The costume party

The costume party in the old abandoned mansion in the city center was the event of the year. I had heard about it for weeks in the gay chat groups: a themed night of terror where anything went, where masks fell and bodies met without names or rules. I had dressed up as a sexy demon, with bright red horns, a short black cape that barely covered my ass, and a leather thong that marked every curve of my body. I was twenty-eight years old, with a defined gym physique but nothing exaggerated, and that night I wanted to feel devoured. The mansion was lit only with red lights and fake candles, the smoke from fog machines floated like a veil, and the music was a mix of dark techno and recorded screams from horror movies. The air smelled of sweat, alcohol, and repressed desire.

I walked through the crowd, dodging bloody zombies, killer clowns, and vampires with fake fangs. My heart was pounding. I wasn't looking for anything specific, just the adrenaline of the night. But then I saw him. On the other side of the main hall, under a red spotlight that made him look like he came out of an erotic nightmare. He was dressed as the werewolf from "An American Werewolf in London". He didn't wear the full latex suit; he had opted for something much more visceral. A torn lumberjack shirt, as if the wolf had burst out from inside, revealing a torso that seemed sculpted in stone and covered in thick, wild fur. Black, curly hair that went down from his neck to his navel, dense, shiny under the light, extending over enormous pectorals, over marked abs that contracted with each breath. His arms were tree trunks: biceps that strained the torn sleeves, forearms covered in dark, thick hair, large hands with fingers that seemed capable of breaking me in two. His legs, in torn pants up to the thighs, showed thighs like columns, hairy up to the ankles. He wore the wolf mask tilted on his head, as if he had just half-transformed, revealing a thick beard, a square jaw, and green eyes that shone with hunger.

He was enormous. At least six feet five, with shoulders so wide he occupied the space like an animal. The hair on his chest was so dense it almost seemed like a carpet; it moved when he breathed, and in some points, it stuck due to sweat. I could imagine the smell: musk, testosterone, pure man. I froze about ten meters away, feeling my cock swelling inside the thong just by looking at him. He was talking to someone, laughing with a deep voice that resonated above the music, but his eyes swept the room and, for a second, settled on me. He didn't smile. He just looked at me. Like a predator evaluating prey.

I didn't approach him abruptly. I wanted it to be slow, I wanted to savor each step. I moved first towards the bar, pretending to order a beer, but positioning myself sideways so as not to lose him from sight. My heart was pounding. I took a long drink, feeling the alcohol burn, and then took three steps towards the dance floor. The music changed t...