Alien Wife Fucked in Costume at Halloween Party

The bass from the living room climbed the walls and sat in Esther’s ribs before she even took her coat off. The house was packed with adults in costume, orange bulbs strung low, paper bats twitching whenever someone opened the front door. She was twenty-eight, and the alien outfit she had ordered and then taken in at the seams clung like it had been poured on. Shiny green fabric stretched over her breasts and waist, catching every lamp, the molded cups pushing her curves into something exaggerated and deliberate. A short matching skirt barely cleared the lower swell of her ass. Silver-tipped antennae bobbed on a thin headband when she turned her head. Under it all she wore nothing. The decision had felt bold in the bedroom mirror and felt reckless now, with warm air sliding up her thighs every time she moved.

Jerome came in behind her, thirty, sharp in a black suit, white shirt, narrow tie, sunglasses still on even though the hall was dim. The silver neuralyzer prop sat in his breast pocket like a joke he was willing to commit to. He looked composed. His hand at the small of her back was not. His palm was hot through the thin costume, and when she stepped ahead of him into the crowd she felt his attention drop and stay on the roll of her hips.

They took ginger ale from the drinks table. Esther wanted a clear head, and Jerome had said the same in the car, voice already rough when he watched her tug the skirt down and fail. Teresa, thirty-two and laughing in a crooked witch hat, waved them over and told Esther the antennae were unfair. Marco, late twenties in a pirate coat that smelled faintly of cedar, clapped Jerome’s shoulder and said the suit was too convincing for a party. Esther smiled, answered, let the small talk move. None of it landed as hard as the way Jerome stood half a step behind her, close enough that she could feel him looking.

She reached for a napkin and the skirt rode. Cool air touched the underside of one cheek. She did not fix it. In the dark window across the room she caught his reflection: jaw set, sunglasses hiding his eyes, mouth gone hungry. When she glanced back he was not pretending to look anywhere else. The shiny green hugged the roundness of her ass and made every shift of weight into a show meant for one person. Heat climbed her chest under the costume. Her nipples tightened against the slick fabric until the points showed, faint and darker, when she passed under a lamp.

“You’re staring,” she said near his ear, under the playlist.

“You dressed so I would.” His voice was low. “That skirt isn’t covering what I want covered. Every time you walk I lose the rest of the room.”

She swayed a little more than the song required, testing him, and his fingers tightened at her waist. They circulated. She talked to Teresa about the lights. She laughed at Marco’s story about a jammed zipper. Jerome’s hand drifted lower, proprietary, stopping just above the swell she knew he wanted in both palms. The tension wound with each track. She was wet already, a private slickness the costume hid and the short skirt threatened to reveal if she bent. When she walked toward the bathroom line, she felt him follow without touching, the heat of his gaze on the green shine moving over her hips.

She came out into a narrower side hall where the music arrived as a pulse through drywall and a single amber sconce threw long shadows. Coats piled on a chair farther down. A sturdy side table sat under a mirror, empty except for a bowl of wrapped candy someone had abandoned. No one else was in the hall. Jerome was waiting with the sunglasses off, eyes dark and direct, the neuralyzer still ridiculous in his pocket and his body anything but a joke.

He caught her wrist, gentle, and drew her past the bathroom door until the wall was at her back and his suit was against the shiny green.

“I’ve been trying not to put my hands on you since we walked in,” he said. “You know what that costume does. That ass. Those antennae bouncing when you laugh. I want to probe my sexy alien wife. Right here. In the suit. In the skirt. I don’t want to wait until we drive home.”

The word made her laugh once, breathless, and then his mouth was on hers and the laugh died. The kiss was open and hot, his tongue sliding against hers, one hand at her jaw, the other already under the short skirt. Bare skin met his palm. He groaned into her mouth and squeezed, spreading her cheeks just enough that hallway air touched her.

“No panties,” he said against her lips.

“I wanted you to find out.”

He kissed her harder. His hands filled themselves with her, lifting, groping, thumbs stroking the inner curves until her knees softened. She pressed into the wool of his suit. The costume over her breasts was so thin she felt the scratch of his shirt through it, her nipples dragging with every breath. His cock was hard against her stomach, trapped in dress pants, a thick line she reached down and shaped with her fingers. He hissed and rocked into her hand.

Footsteps passed the mouth of the hall and faded toward the kitchen. The risk lit her up. She was dripping, thighs slick, clit throbbing every time his fingers slid lower and circled without quite pushing in.

“Tell me,” he said, pulling back just far enough to see her face. “If you want this here, you say it. We can walk back out. I need to hear you.”

“I want it.” Her voice shook and she did not care. “I want you to take me right here. In the costume. Don’t take it off. Please, Jerome. I’m begging you.”

His forehead rested against hers. One finger traced the cleft of her ass, slow, asking again without words. They had talked about it in the car, half laughing, both of them already wound tight by the idea of the party and the skirt and his hands. The wanting had not cooled.

“Ass,” he said. “You still want that? Say it plain.”

“Yes. My ass. You brought the lube, didn’t you? I felt the bottle when I grabbed your pocket earlier. You planned this.”

“I planned hoping.” His thumb stroked her cheek, tender under the hunger. “Say it again so I know.”

“Fuck my ass. Here. Now. Please. I want you inside me while I’m still dressed like this. I want to feel it and then walk back out there with you.”

He kissed her like the answer undid him, deep and grateful and filthy, and she kissed him back with her hands fisted in his lapels. When he turned her, she went willingly. The side table was solid under her palms, candy bowl nudged aside, mirror throwing back a slice of green shine and black suit. She bent for him, skirt already rucked, ass lifted, antennae dipping as her head lowered. The position opened her. She heard his breath catch.

“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked. “Shiny little alien bent over at a party, begging for it. Stay just like that.”

“I’m staying,” she said. “Hurry. Someone could turn down this hall, and I still want you in me before they do.”

He yanked the skirt the rest of the way up around her waist. The fabric bunched, cool and slick against her lower back, leaving her bare from waist to thighs. In the mirror she saw the green costume still molded to her breasts, antennae trembling, his black suit behind her like a frame. He shoved his pants open. His cock came free, thick, flushed, already wet at the tip. From the inside breast pocket, beside the prop, he drew a small bottle. The cap clicked. Cool lube striped his fingers, then his shaft, then the tight ring of her ass. He worked it in with care she felt in her spine, one finger, then two, slow twists that opened her while his other hand stroked her hip.

“Okay?” he asked.

“More than okay. Don’t tease me all night. I can take you. I want you.”

He lined up. The blunt head pressed, patient, and she pushed back because waiting had become its own ache. He sank in by inches, a deep stretching fullness that made her mouth fall open and her fingers grip the table edge. Lube eased the way. He was big, and the first stroke still burned sweet and bright until her body remembered him and yielded. He bottomed out with a low groan, hips flush to her ass, suit trousers shoved down just far enough, the rest of him still dressed like he might have to straighten a tie and lie.

“God, Esther. So tight. You feel unreal in this thing.”

“Then fuck me in it,” she gasped. “Slow. Let me feel every bit. Then don’t be gentle.”

He drew back and slid in again, a long grinding stroke that dragged over every nerve. She moaned and bit it down, aware of the party on the other side of the wall, aware of how wet her pussy was, untouched and clenching on nothing while her ass took him. He set a rhythm that was deep and unhurried, hips rolling, one hand spread over her lower back to keep the skirt up, the other reaching forward to wrap the base of an antenna where it met the headband. He did not yank. He held, using the springy pair like handles, a ridiculous filthy leash that made her laugh once and then moan when the next thrust seated him to the root.

“Like that,” she said. “Hold them. Use them. I want you deeper.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Deeper. I can take it. I want the whole thing.”

He obliged. The slow grind turned heavier, each withdrawal a slick drag, each return a firm claim that rocked the table a fraction and made the candy wrappers whisper. She pushed back to meet him, ass slapping softly into his hips, the shiny costume creaking over her ribs when she arched. In the mirror her face was flushed, mouth open, antennae wobbling in his fist. His sunglasses were hooked in his shirt pocket now. His eyes stayed on the place they joined, on the way her ass spread around his cock, on the green skirt bunched useless at her waist.

“Harder,” she begged, voice thin. “Pound me. I don’t want sweet anymore. I want to feel you tomorrow.”

He shifted his stance and gave it to her. The strokes turned sharp, rhythmic, a steady pounding that jolted her onto her toes and made her breasts sway inside the tight costume. He gripped both antennae now, careful of the headband, using them to hold her in place while his hips snapped. The sound was obscene and quiet at once, wet and close, covered mostly by the bass. She urged him with her body, shoving back, taking him deeper on every thrust, whispering yes and more and right there until the words blurred. His free hand slipped under her and found her clit, two fingers rubbing in time, and the double sensation climbed fast. She was shaking, costume stuck to her sweat-damp skin, ass full, pussy dripping onto her own thighs.

“You’re going to come on my cock like this,” he said, not a question. “Alien wife bent over, skirt up, getting her ass fucked where anyone could walk in. Say you want my cum in you.”

“I want it,” she panted. “Fill me. Don’t pull out. I want to feel you come in my ass and then walk back out there like nothing happened. Do it, Jerome. I’m close. Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. The pounding stayed deep and relentless, grinding at the end of each stroke so she felt the full length, then snapping harder when she cried out into her own arm. Her orgasm hit in a long clenching wave, ass fluttering around him, thighs trembling, a broken moan she smothered against her wrist. He fucked her through it, rhythm fraying, grip tight on the antennae, breath harsh at her shoulder. A few more strokes and he buried himself and came, a powerful pulse she felt deep, heat flooding her in thick spurts while he groaned her name against the green fabric at her neck. He stayed seated, hips jerking through the last of it, until the rush eased and they were both shaking.

For a moment the only sounds were their breathing and the muffled party. He eased out slowly. She felt the sudden emptiness and then the warm spill, his cum leaking from her well-fucked ass and sliding down her thighs in slow shining trails beneath the rumpled skirt. He watched it in the mirror and with his own eyes, one hand stroking her hip, awed and spent.

“Look at that,” he murmured. “Messy little alien. My cum on your legs and the costume still on.”

She laughed, weak and pleased, and reached back to touch his wrist so he would know she was all right. He cleaned them as well as a handkerchief and a careful hand could manage, tucking the cloth away, helping her stand. Her legs were unreliable. He steadied her with an arm around her waist while she tugged the skirt down. It did not sit right anymore. The shiny green was creased, the hem damp at the edges, her thighs still streaked where he had not caught everything. She smoothed the bodice, straightened the antennae he had gripped, and met her own flushed face in the mirror. He zipped up, fixed his tie, settled the sunglasses back on his nose, and looked almost lawful again except for the color in his cheeks and the way his mouth kept trying to smile.

They shared a kiss that was slower than the ones before, conspiratorial, her hands on his lapels, his palms respectful on her waist now that the frenzy had passed. No one had come down the hall. The candy bowl sat where they had pushed it. The sconce hummed. She could still feel him, a deep ache and a secret warmth, the costume hiding most of the evidence and her walk sure to give away the rest if anyone looked too closely.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Walk me back out,” she said. “Hand in hand. If I wobble, you’re the reason.”

They stepped into the louder light of the party. Teresa waved from the drinks table. Marco was arguing good-naturedly about a costume prize. Esther smiled, antennae steady, Jerome’s fingers laced with hers. The green skirt brushed her thighs. Under it, what he had left in her shifted when she moved, a private reminder with every step. He leaned in as they crossed the room, mouth near her ear, voice for her alone.

“When we get home,” he whispered, “I want you over the bed in that same costume. Skirt up. I’m not done with your ass tonight.”

She squeezed his hand, a yes without words, and they kept walking into the music and the orange light, already quiet between them, the want settled into something steady and unspoken while the party roared on around their silence.