


All Hallow's Eve: The Game

by slyc_willie



Category: Erotic Horror
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-05-02 14:45:51
Chapters: 1
Publisher: literotica.com
Story URL: https://www.literotica.com/s/all-hallows-eve-the-game
Author URL:
https://www.literotica.com/stories/memberpage.php?uid=748325&page=submissions
Summary: Sylvie steps out of her shell to accept a Halloween dare.
Erotica Tags: Dare, Flashing, Halloween, Masturbating, Phone, Pictures, Sylvie
Average Rating: 4.46






        All Hallow's Eve: The Game


_(Author's note: the following story is an entry into the 2013 Literotica
Halloween Contest. In this story, I use angled brackets (&lt; &gt;) 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._  
  
&lt;So, how does this game work?&gt; 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.  
  
&lt;Oh, so you're curious.&gt;  
  
Sylvie's face contorted in a scowl. &lt;Maybe. What's the deal?&gt;  
  
Nearly a minute passed before Ron answered. Sylvie stared alternately at the
work before her and the television as she waited. &lt;I'll give you ten dares.
If you take them all, you win.&gt;  
  
She smirked. &lt;What do I win?&gt; she typed.  
  
A few seconds later, the reply came back. &lt;We'll work something out.&gt;  
  
_Oh, I'm sure_, she thought sarcastically as her thumbs padded back and forth
on the touch screen. &lt;What's the first dare? Remember, I'm not gonna leave
the building.&gt;  
  
The reply took almost a minute before it came back. &lt;Go out on your
balcony. Stand with your back against the city and make a funny face. Don't
forget to take a picture.&gt;  
  
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. &lt;I think I'll make that picture my
home screen wallpaper.&gt;  
  
Sylvie's eyes smoldered. &lt;Don't you dare.&gt;  
  
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 . . . ._  
  
&lt;How daring do you want to get?&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;I'm not sending you any naked pics,&gt; she sent back.  
  
The reply was quick. &lt;Fair enough. But how about lingerie?&gt;  
  
Sylvie considered the request. A devious smile crossed her face.
&lt;Maybe.&gt;  
  
Again, another quick response. Ron was obviously eager to play the game out.
&lt;Pose in just a bra and panties.&gt;  
  
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.
&lt;What do you think? Sexy enough for ya?&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Wow. Nice. Think my mother has the same set.&gt;  
  
Sylvie shuddered with laughter. &lt;Well, you didn't specify what kind of
lingerie you wanted,&gt; 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.  
  
&lt;So show me something really sexy.&gt;  
  
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. &lt;Better?&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Do you mind if I say you are definitely the sexiest woman I've ever
seen?&gt;  
  
Thumbs danced with practiced ease across the onscreen keyboard. &lt;Now you're
just bullshitting me 'cause you hope I'll take it off for you.&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Hope, yes. But I figure you won't. You aren't that kind of woman.&gt;  
  
Sylvie considered the screen through narrowed eyes. Ron's words read almost
like a challenge. &lt;What kind of woman do you think I am?&gt;  
  
Ron's response was swift. &lt;The kind that likes to tease.&gt;  
  
Tap-tap-tap. &lt;Is that a bad thing?&gt;  
  
&lt;Not always.&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;So what's the next dare?&gt; 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.  
  
&lt;Put on a skirt and blouse and go down to the cafe in the lobby. Hurry. It
closes at ten.&gt;  

_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.  
  
&lt;Now we find out how daring you want to be,&gt; it read.  
  
Sylvie's heart fluttered momentarily with nervousness. The message was quickly
followed by another.  
  
&lt;Without getting up from the table, take off your panties.&gt;  
  
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. &lt;I can't do that.&gt;  
  
&lt;Then the game's over.&gt;  
  
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: &lt;No it's not.&gt;  
  
"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.  
  
&lt;That's one of the sexiest pictures I've ever seen.&gt;  
  
Sylvie chewed her bottom lip as she typed. &lt;I guess this is what you meant
by naughty excitement, huh?&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Naughty is good, don't you think?&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Sometimes,&gt; she sent back.  
  
Ron was quicker to text than she expected. &lt;Four down, six to go.&gt;  
  
Sylvie stared at the screen, a smirk playing across her face. &lt;Bring
it,&gt; she typed.  
  
The next dare arrived after several anxious moments. Sylvie read the screen.  
  
&lt;Go to the lobby. Pretend to drop something and pick it up. Don't bend your
knees. Take a picture showing whatever is behind you from between your
legs.&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Got the picture yet?&gt; she read in the messenger window.  
  
She breathed out, forcing herself to be calm. &lt;Stupid security guard saw
me,&gt; she responded.  
  
&lt;No kidding. Really?&gt;  
  
&lt;Yeah, really. I better not get in trouble for this.&gt;  
  
&lt;For what? So he caught a flash up your skirt. Not like it's against the
law to go commando, right?&gt;  
  
Sylvie jogged her head back and forth. _Okay, maybe not_, she thought. She
typed another message. &lt;I just hate that it was him. I'd rather have
anybody but him get a peek of me like that.&gt;  
  
&lt;What's so bad about him? He's just a security guard.&gt;  
  
&lt;He's creepy,&gt; Sylvie sent back. &lt;Like Psycho creepy.&gt;  
  
&lt;Don't worry about him. We're halfway there.&gt;  
  
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: &lt;Your picture, as requested.&gt;  
  
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. &lt;Lol, yeah I can see the guy in the pic. I
think I'm actually jealous of him.&gt;  
  
On impulse, she started to type a flirtatious response, then stopped herself.
&lt;I don't wanna talk about him anymore.&gt;  
  
"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 . . . ._  
  
&lt;You're getting me in trouble,&gt; she texted.  
  
&lt;Me? I'm not doing anything. You're the one flashing strangers.&gt; Ron's
message ended with a raspberry smiley.  
  
Sylvie glared at her phone, as if Ron would somehow be able to see it.
&lt;Just give me the next dare.&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Go to the lounge at the east end of the lobby.&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Okay, I'm here,&gt; she typed to Ron.  
  
&lt;Good. Take off your clothes.&gt;  
  
She stared at the screen, dumbfounded. _Is he fucking serious?_  
  
Agitated fingers pegged at the screen. &lt;No way.&gt;  
  
Ron's reply was once more quick. He had obviously expected her reluctance.
&lt;Come on. No one can see you, and it's dark. All I want is a silhouette of
you against the windows.&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Giving up?&gt;  
  
A catty expression crossed her face as she composed a reply. &lt;You still
haven't told me what I win if I finish the game.&gt;  
  
She waited as the phone went dark. Several seconds passed before it lit up
again.  
  
&lt;You get to call the shots next time.&gt;  
  
The message certainly piqued her curiosity. &lt;Oh, yeah?&gt; she sent back.
&lt;So I get to humiliate you instead?&gt;  
  
&lt;Sure. But I'll only go as far as you go.&gt;  
  
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. &lt;Just remember
that when I'm in charge,&gt; she sent.  
  
&lt;Like you said, bring it. Where's my pic?&gt;  
  
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,_ y_ou'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.  
  
&lt;That is seriously the sexiest picture I've ever seen.&gt;  
  
Sylvie smirked. &lt;I bet you say that to all the girls.&gt;  
  
Ron messaged back a few moments later. &lt;Right now, there aren't any other
girls. Just you.&gt;  
  
A soft smile crossed Sylvie's face. &lt;Oh, you sweet-talker.&gt;  
  
&lt;I mean it.&gt;  
  
She rolled her eyes. _Don't go getting serious on me_, she mused. &lt;Well, I
wanna finish this game. I'm getting a little, uh, itchy.&gt;  
  
&lt;Itchy?&gt;  
  
Sylvie chuckled. _How clueless men are,_ she thought. &lt;Yeah. Itchy. You
know, like horny?&gt;  
  
&lt;Oh,&gt; came Ron's reply. &lt;Seriously?&gt;  
  
&lt;Surprised?&gt;  
  
&lt;A little.&gt;  
  
Sylvie shook her head with a thin smile. &lt;What's the next dare?&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Go to the women's bathroom in the lobby.&gt;  
  
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.  

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. &lt;I'm here. Now
what?&gt;  
  
&lt;How horny are you?&gt;  
  
Sylvie nibbled her lip. &lt;Tell me what you want.&gt;  
  
The reply was swift. &lt;I want to see you naked.&gt;  
  
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. &lt;How
naked?&gt;  
  
&lt;Top first.&gt;  
  
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: &lt;This
what you want?&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Delicious. Perfect. I want to see more.&gt;  
  
She grinned lasciviously. &lt;More?&gt; she typed back.  
  
&lt;Please.&gt;  
  
&lt;Remember,&gt; she texted. &lt;Everything I do, you have to do, too.&gt;  
  
&lt;I know.&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;That was for you, baby. When do I get the real thing?&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Amazing. I never expected that from you. I thought I knew you, but I
really didn't.&gt;  
  
Sylvie chuckled. &lt;You could know me a lot better.&gt;  
  
Ron's reply came several heartbeats later. &lt;Just one last thing.&gt;  
  
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:
&lt;What is it?&gt;  
  
The reply as quick, as if Ron had just been awaiting her message.  
  
&lt;Go to the laundry room. I left a present there for you.&gt;  
  
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.  
  
&lt;Game over, Sylvie. Happy Halloween.&gt;  
  
* * * *  
  
_(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.)_




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