeys.
He holds the spot. Someone hands him a warm beer and walks off before he can refuse it. He takes a sip.
He keeps his spine straight, unmoving, while the party vibrates around him. While the dress doesn’t fit any better than before, Jack lets himself belong to his Master’s will.
Standing near the banister, one of Jack’s hands floats above the rail, ready for a grip. The dress stays in place at his chest, nipples showing through. Fishnets catch the light. Around him, bodies crowd tight in the living room.
For a moment Jack thinks: ’Everyone’s in the same trance, dancing to the DJ’s music, wonder if that’s what he was going for?’
From outside the orbit, he watches the group, a small space between two clusters. His hair covers half his face. Nobody invites him in. The only touch is the cold from the window behind, which seeps through the mesh and raises goosebumps.
Jack shifts the weight off the heels, but it only brings him further off balance. He checks the space for Tashard, but Tashard is gone, somewhere behind a closed door.
On the other side of the room, a girl in black ribbon and boots owns the floor. Long, curly hair frames her face, and she wears her smile as though she’s about to be photographed. Black corset, laces drawn up the front, striped stockings, boots with a mean heel. Short black cape slides off her shoulder with every movement. She dances alone, but she dances for the group, arms flung high, hands open. Friends orbit her, each giving her more room than the other. Even her laughter breaks higher than the music.
The girl locks eyes with Jack. One eyebrow raises, and she motions him forward. Jack’s unsure, but the next second she cuts through the crowd and takes his wrist with both hands. Her grip is warm, her nails painted to match the stripe in her stockings. She pulls him, and he stumbles after her into the ring of bodies.
The move doesn’t ask for consent.
She claims him in the way she holds his wrist overhead, spinning him into the group. The pressure of the circle keeps him upright, if not steady.
Up close, the girl’s energy pulses faster than the room. Her hair brushes his cheek as she leans in, face inches from his. “What’s your name, baby?” she shouts, grinning.
He hesitates and says, “Jack.” The word is thin in the noise.
She laughs, loud, and repeats, “Jack? That’s not a name for a bitch like you.” The others laugh, too, but it isn’t mean. She loops her arm around his waist and shoves her face into his hair, inhaling. “Damn, you smell better than me. Who dressed you?” She tugs at the hem of the dress, which recoils up his thigh. She keeps her hand there, palm on the bare skin.
“Tashard,” Jack says, feeling his own name bounce in his skull.
The girl lights up. “Oh, he’s got taste.” She yells it to her friends, who nod and toast with red cups. “You his bitch now?”
Jack’s mouth does not know what to say. He glances at her hand on his hip, and back to the rest of the group. Each face waits for his answer, but they already know, and they are in on it.
The girl with the hair leans closer.
“Well?” she says, lips inches from his ear. “Don’t front.”
Her thigh presses into him, her hand caresses his face and the musses his hair. She moves his bangs back, inspects his eyes, kisses him, and releases.
“Mmm, ain’t you the cute girly-boy,” she says. “With your itty-bitty, hard clitty. Yeah, cunny honey, I know what’s under dere.” Her fingers pinch his penis.
Jack’s knees buckle, and the heels wobble. An electric shiver runs through him, and he sways against her for support. The girl produces a tiny pink gummy and drops it in his hand. “Take it, swallow. Don’t ask why, jus’ do, or I’ll pinch harder next time.”
Jack drops the candy onto his tongue. The sugar hits hard, melts. He swallows before tasting what it is.
She claps and rewards him with a kiss to the cheek, lips glossy and warm.
“Good bitch, girly-boy.”
The group laughs again. The girl offers a second candy, this time with her mouth. He bites it free and chews.
He expects embarrassment, but the attention comes with relief.
No one here doubts his place. The boy belongs to the circle. Each time the music peaks, she pulls inro her. They dance. Pushing him to another girl who kisses him. The girls around him smile and trade glances, hands on him, others. His arms, hips, hair. One kisses him, pushes him back to the other. Jack hands touch them.
“No hiding, pussy-ass. Let everyone see.” She guides his arms to her shoulders. And teaches him how to move and make the heels work for him. Their give and take continues until he dances on his own, or falls on his face.
The group of three sways as one. Moving with the music, arms locked at the waist or shoulder. When Jack’s hair falls in his eyes again, she brushes it back. Her touch lingers at the hinge of his jaw, thumb tracing the bone.
She holds him in profile to the group, lets them examine the line of his neck, the cut of the dress.
“You really don’t gots a dick, huh. Naw, it’s clit, bitch.”
Jack feels the whole group’s attention fall to his crotch. He shakes his head, blushing, which only makes the girl squeeze him tighter.
“Don’t be shy, bitch, you’re in the best company.” She kisses his cheek again, which smears gloss on his skin. “You’re da prettiest thang here. You know dat, right?”
“Okay, if you say so,” he says.
The girl licks her finger and wipes the gloss from his cheek. She slips her hand down the collar of his dress and adjusts the fabric. “You got nothing to fill this out,” she teases, “but it suits you.” Her nails graze his bare chest, and retreats.
A third candy appears. Jack hesitates this time, but she presses it to his lips, waits for him to open. He does, and chews, the sugar sticking to his teeth. “These are weak, baby, they’re nothing,” she says when she sees his doubt.
The space grows louder, the dance tighter. Bodies close in, pressing heat through the mesh of his stockings. Jack stops tugging at the hem of the dress. He forgets to hide his knees, or his face. Every time the girl returns her hand to his hip, or hair, or face, he lets her.
No one in the circle questions his presence. No one treats him as unusual, once she has claimed him. If anything, they envy her for the prop she’s found.
He catches sight of himself in a window, for a second. Black dress, legs showing, hair in his eyes, arms draped over the girl’s shoulders. He blinks, and the reflection blurs away, replaced by the press of her cheek against his, the taste of sugar in his mouth.
He’s the only white person anywhere in the room, the smallest by several inches, in a dress with nothing underneath. Shantay—because the girl finally introduces herself as Shantay, with a laugh and a squeeze—keeps a hand on him at all times. Even when she turns to talk to her friends, she holds his wrist or hair, as if he’ll disappear if she lets go.
Jack no longer checks for Tashard. Losing track of time altogether, until the space bends around the sensation of hands and laughter.
When the song crests and everyone screams the chorus, Shantay yanks Jack in close, presses her lips to his ear, and says, “Boy-girl, you’re staying with us tonight.”
The words settle over his shoulders like the dress, tight but familiar.
He lets go of the rail, of the need to measure every move. Shantay’s arms bracket his chest. He’s fixed in place, but it’s the safest he has felt all night.
The world smears, as colors of the room run together. The music splits into pulses landing in the chest half a beat before they reach the ears. He stands in the center of the group, held by Shantay’s arm.
The girl in the devil horns winks, winks again as the party loops.
Jack’s chest heats, bright and direct, a layer of warmth below the skin. His mouth runs dry, tongue sticking to the roof. The taste of sugar from the last gummy coats his teeth. He tries to clear his throat, but the sound of it gets lost behind the shriek of a new song.
He tries to think, but thoughts unravel midway.
The boy’s goal stands intact. Find Tashard and tell him about the words. Girl, clitty, all the things Shantay said loud enough for a crowd. The rest of the thoughts jitter, bumping into each other without finishing. As the room spins, he loses a second or two, and finds himself dancing again, from memory of the past.
Shantay’s hand finds his waist when time he floats away. Yanking him back, a ballerina on a leash. Her friends move together, smooth and relaxed. The hands that touch him do so on their way somewhere else. Across his back, down his arm, behind his knee to tap the mesh.
The bodies press in, and the bass becomes a thing squeezing him from ribs to feet.
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