10 comments/ 24913 views/ 8 favorites All Hallow's Eve: The Game By: slyc_willie (Author's note: the following story is an entry into the 2013 Literotica Halloween Contest. In this story, I use angled brackets (< >) to indicate the use of texting between characters. I hope you enjoy this story, and I encourage you place your vote at the end, as well as a comment if you wish. And please read all the other contest entries; there's a lot of good talent on Literotica.) * * * * Of all the amenities Sylvie liked about Hunt Tower, the laundry facilities were not one of them. The twelve-story building was old and rustic, a former hotel from the 1920s which had just a decade before been revived and converted into apartments. The rent was a tad on the steep side, but Sylvie liked her floorplan, not to mention the cafe and hair salon on the ground floor. The laundry room was like something she would expect to see in a horror movie. Walls of dark brick, lined with rumbling machines that made the air itself vibrate when they were on. The floor was dotted periodically with metal drains colored a deep, dirty red by age. The dankness of the room was further enhanced by the weak lighting that flickered constantly as if threatening to turn off. Maybe I can do it tomorrow, she thought as she stood in the doorway, laundry basket in arm. Then she sighed in resignation. No, I have that appointment at nine-thirty, then work, and then I'll have to get ready for the party, and that's gonna take a couple hours . . . . "Fuck," she muttered aloud. "Just do it, Syl." Glancing to the note taped to the door -- "Management is not responsible for lost or stolen articles. Please stay with your laundry until it is finished." -- Sylvie headed to the nearest of the washers, finding it empty. Of the ten of them, only one other was currently in use. Sylvie wondered who the person was who had started it. Oh, God, I hope it's not some sick, demented perv . . . . The lid opened with a creak, making the invisible hairs on her neck stand up. The room felt cold and clammy, and she wished she had put on a pair of sweats over the snug-fitting boy shorts she wore. The last thing she wanted was to have Mr. Creepy come in and ogle her butt through a thin layer of cotton. The spray of water inside the washer was loud, making Sylvie grimace. She poured in the detergent quickly, waited for it to get agitated before adding her clothes. An eerie feeling entered her mind. She felt suddenly that she was not alone. Eyes wide and apprehensive, she looked first to the doorway of the laundry room, then about the cavernous chamber itself. At the far end was another door, marked "Maintenance," which was ever so slightly cracked open. Sylvie swallowed nervously. That wasn't open like that before . . . was it? Above the uproarious sound of swirling, rushing water from the machine, she could hear her own heartbeat, its pace increasing with every second. Her eyes were affixed to the maintenance door, wondering who could be standing in the darkness beyond, watching her. "Oh, hey." "Ah!" Sylvie jumped at the sound of the voice, whirling about to face the young man who entered. He stopped, startled by her reaction. "You okay?" he asked, a mixture of amusement and worry on his face. "Jesus Christ!" she cried, then laughed nervously, slapping a hand to her chest. "I hate this fucking room." He nodded in sudden understanding. "Gives you the creeps, huh? Sorry if I scared you." Sylvie breathed out, calming herself. Embarrassment coursed through her, and she gave her fellow tenant an apologetic look as he headed to the other occupied washer. "No, I'm sorry. Yeah, this place freaks me out sometimes. It's like a set from Saw." He cocked his head with a smile. "Oh, you like a good horror movie?" She chuckled dryly. "No," she responded, giving herself a moment to look him over. He's kind'a cute, she thought. A little skinny, and he needs a shave, but he's cute. He set a fast-food bag on the washer beside his and approached, hand held out in invitation. "I'm Ron." She smiled amiably. "Sylvie. Most people call me Syl." "Nice to meet ya," he said casually, then indicated the burger joint bag. "Um, you hungry?" She eyed the bag, momentarily feeling a rumble of hunger in her belly. As usual, she'd had a long day, and hadn't remembered to eat. Ron read her expression with a knowing smile. He reached for the bag. "Let's see . . . I got a junior bacon cheeseburger, a green chile cheeseburger, stuffed jalapenos, fries and onion rings." Sylvie looked sheepish. "You always eat that much?" she quipped. "Anyway, I couldn't." "I have the metabolism of a ferret. But I always end up ordering too much," Ron told her, taking out one of the paper-wrapped sandwiches. He waved it back and forth playfully before her face. "Come on, you know you want it." Sylvie rolled her eyes, but snatched the burger from his hand with a grin. "Thanks." He returned the smile. "No problem." * * * * ". . . so, what are your plans for Halloween?" Ron asked as they waited for their clothes to dry. Sylvie shrugged. Their conversation had roamed through each of their lives during the previous hour. Sylvie was impressed with Ron's laid-back demeanor, and envied the fact that he worked as a freelance computer programmer, setting his own hours. She had decided she liked him; he was intelligent and casual, easy to talk to, and most importantly, he did not stare at her like he was waiting for the opportunity to ask her back to his apartment. More than that, he was at least a touch insightful as he listened to her, making the comment more than once that she needed to relax. He seemed to recognize that Sylvie's life was dominated by her work. "Well, there's nothing going on tonight, but I've got a party to go to tomorrow." Ron sighed for effect. "Today's Halloween, yet nobody's doing anything." She laughed. "It's Thursday. Nobody parties on Thursday." "I do," he said. Sylvie rolled her eyes. "Sure, you do, Mr. I-Work-From-Home. The rest of us have real jobs." "Hmm. 'Real job.' I seem to remember what that was like." "Bragger." "Anyway, so . . . not doing anything tonight?" he prompted. She gave him a sly, but also apologetic, look. "Just work for tomorrow," she said. "Besides, it's already seven-thirty." He frowned. "Damn. Is it? My, how time flies." "But, like I said, I'm going to a party tomorrow. Typical get drunk and flirt costume shindig. You could come too . . . if you wanted." Ron scrunched up his face. "I'm not real big on those kinds of parties anymore," he said. "I get self-conscious." "So what do you do for fun, then?" He leaned against one of the washers, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I play games." "What, like video games?" she asked dryly. He smiled slowly. "More like . . . mind games, I guess. Or, personal adventure games." She frowned in confusion. "What does that mean?" He pulled a phone from his pocket. "Ever play truth or dare?" He brow furrowed even more. "On the phone?" He nodded. "My friends and I came up with it a few years ago. You pick one person to be the ringleader, and he sends everyone else texts with instructions on what to do. If you take the dare, you have to send back a picture as proof that you did it. Then you go on to the next dare. They get harder as you go along. But it's all done by text, so you can't argue with the ringleader. You either do the dare, or you don't." "Sounds . . . interesting," she said cagily. "It's actually a lot of fun," Ron insisted. "You wouldn't believe what people are willing to do for the sake of a little naughty excitement." She arched a thin brow. "'Naughty' excitement?" He shrugged disarmingly. "It always starts off pretty tame, but I've noticed that things almost always seem to progress toward the naughty side." "I'm sure." He gave her a challenging look. "Want to try?" A moment's nervousness ran through Sylvie. "I don't know . . . 'sides, I've got a lot of work to do." "You know what they say, all work and no play makes Sylvie a dull girl." She suddenly wondered as to Ron's motives. It would not be the first time she met a guy who seemed nice on the surface but was in reality a raging pervert beneath the surface. Ron could recognize her reticence. "Look, this isn't a cheap ploy to get you to send me dirty pictures or anything. It's just a fun game. Most of the time it's pretty blah stuff. Like finding a statue and mimicking it's pose. That kind of thing." She relaxed somewhat. "Well, that would count me out anyway. I wouldn't want to leave the building." "No problem," Ron replied quickly. "Plenty of things to do around here." Sylvie chuckled. "Like what? Ring-and-run someone's door?" Ron smiled mischievously. "Yeah, things like that. Innocent fun." She eyed him with playful wariness. "Uh huh. Innocent. Sure." "Tell you what," he said. "Just so you don't think I'm doing all this just to get your number, I'll give you mine. That way, the ball's in your court, and I won't get your number unless you text or call me. Deal?" Sylvie pursed her lips in thought. "Okay, fine," she said, taking up her phone. "But I'm not promising anything." Ron grinned. "That would spoil the fun." * * * * By nine o'clock, Sylvie could swear she heard the sizzle in her head that indicated her brain was frying. She hated the redundant and ridiculous amounts of paperwork her job demanded. In the age of the Internet, it was an annoying fact that the company she worked for still insisted on hard copies of all documentation. She leaned back from the small dining room table in her apartment to crack her back. The series of pops she felt through her spine helped relieve some of the tension that had crept up to the back of her skull, but not much. She was aware that if stayed where she was, she was in danger of developing a migraine. I need a break, she told herself, slipping her feet to the floor. She headed to the fridge, took out a bottle of cherry-flavored spring water. The cold liquid felt soothing as she gulped it down. She wandered through the apartment, flipped on the television, stared at what passed for quality programming on one of the prime time stations. Her mind was still on the paperwork she had to finish, however. It would take perhaps another hour to get it all done. She went back to the table, checked the time on her phone. 9:14. She sighed. Another wasted night, she thought. But then another thought occurred to her. She remembered Ron and his little 'game.' What would be the harm? she wondered. If he turns into a perv, I can just block his number. She tapped on Ron's number, then the messenger icon. For a moment, her finger hovered, shaking slightly. Sylvie could not be certain if the sudden pulse of adrenalin flowing through her body was due to excitement or apprehension. Fuck it. she typed. For several seconds, she stared at the screen, then decided she was being foolish for expecting an immediate answer. She set the phone down, went to the fridge for another drink of spring water. The phone buzzed. The mechanical rattle as it vibrated on the wooden tabletop startled her. She nearly dropped the bottle. Admonishing herself for her nerves, she put the bottle back and approached the phone. Sylvie's face contorted in a scowl. Nearly a minute passed before Ron answered. Sylvie stared alternately at the work before her and the television as she waited. She smirked. she typed. A few seconds later, the reply came back. Oh, I'm sure, she thought sarcastically as her thumbs padded back and forth on the touch screen. The reply took almost a minute before it came back. Sylvie chuckled inwardly. Okay. Easy enough, she thought, and went to the balcony door. Still clad in the tight boy shorts and torso-hugging top, she pulled open the door. It was a windy, chilly night, especially at nine floors above the ground. Beyond her metal-railed balcony, the city glowed with thousands of amber lights. Funny face, huh? Okay . . . . She turned her back to the city, leaning against the railing, and activated the camera feature on the phone. She crossed her eyes, sucked in her cheeks and made fish lips. Click. Oh, God, that's a terrible picture, she lamented in amusement upon looking at the image her phone had captured. Oh my God, you can see my nipples! Nevertheless, she sent it along to Ron's phone as she returned inside. And again she waited. The phone buzzed almost a minute later. Sylvie's eyes smoldered. He sent back a raspberry smiley. She switched her phone from vibrate to a Halloween-themed chime and set it on the table while she searched for a snack. As she munched on a piece of celery, the ominous sound of maniacal laughter issued from her phone, indicating a new text message. Okay, let's see what the next dare is . . . . Sylvie stared at the message. That's the real question, isn't it? She breathed in and out slowly, considering what her limits would be. She barely knew Ron, and as much as she admitted there was a good amount of attraction based on their initial meeting, Sylvie had to remind herself that he was still, essentially, a stranger. she sent back. The reply was quick. Sylvie considered the request. A devious smile crossed her face. Again, another quick response. Ron was obviously eager to play the game out. Sylvie nibbled her lip, laughing softly. I've got just the thing, she thought as she headed into her bedroom. The bathroom attached included a walk-in closet, packed to alarming levels with the majority of her clothing. She set the phone on the edge of the faux marble sink, then stripped out of her shirt and shorts. For a moment, she looked herself over in the mirror. She got enough attention from men to understand she was considered more than marginally attractive. Her skin was far from perfect, with random large brown freckles here and there that Sylvie dreaded would one day somehow morph into moles. She managed to maintain a build proportionate to her height, and while she thought her breasts looked a bit lopsided, they were firm and round. The one feature of her physiognomy she truly did not like lay between her thighs. No matter how she tried to tuck them in, the inner labia of her vagina protruded a good half inch past her fleshy vulva when she was not aroused and even more when she was. At least one former boyfriend had commented on her "beef curtains," and the observation had prompted her to consider cosmetic surgery. She diverted her attention from her nudity and stepped into the closet. All of her underthings had been grouped into a series of small wicker baskets stacked upon the white wire shelves. With a self-congratulatory chuckle, she selected a pair of thick, white cotton panties that completely covered her from waistline to the tops of her thighs, and a truly hideous padded bra with dented underwires which, for whatever reason, she had not yet donated to the trash. Fully encased in the matronly undergarments, she took up the phone and carefully took another picture. Before sending it to Ron, she added a message. She chuckled as she awaited the reply. A minute passed, then another. Consternation colored her features as she wondered if either Ron had missed the sarcasm of her little joke, or . . . . The phone erupted with dramatic laughter once more. Sylvie shuddered with laughter. she typed, then hit send before thinking about it. Instantly, it dawned upon her that her return message had opened the door for a more risque request. Shit, she thought. Sure enough, another message was received amid peal of Vincent Price-quality cackling. Another moment of hesitation gave Sylvie pause. I can stop this any time I want, she told herself. Hey, it's not like I've told this guy I wanna go to bed with him or anything. If I don't like where this is going, I'll stop. Simple as that. But for now . . . . Again, a devilish smile stretched Sylvie's lips. She could not deny how intrigued and excited she was by Ron's "ringleader" game. From somewhere deep inside came the impetus to not only see for herself how far she would go, but also to see if she could surprise or even shock Ron with her audacity. The unflattering undergarments fell to the floor, and Sylvie picked through a different wicker basket for racier fare. She considered several possibilities before deciding upon a pair of lacy red mesh panties and matching bra. Her heart began pumping at a more accelerated pace as she admired herself in the mirror. Through the almost transparent fabric of the panties, the small trimmed growth of her pubic hair could just be discerned. She took up the phone, carefully snapped another picture. Mischief glowing in her eyes, she sent the image along with another message. A minute passed. Then another. Sylvie stared, perturbed, at the phone as she wandered through her apartment. Damn it, she thought. If he's jacking off to that pic, I'm ending this now. The phone laughed as she was retrieving another stalk of celery from the refrigerator. Sylvie sauntered to the phone where it lay upon the table and tapped the screen. She read the new message with a smile of chagrin. Thumbs danced with practiced ease across the onscreen keyboard. She changed the setting back to vibrate and set the phone down, watching it as she chewed her snack. The device glowed and buzzed a few seconds later. Sylvie snatched it up. Sylvie considered the screen through narrowed eyes. Ron's words read almost like a challenge. Ron's response was swift. Tap-tap-tap. Sylvie smiled as if by accomplishment. She decided to wait until she had finished her snack before sending another message. In a detached but affected way, she was impressed that Ron did not text her in the meantime. she finally asked. The response came as she stood before the television, staring at the screen without absorbing the content being flashed at her. Upon hearing the rumbling of the phone upon the wooden surface of the table, Sylvie jumped to see the message. All Hallow's Eve: The Game Not much of a dare, Sylvie thought. Although, he did say 'skirt.' He already knows what I'd be wearing underneath. What's he up to? She did not bother to text back, feeling a strange sense of urgency. The time on her phone read 9:41. She would indeed have to hurry to get to the ground-floor cafe before it closed. Darting to her closet, Sylvie snatched up a pleated plaid skirt of black and red, as well as a short-sleeved, button-down top. She jerked up the skirt and was still buttoning the top as she left her apartment and headed down the hall to the elevator. This is crazy, she told herself as she rode down in the elevator, watching the numbers counting down on the display. I'm giving in way too much to this stupid game. Yeah, and it's the most fun you've had in a long time, Syl. So just go with it. She slipped between the metal doors of the elevator as they parted on the ground floor and quick-stepped toward the cafe. It was a small, cozy affair with a simple order counter featuring over-priced coffee drinks, with half a dozen tables at which to sit. She smiled at the girl behind the counter, who tried her best to smile back. "Hey, Jessy," Sylvie said brightly. The girl gave a half-hearted reply. "Don't usually see you down here so late." Sylvie shrugged. "Got a lot of work to do," she replied, eyes darting over the menu. "Um . . . just a caramel macchiato. Need something a little sweet." Jessy nodded, punching in the order. Sylvie paid with her debit card and took a seat at a nearby table as she waited for her drink. The phone buzzed. Somewhat nervously, she glanced down at the screen and tapped for the new message. it read. Sylvie's heart fluttered momentarily with nervousness. The message was quickly followed by another. Sylvie's eyes bulged. Where she sat, she faced the counter behind which the gangly young barrister was fixing her coffee. There was only one other patron in the little cafe, a middle-aged man she did not recognize, who sat by the window overlooking the city lights beyond. She was not being directly observed, yet still, the idea of removing her panties in such a place . . . . Her fingers trembled as she messaged back. Sylvie swallowed thickly. She didn't want to give Ron the satisfaction of her loss. At the same time, the nature of the dare was a challenge that stabbed at the core of her straight-laced upbringing. The impetus to meet it, to clamor out of her shell, was compelling. Her eyes darted about. Neither the barrister nor the middle-aged man were looking at her. Now or never, she thought, setting her phone upon the table. Quickly, and as deftly as she could, she slipped her fingers beneath the hem of the skirt, momentarily lifting up from the wooden chair beneath. Thumbs hooked beneath the waist of the frilly red underthings and shimmied them down her cheeks, then her thighs. She took another glance around, before looking down beneath the edge of the tabletop. Her panties hung conspicuously from her thighs, just above her knees. She quickly snapped a picture, then sent it along to Ron with a message: "Caramel macchiato," called the barrister, setting a styrofoam cup on the counter above the brewing station. Sylvie's head snapped up, eyes wide and furtive. "That's me." The young man behind the counter gave a tired smile and stepped back. Obviously, he was not going to bring the drink to Sylvie's table. Shit, she thought. She cast her gaze about, and while no one was looking her way, she felt exposed and vulnerable as she pushed back from the table. Pulling the panties back up would be too obvious, she reasoned, so . . . she pushed them further down, and let them fall about her ankles as she stood. Stepping free from the garment, Sylvie stooped quickly to scoop them up, then approached the counter to retrieve her coffee. She was very much aware of the cool, conditioned air wafting between her legs, which contrasted with the emerging warm, faint wetness there. "Thanks," she said, before turning back. "Have a nice night." The phone vibrated in her hand. She set the coffee down and tapped the screen. Sylvie chewed her bottom lip as she typed. She put the phone down and sipped the hot coffee. Her gaze wandered around the cafe, then to the doorway and the broad corridor beyond. And at that moment, a figure stepped past the doorway, conspicuous in a beige and black uniform, utility belt sporting everything from a pistol to pepper spray. He was slender of build, pale-skinned, with shaggy black hair. Sylvie stared at him, frowning. I didn't know we had a security guard, she thought. He paused in the doorway, his own phone in hand as he played some banal game or some such, the screen glowing beneath his face. His head tilted up and canted in her direction. He smiled thinly, but the eyes above betrayed an almost predatory expression. Sylvie felt a sudden and undeniably chill. She looked away, then sat back down at the small bistro table, hoping the security guard would just continue on. She felt suddenly foolish, holding a pair of wadded-up panties in her hand. She realized she had received another message from Ron. Shaking fingers brought it up. Sylvie made the effort to calm herself. She did not know why the mere sight of the security guard put her on edge. But at the moment, and in light of wanting to see the game played out, she made the effort to ignore her feelings. she sent back. Ron was quicker to text than she expected. Sylvie stared at the screen, a smirk playing across her face. she typed. The next dare arrived after several anxious moments. Sylvie read the screen. Sylvie balked for a moment. The game was, indeed, getting riskier. And naughtier. What if she did what Ron demanded and there was someone behind her? The skirt she had donned was fairly short and loose, and bending over, straight-legged, would certainly expose the most intimate part of her body. But if I don't do it, then the game's over, Sylvie told herself. She huffed. Why the hell is this stupid game so important all of a sudden? I should just go back to my apartment and finish my paperwork. My incredibly boring paperwork, for my incredibly boring job, which supports my incredibly boring life . . . . Sylvie took a deep breath. Fuck it. let's do this, she told herself, and rose from the table. Eyes following the lines on the floor, she quickly made her way out to the lobby and turned toward the bank of elevators. Fortune favored her; the hall was empty. She hesitated just a moment, again feeling a draft between her thighs. She could not ignore the naughtiness of the situation, the way it made her feel unexpectedly excited. The closest she had ever come to being so risky in public had been a brief topless flash at a spring break party years before. But then, she had just been one girl in a crowd doing the same thing. This was much, much different. And it was turning her on. "Oopsie," she chimed softly, letting the wadded-up panties fall from her hand. With her phone ready, she bent over at the waist, feeling the material of her skirt slide up the smooth globes of her naked buttocks. Cool air contrasted with the growing heat emanating from her sex. She took up the panties while angling the phone to snap a picture. With a mischievous giggle, she straightened and depressed the elevator call button. Her face fell as she looked at the picture. Standing directly behind her, some thirty feet back near the lobby's front doors, had been that very same security guard. Facing her. Smiling. He'd had a perfect view of her exposed privates. With a gasp, she spun around, dreading that she might find him standing there, leering at her as he often did. But he was not. Sylvie could see no sign of the man. Her phone trembled. She nearly dropped it. she read in the messenger window. She breathed out, forcing herself to be calm. she responded. Sylvie jogged her head back and forth. Okay, maybe not, she thought. She typed another message. Sylvie sent back. Sylvie chuckled ruefully, then remembered that she had not yet sent the picture to Ron. She had to admire his not being pushy about it. She did so quickly, adding another message: Ron's reply was not immediate, nor was Sylvie surprised. The wait, however, still had her fidgeting, especially concerning the shadowy proximity of the security guard, who could have been anywhere. Finally, Ron's response arrived. On impulse, she started to type a flirtatious response, then stopped herself. "Um, excuse me." Sylvie looked up at the sound of the girl's voice. Jessy from the cafe approached, holding Sylvie's styrofoam cup. "You forgot your coffee." With an embarrassed blush, Sylvie took the cup. "Sorry. Don't know where my mind is." "No biggee," said the counter girl, eyes darting for a moment to the pair of frilly panties in Sylvie's hand. She gave a quizzical look, but said nothing about it. "It happens. Have a good night." Sylvie sighed, rolling her eyes as Jessy headed back into the cafe. Great. First Mr. Creepy the security guard sees me flashing my puss, now the girl from the cafe knows I'm commando. Great. I'm gonna have to find a new apartment after this, I just know it . . . . she texted. Ron's message ended with a raspberry smiley. Sylvie glared at her phone, as if Ron would somehow be able to see it. The elevator bell chimed, and one of them opened. As she started to enter it, her phone buzzed. She paused to read the new message. Sylvie frowned. She had hoped that Ron would have her go somewhere else, somewhere she was not likely to encounter the security guard again. But no, of course not, she thought ruefully, even as she headed away from the open elevator. At one time, the east end of the lobby had been a sort of social area. There were numerous broad couches which faced a massive bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded a fairly impressive view of the city below the hill upon which Hunt Tower sat. In the modern era, it was a place for tenants to hang out and quietly sip their coffee while taking advantage of free wi-fi. At the moment, it was dark and unoccupied. The faint radiance of the glow of the city allowed just enough light to navigate by. This particular part of the lobby was canted a bit off from the lobby hall, so that only someone at the entrance of the room would be able to see within it. She looked around briefly, satisfying herself that she was alone, then set her coffee upon one of the small, hourglass-shaped plastic tables. she typed to Ron. She stared at the screen, dumbfounded. Is he fucking serious? Agitated fingers pegged at the screen. Ron's reply was once more quick. He had obviously expected her reluctance. Sylvie lowered the phone, looking around. The lounge was silent and dark, with hazy shadows painted on the walls from the amber glow of the city outside. Stepping to one of the immense windows, Sylvie felt a shiver of deliciously naughty excitement course through her. Never had she ever considered removing her clothes in such a place, but the darkness, the hour, the fact that it was Halloween, and Ron's silent but omnipresent challenge encouraged her to be more daring than she ever thought she would be. She was inexorably attracted to the notion of being a woman willing to take risks. To do something so far outside the norm for her behavior that anyone who knew her would think her crazy. Strangely, she found that thought appealing. But she was still reluctant. She cast her gaze back to the entrance of the lounge. The hall beyond held a faint glow of the lights further down, but practically none of the illumination penetrated more than a few feet into the chamber. And, as silent as it was, she would be able to hear anyone's approach long before they discovered her. Time enough, at least, to duck behind one of the couches. Or so she reasoned. Her phone buzzed. The glow of the face was like a flashlight in the darkness as she read Ron's new message. A catty expression crossed her face as she composed a reply. She waited as the phone went dark. Several seconds passed before it lit up again. The message certainly piqued her curiosity. she sent back. She chuckled wryly. Ron's willingness to switch roles sealed the deal, even if, at the moment, it was only an empty promise. But that promise of control, empty or not, triggered the last release of her inhibitions. she sent. Sylvie chuckled as she returned to the table upon which she had set her coffee, and placed the phone beside it. Oh, you're gonna get your picture, she thought. And then some. With another glance toward the hall to assure herself she remained alone, Sylvie quickly shucked off her top, followed by the frilly red bra. The cool air danced enticingly across her nipples, making them pucker. On impulse, she caressed her breasts for a few moments, lighting up the nerves and making her nipples jut out even more. Then she unsnapped the skirt and let it fall to the floor. Nervousness and excitement jockeyed for prominence as she stood fully nude in the lounge. The combination of emotions titillated her in ways she had never imagined. She was aware of a growing sense of true sexual arousal; more than heat between her thighs, she now felt conspicuously wet. A tingling sensation crept around her groin, circling in toward her clitoris like a patient hawk. You want a pic, Ron? she thought as she took up the phone and stepped back to the window. Well, you're about to get more than you expected . . . . She stood before the window, legs slightly splayed, facing her phone. Turning off the flash, she snapped a picture. Looking upon it, however, Sylvie decided it was not quite teasing enough. So she turned to one side, arched her back, holding the phone out at arm's length . . . . She took several such pictures until she was satisfied she had the right one. It showed her obviously nude from mid-thigh up, with the nipple of her right breast outlined against the hazy glow of the city. There was just enough light upon her skin to make it obvious she was fully nude. That oughtta do it, she thought as she sent the picture to Ron. She began to dress as she awaited his response. From the hallway came a faint scuffling sound, like that of shoes upon carpet. Sylvie froze, halfway through pulling the skirt up her thighs. She was essentially naked, and if caught, the mortification and embarrassment would be too much. Hurriedly, she snapped the skirt around her waist then donned the shirt. With only the bottom two buttons affixed, she warily approached the hallway. But as her eyes scanned the corridor beyond, she saw nothing but carpet, wallpaper, and sconces. Slowly relaxing, telling herself her mind was playing tricks on her, she went back to the table in the lounge. After more than a minute, she frowned at the phone. What, is he jacking off or something? The tingling between her legs lingered, and Sylvie found herself slipping a hand beneath her skirt to lightly massage her pussy through the lacy panties. A jolt of sexual tension shot up through her body, making her suck in her breath. Maybe he is jacking off, she thought excitedly, indulging in a sudden fantasy. Maybe he's laying back on his bed, looking at pictures of me and getting so turned on, so hard . . . maybe he's fantasizing about fucking me. Maybe he wants to push my legs back and shove it in, or bend me over and take me from behind . . . maybe he wants to go down on me and lick me until I scream-- Sylvie bit her lip, pressing her fingers more firmly against her clit. She whimpered, shifted on her feet, pushed the material covering pussy aside. She sighed aloud as naked fingers massaged her naked clit, delving between slick, slippery lips. The vibration of the phone upon the hard plastic table jarred her back to the moment. She jerked her hand from beneath her skirt and, with a heavy, breathy sigh, took up the phone. Sylvie smirked. Ron messaged back a few moments later. A soft smile crossed Sylvie's face. She rolled her eyes. Don't go getting serious on me, she mused. Sylvie chuckled. How clueless men are, she thought. came Ron's reply. Sylvie shook her head with a thin smile. She sat as she waited, sipping from the caramel-flavored coffee and wondering where the game was going to lead. She leaned back on the couch and casually pleasured herself, fingers languidly stroking up and down along the lips of her pussy as she waited. The phone lit up and buzzed. Sylvie was quick to take it. Sylvie grinned. She could already tell where Ron's directions were leading, and for the first time since the beginning of the game, she welcomed it. Coffee in one hand, phone in the other, she headed out of the east end lobby and back into the main corridor. Only briefly did she dread that she might encounter the security guard. She passed the now closed cafe, seeing no one either beyond the metal mesh gate that had been lowered over the entrance of the establishment, or anyone else in the lobby. It seemed that, for all the world, she was alone in the long, broad hall. That suited Sylvie just fine. All Hallow's Eve: The Game Pushing open the door of the restroom, she was inundated with harsh, revealing fluorescent light. She set her styrofoam cup on the counter beside one of three sinks. The bathroom, near as she could tell, was empty. She lifted the phone, tapped it, sent a message to Ron. Sylvie nibbled her lip. The reply was swift. Reading those words elicited a twitch from Sylvie's groin. She was already wet enough to soak through the panties pressed against her pussy; indeed, she could feel smears of wetness against her upper thighs. That she was turned on was not in question. The question was, how far was she willing to go? Fingers trembling with arousal tapped upon the screen of her phone. Sylvie smiled slowly. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she had already decided that this daring little game had become foreplay, and that the culmination would include a rather torrid and energetic coupling with Ron. That he was willing to extend the game just a little further impressed her, and turned her on that much more. She set the phone upon the counter, then quickly stripped off her shirt once more, cast into the sink. She stared at her reflection, cupping and massaging her breasts. The nipples darkened with arousal, areolas beneath them swelling as well. Despite not having had a single drop of alcohol, she felt inebriated. With a mischievous grin, she took up the phone and focused on her reflection in the mirror. With the abundant light, her breasts were fully revealed. She tapped on the phone, sending the picture along with a message: Sylvie watched the phone, waiting for Ron's reply. Hands wandered up and down her body, teasing the sensitive undersides of her breasts, the nerves beneath the skin of her flat belly. She pinched and pulled at her nipples, squirmed on her feet as the moistness increased between her thighs. Without thinking, she undid the snap of the skirt and let it fall to the floor, then slipped off the panties. The phone rumbled on the fake marble surface of the counter beside the sink. Sylvie whipped it up. She grinned lasciviously. she typed back. she texted. Lips stretched by a crafty smile, Sylvie climbed onto the counter before the broad, polished mirror of the restroom. Upon her knees, facing the mirror, she spread her legs wide and leaned back, taking up the phone to snap a picture. The lips of her pussy were slightly parted, hanging down beneath the bulb of her hooded clit. She wondered what Ron would think of her meaty pussy. Then she uncurled her legs, assumed a squatting position, and fanned her thighs wide, fully exposing the sleek, glistening treasure between her legs. Pink labia flared apart, revealing how aroused she was. She tapped the phone to capture the image. The more she gave in, Sylvie realized, the more she wanted to let go. She had always been the conservative, nigh prudish woman unwilling to do anything to compromise that image. But suddenly, the liberation of being so lewd, so free, pushed her far beyond her normal boundaries. She was, truly, a different woman. After sending some of the pictures to Ron, Sylvie gave in to immediate, hedonistic lust. Ignoring the buzzing of her phone upon the counter, she leaned back on one hand as the other danced and pressed and pushed between her thighs. She masturbated furiously, watching her reflection in the mirror. She became both voyeur and exhibitionist, doing and watching at the same time. The fantasy of putting on such a display for Ron -- her imminent lover -- of so obscenely spreading her thighs and masturbating for him, while watching him do the same, overtook her. She bucked and moaned, squirmed and groaned, before finally erupting in a climax which literally sprayed fluid across the mirror before her. Easing back, Sylvie lazily reached for her phone. Several messages awaited her. She glanced through them in post-orgasmic stupor, and managed to lift the phone to capture the image of her flushed, nude body. She was still catching her breath as she sent the picture along with a message. But Ron's reply did not come right away, as she had expected. In a sort of strange, romantic way, Sylvie had hoped that her final acquiescence to the spirit of the game would have opened the gateway to the most profound and powerful sexual experience she had ever known. She hoped Ron would tell her where his apartment was, and she would rush up there, fall into his arms, and . . . . And . . . . At last, the phone trembled. Still nude upon the counter, hovering somewhere between reality and bliss, Sylvie turned about and took up the phone. Naked legs dangled beneath the sink as she called up the new message. Sylvie chuckled. Ron's reply came several heartbeats later. She rolled her eyes. 'One last thing?' What the hell, Ron. If you haven't gotten it through your thick skull that I wanna fuck you, then I'm seriously reconsidering. Regardless of her thoughts, and with a heavy sigh, Sylvie typed out a message: The reply as quick, as if Ron had just been awaiting her message. A soft smile spread across Sylvie's face. Ooo, a present, she thought excitedly. And in the laundry room, where we met, of all places. Maybe Ron's as romantic as he is kinky. I could deal with that. She slipped back into her clothes, composed herself before leaving the restroom. She would normally have been obsessive about making sure her hair was well-groomed and makeup touched up, but she was now a different woman. Reckless. Carefree. She was the kind of woman who would masturbate for a near-stranger in a public bathroom and take pictures of it. She giggled naughtily on her way to the stairwell door that led to the basement. As it opened before her, her Devil-may-care attitude wavered. The colder air of the basement drifted up toward her like the ghostly hand of an evil specter, chilling her arousal. Why did we have to meet in the damn basement? Sylvie lamented as she took the stairs down. Even in her simple shoes, it seemed the sound of every step was magnified. She kept one hand on the rail as she descended, her eyes focused on the light spilling from the laundry room door at the end. The machines were silent as she neared the door. The only sounds she heard were faint drops of water plunging to the ground and her own shallow breathing. Every nerve seemed alive at on edge. "Ron?" she called, stepping through the door. There came no response. Her eyes fell to the simple blue plastic basket that lay on the last of the washing machines. It looked like the one Ron had used. She went to it, touched it. Her attention drifted toward the dryers. Within the third one yet lay a tangled mass of clothing. Shirts, jeans, pants, all mens. A thick lump formed in the back of Sylvie's throat that she could not force down. Why didn't he take his stuff? It's been almost two hours. Why would he leave his clothes? She cast her gaze about frantically, from the machines to the doorway and back again. Finally, her eyes fell upon the slightly canted door at the far end marked "Maintenance." Anxiety flowed through Sylvie like an undeniable river in flood. She made an effort to rationalize her fears. It's Halloween, and he's just playing a joke. He wants to freak me out a little. There's probably some plastic Wal-Mart skeleton hanging in the maintenance closet, and I'm gonna freak out when I see it, but then Ron's gonna run in and I'm gonna smack him and then we'll go back to his place and fuck. Or my place. Whatever. Despite the efforts of reason, however, Sylvie could not simply advance to the door and throw it open. There yet remained a powerful inkling of true nervous apprehension. So she approached slowly, step by step, the shoes of her feet smacking in brackish trickles of water as they meandered across the floor to the drain. At last, she reached the door. Only darkness lay beyond. She reached tentatively, touching the cold metal nob, before jerking her hand back. Berating herself mentally, and making a last effort to steel herself, she took hold of the handle and jerked the door open wide. Beyond lay a small room, perhaps ten feet deep and half that wide. A shelf on one side was cluttered with all manner of cleaning materials and other peripherals. But Sylvie was not looking at the shelf. Her gaze was transfixed upon the body before her. The body was propped up upon its knees, arms canted up and away with strong cord lashed about the wrists attached to hooks in the walls. The head hung down, hiding its features. But the clothing, the build, the rakish cut of the hair all looked far too familiar. "Oh my God," she whispered, inching closer, crouching down, reaching a hand out to the head of the suspended man. "Okay, Ron, you got me. Joke's over. Okay?" Her words filtered away in the dank, cold room with no response. The figure before her did not move. She touched the top of the head. The hair was stiff and cool. Grimacing, Sylvie let her hand drift down, touching the side of the face. Waxy skin graced her fingers, nearly as chilled as the air around her. Fearful and trembling, she gripped a handful of hair to tilt the head upward. She had to know. Bulging eyes filled with congealing blood greeted her, surrounded by pale cold flesh. The mouth hung agape, swollen purple tongue visible just beyond the teeth. Around the neck of Ron's corpse were several lengths of cord. Sylvie jerked back, letting the head fall again. Abject horror charged through her with all the unfettered ferocity of a battering ram. Reality exploded in her mind: this wasn't fake. This wasn't a joke. She was looking at a dead man. She screamed. * * * * Head in her hands, Sylvie stared at the floor of the cafe as she tried to make sense of everything that had happened. She had degenerated into a frightened, confused, blubbering blob of incoherence after running from the laundry room, and was now, in the light of at least some rationality, surprised the police had responded at all. What. The fuck. Happened? That singular reel of thought played in her mind over and over as she sat and waited. The arrival of the police meant that the managers of Hunt Tower were roused. The cafe gate had been lifted, and it was within that Sylvie sat as patrolmen, crime scene investigators, and who knew who else milled about. In a detached fit, she wondered why so many different people had been called upon to deal with a single dead body. "Coffee?" Sylvie lifted her head, smoothing her hands back through her hair. She felt tired and aged. Her eyes registered the styrofoam cup held by the man before her, before gliding up to his face. "No, thanks. I just wanna go to sleep." Detective Arturo Mendes nodded in sympathy. He set the coffee beside the young woman's phone on the small bistro table and sat down beside her. "I understand that," he said. "You've been through a lot tonight." Sylvie huffed and hung her head. "No shit." The detective remained professional. "You said you were in constant contact with the victim through your phone." She sighed. "Yes." "But only through text." She nodded numbly. "Yes." "So, really, it could have been anyone." Sylvie ground her teeth. "I thought it was him. I thought it was Ron." Mendes shifted slightly on his chair. "Miss Davis, I'm not a forensics expert, but I've unfortunately seen my share of dead bodies in my career. From the looks of things, Ronald Hartman has been dead for at least a couple of hours. And, there was no phone on the body. All of that tells me that the person you were in contact with was probably not Ronald Hartman." She breathed out, feeling nauseous. "Then who was it?" "I don't know." She snapped her head up. "The security guard," she said. "It was the security guard!" "Miss--" Sylvie shot up, facing the detective. "No, I'm serious," she yelled. "Talk to the security guard!" Mendes remained calm and passive. "I can't do that." "Why not!" He met her gaze. "Because the Hunt Tower doesn't employ security guards." Sylvie blinked. "What?" "I've spoken with the property managers," Mendes explained. "They've never had security guards here." Sylvie sputtered. "But . . . I saw him! He had on a uniform!" The detective reached out. "Could you describe the man you saw?" he asked. Sylvie frowned, confused. "I don't know. He was skinny. Tall. Um, black hair." Mendes made note of what he was told. "Could you provide any more details?" In response, Sylvie whimpered and clasped her hands to her face. She sagged back down into the chair. "No. I didn't really look at him." Mendes took in, then let out, a deep breath. "Stay here, Miss Davis. I'll be right back." "Sure," Sylvie grumbled. Her mind careened with torturous thoughts. No security guard . . . so who the fuck was that guy? And who was I sending all those fucking pictures to? Oh, God, this is so twisted . . . . The sudden rumbling from the table beside her startled Sylvie. She snapped her head up, affixing her attention immediately to the phone -- her phone -- that sat upon the wire-framed table. Her heart palpitated. She looked about the room, searching. The detective met her gaze, as if to ask, "is that him?" Sylvie reached for the phone with a trembling hand. She tapped the screen, revealing a new message. * * * * (I hope you enjoyed this twisted, dark little tale. Please don't forget to vote, and feel free to leave a comment below if you wish. I'm always interested to see what readers think of my work. Oh, and Happy Halloween.)