Down The Basement

The high heels made me feel sexy and empowered, and as I strutted across campus to the frat-house party, a couple of guys turned to stare at my bare legs. They weren’t the best-looking boys on campus, but they were real men, they were pussy hounds, and they liked the way I looked. I concentrated on my movements, very carefully so that I wouldn’t appear masculine. I didn’t want to come off as quasi feminine either, so I simply restricted each movement to avoid anything awkward or too calculated. Then I smiled and said, “Hey guys.”
The tall dude, a horny Afro-American, said, “Yeah, sweet baby, where you been all my life?”
I told him, “Going to meet my boyfriend, sweetie.”

He laughed, and while I continued to walk away, I heard him tell his friend, “I’d like to get me a piece of that sugar, man. I know how to make her happy.”

If I’d had any doubts about being able to pass as a woman, those two boys proved I could do it as long as I was careful.

The costume was a huge hit, and no one recognized me or even considered I might not be a woman. No one from my usual crowd was there anyway; I was an English major and these people were all jocks and cheerleaders. I was glad I’d worn the jock underwear; my dick was semi-erect the entire time, especially when I realized that young guys were staring at my legs. But the goal was to have fun passing as a woman for the first time, not to cruise guys. And I certainly wasn’t looking for sex. If for some reason I was recognized by anyone, I knew I could camp it up as a man in drag; just an outrageous Halloween costume for fun.
Some of the other costumes were good, too: a kinky witch (I think she was a real woman) with big boobs in black leather and lace, a scarecrow who was actually smoking from the shoulders, one really swishy gay guy dressed as Baby Jane Hudson, and a guy with a realistic Richard Nixon mask are a few that still come to mind. But others weren’t all that creative, like the humpy guys with deep voices who didn’t bother to come up with a real costume and only wore their football uniforms with black masks.

It turned out to be one of those parties where you don’t really have to know anyone very well to have a good time, and because it was a costume party, people seemed more animated behind their masks. I laughed and joked with Baby Jane Hudson, while Richard Nixon kept bringing me strong drinks and trying to put his hand up my little black skirt.
At one point, with the palm of his hand pressed against my ass, he leaned over and whispered, “My car is parked outside.”

And I replied, pretending to be a woman, “Sorry stud, I have a boyfriend.” He was cool about it and didn’t persist. Though I would have loved to at least given him a blowjob, I was terrified he’d find out who I really was and kick my ass.

We all partied hard, mixing beer and whatever else there was, all night long.

Then sometime around two in the morning, one of the drunken football players reached behind me while I was leaning against a wide oak staircase and placed the palm of his large hand up my skirt and rested it on my bare ass. His pale blues eyes appeared eager; one eyebrow rose for the conquest. He squeezed my ass cheeks and said, “Those fucking high heels are really hot.” He was about six four and towered over me in spite of the stilettos; his words were slurred, and his breath heavy and stale from beer when he asked, “Why aren’t you wearing any underwear?”

I smiled. “So you can put your hand up my dress, sweetie, and feel my ass.” I couldn’t believe my own words. But there, I’d said it. By then, my heart was beating so fast I could feel it pounding in my ears.

Then he asked if I wanted to go down to the basement recreation room to smoke a joint with three of his football buddies.

I frowned and thought about it for a moment. I knew what he wanted to do down there. I almost said no. But when I looked at his rugged, handsome face and noticed his wide, strong shoulders, I couldn’t refuse the experience of a lifetime. So I agreed to follow him.
And he nodded to his three buddies, who must have been waiting for a signal. They were standing in a corner of the room, murmuring things to each other, with secretive smiles on their young faces.

The football player led me downstairs with his large hand pressed against the small of my back as though I belonged to him. His buddies remained upstairs in the corner of the room.
The basement was dark, just two dim light bulbs with pull strings, and I had to navigate with care because of the high heels. A dusty old braided rug had been placed in the center of the concrete floor; my heels sank into the grooves. There was a large sectional sofa with worn navy fabric in the middle of the room and two over-sized arms chairs. A square, dark-pine coffee table with heavy turned legs rested upon the stained rug, centered between the sofa and chairs.

The football player gestured toward the sofa and said, “Have a seat, baby,” while he pulled a small bag from beneath a sofa cushion and proceeded to roll a joint on the coffee table.
I put the black evening bag on the coffee table, sat in the middle of the sofa, and crossed my legs like a lady. But the skirt was short, and I purposely allowed the sides to ride up my legs so he could see part of my ass.

A moment later I heard the sound of heavy footsteps clomping down the stairs; I assumed it was his three football buddies. Though I had to press my hands together to keep them from shaking, the thought of these strong footballs players with big floppy dicks who were all hot for me caused my ass to literally twitch.

These guys were so drunk they couldn’t stand straight. And it turned out that I actually knew one of them. He’d been in one of my math classes the previous semester, and I’d been extremely attracted to him. He had droopy brown eyes, straight black hair, and a strong, square chin. Though we had never said more than two words to each other the entire semester, I was hoping he wouldn’t recognize me.

When he stumbled on the bottom basement step and fell into a wall, I took a deep breath and smoothed out my skirt. I doubted he’d recognized me. He seemed so drunk he couldn’t even finish a sentence.

The guys were joking and laughing and shoving each other around playfully, saying things in deep voices like, “Get the fuck out of here, dude,” and, “fuck, yeah, man, you pussy.” Bad little locker-room boys, with too much testosterone, having too much fun at a party in front of a young girl who was showing too much leg that night. One guy held a bottle of vodka in his right hand, taking long, hard swallows. Another punched him in the arm and pulled the bottle from his hand.