by

Vincent Jarrod
 

     One of downtown’s most legendary structures, the Hotel Imperial, had fallen on hard times in recent years, housing derelicts, street walkers, and drug addicts/pushers, instead of the rich and powerful of its glory days.  But thanks to the efforts of one of the city’s richest men, Claymore Ross, the Imperial has undergone a remarkable renovation.
     Ross’ business advisors warned him against such an investment, observing that downtown was dead, and even the most luxurious hotel would fail to recoup a small portion of what it would cost to restore the Imperial to its former glory.
     But Ross said that money was no object (the first time anyone near the man had ever heard those words issue forth from his lips).  The Imperial would play host to something more valuable than capital.  Something more inviting and intoxicating.  And something much more rare, and more powerful, than financial wealth.
     And so, the derelicts, whores, and dopers were cast out into the street.  The scaffolding rose high.  The rebirth of the Hotel Imperial began.
     That was many weeks ago.  The Imperial will soon open to the public.  But before it does, Claymore Ross has invited the staff of one of his businesses - the Ross-Lehman Advertisting Agency - to hold an “inaugural” Ball in the renovated Imperial.  A Masquerade Ball, Ross had insisted.  And when Claymore Ross insists on something, it happens.
     So, the large staff of Ross-Lehman - young, attractive, creative to a man and woman - has been invited for a special night at the Hotel Imperial.
     But, others have been invited as well.  Others who are also creative.  And diabolical.  And evil.  To share in the festivities.
     For the staff of Ross Lehman, the menu consists of free flowing potent potables of every kind, exotic food from many lands, and numerous nooks and crannies to play out assorted lascivious desires and amorous trysts.
     For the “others,” the menu consists of - the staff of Ross-Lehman.
     Welcome.  Welcome to “The Masquerade” . . . .

     Noelle discreetly put the small packet of powder in her red leather clutch, and hurriedly walked up the street to the front entrance of the Hotel Imperial.  It was risky to make such a purchase so near the site of this work-related get-together.  Not to mention handing over a large sum of cash to a perfect stranger on a darkened street corner in this section of town.  But the seller didn’t have the look of a street thug - or of a drug dealer at all.  When he had first quietly called to her, she thought he might be some out-of-town businessman looking for some action.  He appeared middle aged, clean shaven wearing an overcoat and a brimmed hat.  She stopped only to tell him in expressly non-Sunday Schoolese that she was not a hooker, and then discovered he was the one offering the action.  At an extremely reasonable price.  An offer she couldn’t refuse.

     A well-attired doorman ushered Noelle in the front door of the hotel, and she stopped a moment to marvel at the beauty of the lobby area.  She spotted some familiar faces, and sauntered over to Giselle and Michael, two of her co-workers from Ross-Lehman.  Michael had just arrived at the party, wearing a rather unoriginal Dracula outfit.  This was his first look at Noelle’s devil outfit.  Intellectually, Michael knew it was very bad form to interrupt a conversation with one lady to gawk at another.  But a short glance at Noelle’s shapely legs encased in black fishnet tights quickly became a lengthy survey from fishnetted toes in four inch red satin heels north to an ample bust just barely contained by fire engine red vinyl.  Had Michael continued the trip, he would have seen long brown hair with little red horns affixed, but like sweaty skin on a hot leather car seat,  his eyes stuck fast to Noelle’s red vinyl top.

     The devil in a red bustier held up her purse and grinned widely.  “I have to use the Powder Room.”  She turned, laughing at her double entendre, and swayed away from the couple.  Michael still had a millimeter of space in which to get back in Giselle’s good graces.  All it took was a quick turn of the head back toward her.  But his center of reason remained half a body length south of his brain, and he stayed focused on the black seams running up the back of Noelle’s tights.  And Giselle was lost for the night.

     So was Noelle.

     Two young women were coming out of the ladies room as Noelle entered.  They were dressed as a black cat and a pink bunny, respectively, and they were quick to turn up their whiskers, respectively, as Noelle passed by.

     “Stuffy bitches,” Noelle mumbled, momentarily offended, but quickly relieved to see that the two had left the restroom completely empty.  Even with this piece of luck, Noelle still wondered if she would have enough time to inhale the potent powder without being interrupted.  A glance to the side revealed a second piece of luck - an “Out of Order” sign laying near the trash receptacle.  She picked it up, hung it on the outside door of the bathroom, then closed the door and locked it.

     “I’d better take this shit before my luck runs out.”  She walked over to the vanity and took the packet out of her purse.  “If this stuff is as good as the man said, this shouldn’t take long.”  Noelle was half right.  It wouldn’t take long.  But her luck had run out.

     The beautiful young woman carried out a destructive ritual she had unfortunately performed often in the past, making lines of the addictive powder on the counter, and then using a short straw to inhale each one.  When she finished the last of it, she straightened up, took a deep breath, and then looked in the mirror to make sure there was no residue of her habit on her lovely face.

     “Now,” she adjusted her vinyl top to maximize showing cleavage, “to really enjoy this party.”

     She started toward the door, and then it hit her.  She stopped short, and grabbed her stomach, thinking she was about to be hit with a very painful cramp.  But it wasn’t a cramp, and it certainly wasn’t painful.  In fact it was a sensation of sheer pleasure.  It originated between her thighs, and slowly spread up and down her entire body.  The downward sensation was so powerful that her legs began to go numb.  She backed against a wall and slowly slid down till she was seated, moaning softly as she moved.  One foot kicked off the heel of the other, and then the other shoe came off.  And slowly she rubbed one netted foot up the other netted leg, the pleasure building inside.

     Meanwhile, the upward surge of this wonderful sensation had reached her vinyl covered bosom.  Noelle grabbed both breasts with both hands, and rubbed frantically, hoping to trap the glorious feeling in these pleasure centers.  She continued to rub and fondle, and while the sensation moved toward her neck and head, her sexual excitement was increasingly geometrically.  She didn’t know what was in that drug, but she suspected she was close to having the greatest orgasm she had ever experienced.  Part of her wanted this building up to last and last.  Another part of her wanted to let go and experience this gigantic climax.  But all of her was on fire, and the decision to let go or not was out of her hands.

     The drug was making the decisions now, and as it neared her brain, it was nearly finished pleasuring the sexy devil.  It was time to fulfill its true purpose . . . .

     “AaaaHhhhHhhh,”  Noelle moaned and yelled as her orgasm began.  Her body quaked and quivered as the orgasm built in intensity.  Her breath became unbelievably rapid.  Her heart beat raced at a speed she had never known.  Her body was literally lifting  up off the floor and down again, up and down, again and again, as if she was possessed.  And just when she thought, with what little remained of her mind, that she was about to explode . . . .

     Everything stopped.

     Everything.

     The orgasm.  The vibrating.  The pounding.  Her breath.  Her heartbeat.

     She sat on the floor.  Completely motionless.

     She did not - could not - even blink.  So her eyes looked straight ahead.  Directly at her stockinged feet.  And she saw them began to change.  To harden.

     The hardening slowly moved up her legs.  At first she thought that it was the fishnet stockings hardening, but they remained soft and supple.  No, it was her skin, her legs.  Up her thighs, through her pelvis, over her stomach, around and through and over her breasts, up her neck and into her face.  Eventually even her eyes hardened, and she could see no more.  Finally her entire head and scalp, then even her hair, hardened.  And she sat utterly still.

     There was a small commotion above, as a ceiling panel was loosened, and then pulled up.  A man in a long coat wearing gloves and an old fashioned brimmed hat descended on a rope to the restroom floor, not far from Noelle’s stiff form.  If Noelle were still able to see, she would have recognized the man as her “supplier.”  He walked over to the girl, waved his hand in front of her unmoving eyes, and then began to feel her hardened body in several places.

     “Excellent.  Excellent.  All dressed up and ready for delivery.”  The man walked over to the rope on which he had descended into the room, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out several large two-ended metal clamps.  He affixed one end to the rope, and then pulled the rope over to Noelle’s body, and began to put the clamps around her ankles and wrists.

     “Wait.  Better check one more thing.”  He unzipped the vinyl bustier, and pulled the flaps back exposing Noelle’s hardened breasts.  He felt each one, and then the erect nipples.  “Perfect.  Hardened beautifully.  I apologize for the impropriety.  But I wanted to prevent a recurrence of a very embarassing moment.”  As he continued to secure Noelle for transport, he related his story:

     “Once, I was setting up a recently acquired mannequin in the lingerie section of a large department store.  I was filling an order in haste, and had selected a local “exotic dancer” as the recipient of my special formula.  As it turned out, she had used so many sexual enhancement drugs, that she orgasmed and hardened almost instantaneously.  I had to deliver her that night to the store, and the department head - a pretty young girl, not as voluptuous as yourself, but still rather attractive - was there to dress the mannequin with a new line of brasierres.  Well - and this is embarassing - I hadn’t noticed that the dancer was wearing flesh colored pasties.  And I didn’t realize that even though hardening appeared to occur quickly, in fact, some of the dancer’s - shall we say - extremities, were not yet finished the process.”

     The man finished attaching the last of the clamps to Noelle’s arms, legs, and waist, and then carefully examined the length of rope, continuing to chat as he worked.

     “The young saleswoman was a little suspicious that her newest mannequin had pasties on, to be sure.  But she probably attributed that to some personal “oddity” on the part of the manufacturer.  But when the young girl removed the pasties to put on the new bra, she screamed when she felt a real nipple at her touch.”

     The overcoated man chuckled as he remembered.  “I was red faced, to be sure.  Fortunately, the security guard was watching TV in his office, turned up loud.  I grabbed the sales lady, and gave her an injection of my special formula.  Like I said, she wasn’t that well built, and I certainly couldn’t leave such a familiar face on display in the store.  But she did have rather attractive legs.  I keep a saw in my truck, and, well, to make a long story short, before anybody knew any better, I put her legs in hosiery modelling pantyhose.”

     The rope and Noelle were both secure, so the man began pulling on one section of the rope, and Noelle’s hardened figure was lifted from the floor and headed toward the empty ceiling panel.  “I went by the store just the other day,” he continued.  “There she was - or there her legs were, I should say - in the hosiery department.  Feet pointing to the ceiling - sheathed in glittering nylon.”

     Noelle’s head and red vinyl top were now well above the ceiling, and in a few more seconds, two hardened fishnetted feet disappeared into the ceiling.  “Seemed a shame to have to drop the top half at the blast furnace,”  he said concluding his story.  “But that’s the mannequin biz.”  Once he made sure Noelle’s body was secure, the man picked up her shoes and handbag, and began to climb up the rope himself.  Once above, the ceiling panel was quietly replaced, and all was as it was before.