Pretend Couple Unmasked at Midnight

The crystal chandeliers of Selena’s sprawling penthouse threw fractured light across the masked crowd like shattered ice, champagne flutes glinting as the clock crawled toward midnight. Monica adjusted the ornate black lace half-mask covering the upper half of her face, the silk ties snug against her thick dark hair. At forty-two she still filled out a dress like sin poured into fabric—deep crimson velvet plunging between her heavy, freckled tits, the neckline so low the inner curves of her areolas threatened to spill free every time she breathed. The skirt split high on one thigh, flashing the lace top of her stocking whenever she moved. Beside her, twenty-two-year-old Marco looked devastating in a simple black mask and tailored tux that strained across his shoulders. He was her neighbor from two doors down, the one who jogged shirtless every morning and made her cunt throb behind the curtains. Tonight he was her husband. Fake rings, fake smiles, pure survival. Her ex was somewhere in this crush of bodies, and she refused to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing her alone.

Marco’s strong hand settled possessively on the small of her back the second they stepped onto the polished floor, fingers splaying wide enough that his pinky brushed the upper swell of her ass. Heat shot straight through the velvet into her skin. Monica felt her nipples tighten against the thin lining of the dress.

“Relax, wife,” he murmured near her ear, voice low enough that only she caught the rough edge. “I’ve got you.”

They moved into the swirl of dancers. Every slow turn pressed her full tits against his hard chest. The soft give of her flesh mashed against muscle, her stiff nipples dragging through the fabric, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning. His palm stayed locked at her waist, thumb stroking absently over the dimple just above her ass crack. Monica’s perfume—something dark and expensive—mingled with the clean scent of his skin and the faint soap from his shower. She could feel the thick length of him already half-hard against her hip whenever the music swayed them close. Fuck, he was big. She had watched that cock tent his running shorts for months; feeling it now made her pussy clench and leak into the tiny thong she wore.

Across the room she spotted her ex laughing too loud with some skinny twenty-something. Monica turned deliberately into Marco, grinding her tits harder against him as they danced. Let the bastard see. Let him choke on it.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” Marco said, breath warm through the mask. His hand slid lower, openly cupping one cheek of her ass for a possessive squeeze that made her gasp.

“Maybe I am.” She tilted her head so their masks nearly kissed. “You’re supposed to be my husband. Act like you own this body.”

His fingers dug in, hard enough to bruise. “I already fucking do tonight.”

They drifted toward a darker corner near the tall windows overlooking the city lights, away from the main crush and the thump of the DJ. The music slowed to something filthy and bass-heavy. Marco pulled her flush, one thigh sliding deliberately between hers. Monica’s soaked pussy lips parted around the hard muscle of his leg; the thin thong was useless, already glued to her cunt with slick. She rolled her hips once, shameless, feeling the ridge of his cock thicken fully against her stomach.