He didn’t know why he’d never done this before.
Loud, driving music, a sultry beat in the background almost swallowing the lyrics. That was good, too, though. No attempts at poetry and depth to tug on heartstrings, just sound. A voice, aching with whatever the words might have meant, doing a better job with the lack. Deep drums, hard guitars, all of it combined to numb eardrums and empty minds.
So good like that.
People, so many people, crowded around the floor. The smell of smoke—tobacco, clove, weed, pipe, cigar, and the smoke machines—clogged up what the sound left free. Bodies sweated and moved, lost in the rhythm of that wall of sound, hidden by the fog of smoke, deflected by the chattering of those not on the floor.
He moved without rhythm or grace, without skill or knowledge, but no one cared. No one even noticed, lost in a sea of those who moved like him. . . like themselves. Just twisting and writhing in the music, moving where bodies wanted. Close, apart, bumping, pushing, it could have been dangerous if anyone had thought of it, but no one did. There was the music and the smoke and the smell of bodies and makeup and sex and no one thought about anything.
A girl who would have been laughed at back home, dressed up in a leather cat-suit and completely unconcerned by the rolls and dips that Michelle Pfeiffer never would have tolerated, pressed up against him, grinding. It made him laugh, the sound immediately swallowed up and he glimpsed a gleeful smile in return before she danced away to grind against someone else.
So many types, here, and he wondered why that had never occurred to him before. Tall and short became meaningless against big and little, lumpy and smooth, angular, curvy, wide, narrow, heavy at top or bottom. Faces without the impossible perfection, the unattainable beauty, beamed out their pleasure because they knew what the ones back home had yet to figure out.
Beauty was dancing, touching and being touched, lost in the ocean of people who didn’t care about a crooked nose or chin-less face. There was movement and there was music and there were people to share it and everything else faded into immaterial emptiness.
He lost himself again, moving wherever the crowd took him, eyes mostly closed as he gave himself up to the rhythm. A cowboy, Glinda, a host of cross dressers, Anubis, the Grim Reaper, punked-out goths that defied tradition and came as themselves, Catwoman again, this time with Harley Quinn in tow, a farmer and others pressed up against him briefly, and melted away to touch others. He never sought anyone out, but that was just as permissible as those who did. No one cared, so long as it was all good.
The Bronze was nothing like this.
A quick break at the bar for more of the sweet, fizzy alcoholic drink they served for a buck, and he was back again, taking advantage of his rare, constant high to just keep moving. Songs changed and paused, came and went, and still he was there. Hard from exertion and the closest thing to tripping he knew he’d come to, he shamelessly enjoyed when men and woman both pressed up against him, bodies rubbing for mutual enjoyment.
Hours later the costume contest winners were announced. His own costume—the preppy boys Buffy always seemed to fall for—escaped mention, but that was okay: the winner had dressed up like Pin-Man from a scary movie he couldn’t remember the name of. He swayed in the crowd, unable to stop moving even though the music was muted in favor of talking. He found his own beat in the swirling voices that didn’t stop even when the microphone was employed to boom over them.
Dazed by the over-stimulation, it took him a moment to realize someone was moving with him.
Hands cradled his hips, chest pressed against his back, breath on his neck, hardness grinding into his ass. He moved in tandem, pressing back with a wanton abandon that felt totally natural. Here was someone who understood the need to dance, to move, to just be.
Eyes closed, he examined his partner by touch, twisting and turning as the music came back. Hands, long fingered and surprisingly delicate, despite obviously belonging to a man. Hips, narrow, encased in a skin tight leather miniskirt that accentuated a firm ass and smooth, long legs. Power lay coiled underneath skin that felt like satin, yet there was no fear as hands gripped him tightly. Lips that tasted of fruit and the plastic of lipstick pressed hard against his and the low-level arousal that he’d enjoyed all night flared into aching heat. Lifting a leg to wrap it around his waist, he his slid his cock against his partner’s and thrust desperately. Hands stroked and rubbed and pinched at him, bodies fused together despite the awkward position.
One hand slipped between their bodies to run up a hard stomach and knead the breasts that pressed against him. A moan, felt more than heard, came from one of them—he wasn’t sure who. It didn’t matter as he licked a neck with only a hint of prickly stubble, nibbled at an ear lobe, and thumbed a nipple into hardness.
Bodies pressed close against theirs, but unlike before he made certain that none separated the two of them. When someone slid against his exposed back to try, he came to decision. “Outside,” he shouted against the ear he’d been tonguing, pushing their combined bodies off the floor. His partner made noises that seemed to be agreement, wrapping both legs around his waist and sucking fiercely on his neck.
Stumbling under the added weight, he gripped his partner’s ass and headed towards the back. Coherent enough to find a relatively secluded space that wasn’t already occupied, he slammed his partner against the wall and began to buck frantically. Lips found lips and he thrust his tongue into a mouth that tasted of cigarettes and something indescribable, fucking it while his cock rubbed against another. It was so good like this, his partner thrusting back and rumbling out moans and words he couldn’t hear and didn’t care about. They were good, this was good, it was all good.
The words became more urgent and he forced himself to pay attention. “Lube,” he eventually determined, a hand tugging his off the right breast to delve into a rucked-up pocket. Freeing the small tube, he held it while he kissed and thrust and kneaded, unsure as to what he was supposed to do with it.
Tongue sucking on his ear, voice whispering, “Fuck me.”
Somehow, he got two fingers coated and pushed up under the skirt to find silken panties. Ripping them away to reveal his prize, he pressed one finger at an opening stretched slightly by the position of their bodies. Slipping one inside with minimal effort, he gradually worked in the second, finger fucking his partner to the sound of moans and hissed curses. The tube was taken from him while he scissored, ignoring demands to get on with it.
Hands opened his pants, almost ripping them in urgency, grabbing his cock and running lube-covered fingers all over it. “Ready, I’m ready,” was the mantra in his ear, sticky hands using his shoulders as leverage to forcibly dislodge the still-moving fingers and press back down against his cock.
Message received, he guided himself inside, twin groans announcing it to anyone not deafened by the music. “Open m’shirt,” he was ordered, complying with fumbling inefficiency. Finally succeeding, he sucked on a braless nipple, lightly biting along the areola as he pinched and squeezed the other one. The thump of back and ass against the wall competed with the thunder of bass, drowning out everything else.
Tight, so tight around him, muscles squeezed and rippled and he was panting, gasping for air as he sucked and licked and bit. Switching sides, his free hand released the ass that felt so good under his fingers to find his partner’s cock. “Yeah, that’s it,” he heard as he jacked the heavy erection. “Fuck me, fuck me hard! Make me cum.”
“Shut up,” he grated harshly, speeding up his thrusts.
“Oh, yeah, right there, right fucking there. Harder, dammit. Harder!”
“I said,” he snarled as he complied with the rough commands, “shut up!”
Hands clamped on his ass, pulling him in tighter and he knew this couldn’t last much longer, especially when a finger slid beneath the waist of his loosely hanging pants and pressed hard against his own opening.
The moment his own guardian muscles were breached, he came.
Orgasm made him weak but he still managed to thrust a few more times, still moving his hand and kissing against lips that continually formed words until his partner’s body locked up and he felt liquid soak his shirt.
Panting, exhausted, he pulled out and unwound his partner’s legs. Leaning against the wall, he watched with sleepy eyes as his partner re-buttoned a red silk shirt that fit like a second skin over breasts he knew were bruised from his mauling and straightened the leather miniskirt before melting back against him.
Wait a minute. . . breasts?
“Mm, you taste good,” he heard against his neck as his hand automatically came up and caressed short, silky locks of white-blonde hair. A tongue traced patterns around his Adam’s apple before blunt teeth nipped him lightly.
Coherency returning as the stupor he’d been in all night faded, he pushed his partner against the wall and peered through the smokey gloom to actually look.
Spike made an exceptionally pretty girl.
He blinked, stunned, as he tried to reconcile Spike with breasts, and makeup, in a skirt, with him, and—oh, yeah. The whole sex thing.
“S’a spell,” the smirking girl/boy in front of him explained. “The knockers, the hair, the waxed legs.” One snaked out to rub against him. He valiantly did not react to the blatant offer he read in heavily made up blue eyes. “They all feel real, but only f’r tonight.” Fingers tipped in bright red nails wrapped around one of said magically created breasts and squeezed. Spike threw his head back and moaned—the Adam’s apple moving gave it away even if the sound was completely lost.
“Erk,” he managed, clenching his hands into fists to prevent them from reaching forward to help Spike play with his fake boobs.
Spike released himself, grinning smugly as he took in the glazed eyes, the open mouth, the hard cock that were all trained on his magically enhanced body. Purring, Spike pressed himself back into his arms. “Xander,” he whispered, “what’re you doing here in L.A.?”
“Party,” was the not-so-coherent reply as a hand stroked over his still-damp erection. “Buddy at work. . . ahh!—mentioned it’d be fun. He bailed but I still—oh, god—came—fuck!” He panted and groaned until Spike released his balls and began stroking him again. “Spike, what’re you—the dress and the—”
“Shhh. Don’t talk while I’m getting you off.” A hard cock was lightly humping into his thigh and all he could do was cup Spike’s ass and pinch a nipple through the silk shirt. “Sometimes, I like bein’ thrown against a wall an’ fucked. Thought I’d see if Angel wanted a go. When he threatened t’stake me,” Spike’s chuckle vibrated through this body to lodge in his cock, “figured I’d try here. Music’s good, the people aren’t fuckin’ poseurs like Sunnyhell an’ somebody’d be willin’ to screw a pretty boy like me.”
“Screw a—but a girl—”
“Said, shut up,” Spike ordered, squeezing almost cruelly around the head of Xander’s cock. “It’s Halloween, git. Dress up, play pretend. Wanted to be fucked, not rubbed off. So, girl. Sides, the breasts are fun.”
He pushed his chest against Xander’s hand, hissing lightly when Xander pinched down extra hard.
“Yeah, just like that,” he said encouragingly. “Got a car?” Xander nodded and moaned when Spike took his hand away. Then he moaned again as his pants were zipped up and Spike forced his own erection under the waistband of his skirt so it wasn’t as obvious. The torn panties were removed and stuffed into Xander’s pocket. “Where at?”
It took a while to find the right car and by then Spike was rubbing up against him like a giant fucking cat and Xander was so hard he was afraid he was going to cut himself on his zipper. Fumbling open the door, Spike threw himself inside the back seat, landing on all fours, skirt already around his waist.
“Fuck me,” he ordered. “Then you can take me home. If you’re good, I’ll blow you on the ride back.”
Xander tried to be very, very good.