14) Temptation's Masquerade

14) Temptation's Masquerade

The light from the chandelier catches the purple shells of Megan's bikini top as I adjust the gold epaulettes on my Prince Charming costume one final time. Her shell top part way between a bra and a bikini top sparkles as it reflects the light. Drawing my attention to it and her boobs underneath.

Megan is dressed as the Disney princess the little mermaid.

As per the theme of this night. M, B, L, J, C or Megan Bath Loves Jon Cole. I have dressed as Prince Charming or Charming Prince so as to fit with the theme of a C not a P.

It's seven PM on a Saturday night and Megan and I are having our engagement party, the night where we announce to the world. That we are getting married. But in reality it is a mere formality. As most of the guests attending already know we are engaged.

I would have preferred not to have one at all, But Megan, Megan had her heart set on it.

And her parents and my mother have contributed a lot towards it.

Megan's parents John and Anne have booked the school hall at Megan's old high school. Evercrest Girls School.

The first time I came, I looked around and thought why not?

It has a large hall, with cloak rooms, Bathrooms for both sexes and a large kitchen we can use as well as a dance floor, DJ suite and a stage. It also comes with tables and chairs.

Evercrest Hall stretches around us in all its carved-wood-and-stained-glass glory.

The same hall where Megan sat her secondary exams, where her sister Stacey tripped a bully in the corridor, in response to said bully harassing Megan. Where the Bath family has roots deeper than the oak floorboards beneath my boots.

I have heard stories of this place from Megan. It was her first time in the 'big mainstream world.' Her words not mine

Megan was here for four years of her five years of secondary school after coming from the sole school for the blind.

As she says it was a steep learning curve being the only blind girl in the whole school of 500 girls.

Most of the other students were kind and receptive to her needs but Megan was also heavily bullied by a specific group of girls.

But as I told Megan, no one has a an easy time at high school, I was also bullied in a mainstream co-educational high school. (Mainly because I was a Ballet Dancer)

But tonight, Tonight, those floorboards gleam with fresh polish, and the air carries the aromas of cut flowers and warm candle wax.

And tonight, well tonight is Megan's night.

She has planned it meticulously The theme, the costumes for both of us, the music everything from Led Zepplin and Metallica to Diana Krall. I tell that I have had Diana Krall on my back seat. But not I have had her in her back seat. (See the Story 'Smoke and Seduction.), the menu everything planned and organised my Megan. All done by touch, hearing and smell.

I breathe it in, standing beside my fiancée at the entrance, watching the first guests pull into the car park through the open door.

Megan's hand finds my forearm.

The way she reaches for me, tells she is equal parts happy and anxious.

Her fingers are cool and precise, she navigates by touch the way a musician reads Braille, with a kind of fluent certainty.

Her black blind glasses reflect the chandelier light in two flat rectangles, and her red hair spills over her bare shoulders in waves that catch every flicker of light.

The purple shells of her 'Little Mermaid Bra' sit perfectly against her pale skin.

Below the waist, the green fish-tail shimmers with each small shift of her weight.

"You keep fidgeting with your shoulder," she says.

"Can't help it. The velvet's itchy." I reply back.

"Stop it. You look handsome." Megan replies.

"How would you know?" I ask back.

A somewhat sarcastic but logical question given her blindness.

She squeezes my arm in reply.

"Because I chose you." Megan coos as she leans in closer and pokes me.

A poke that lands somewhere behind my ribs. It surprisingly hurts and I stop fidgeting.

The first car door shuts.

John Bath, Megan's father, crosses the threshold in a chimney sweep's costume. Obviously rocking the letter 'C'.

A soot-smudged white shirt open at the collar, grey flat cap, black trousers with braces, a soot-brush tucked under one arm. Soot streaks across each cheek.

He fills the doorframe at six-two, broad-shouldered, his ivy-league red hair combed back beneath the cap.

Makes me wonder how he would fit up a chimney.

Anne his wife and Megan's mother follows close behind, parasol aloft, her Mary Poppins costume immaculate, as she rocks the letter 'M'.

Consisting of a dark coat, floral skirt, white gloves, that particular tilt of the chin that says she's been practising the stance in the bedroom mirror.

Her bob-cut red hair is pinned neatly, gold earrings catching the light, her pale skin fresh as cream despite sixty plus years of it.

"Meg, Jon we are here." Anne chimes out as they enter the doorway.

"Dad! Mum!" Megan cries as she releases my arm and steps forward.

Her cane sweeps a short arc before her.

I watch her excitedly rush towards them as quickly as the tail allows her. I fix on her behind and think 'Damn I'm lucky.'

John catches her in both arms, the soot-brush clattering to the floor.

"There's my girl. Let me look at you." He says His voice thickens and he holds her at arm's length

"I can't return the favour," Megan says, grinning, as they hug closely together.

It is apparent by John's words and mannerisms that somewhere in his psyche he still sees her as his little four year old princess who never went blind. A girl who still needs her dad.

"But you smell like coal." Megan says as she takes a step back.

Anne retrieves the brush, hands it back to John, and folds Megan into a careful embrace.

The parasol nearly takes my eye out. I catch the handle and hold it steady.

Anne squeezes my free hand.

"Jon, you look every inch the prince." Anne says to me complimenting me on my appearance.

"Thank you, Anne. The costume was Megan's choice." I reply.

"She told me. She made me drive to three shops to find the right shade of gold for the epaulettes. And the right texture in the coat." Anne explains.

Megan's grin widens. I glance down at the red rose in my lapel. The silk is still vibrant against the gold trim. A single drop of water clings to one petal.

"Well you both look the part. But Jon there is no P." John her father says.

"Thank you Dad. And he isn't the letter P he is the letter C." Megan explains.

"C?" John replies stepping back you can see the cogs of his mind turning.

"Yes John, C for Charming prince." I explain.

"Oh." John replies back before we all make small talk and John and Anne move off.

Stephen Treadwell one of my groomsmen arrives next, all swagger and pomade, his Blackbeard costume assembled with the kind of attention to detail that only a man who runs a company would bother with.

His beard is theatrical, plaited with beads, his tricorn hat sits at an angle that suggests he's been drinking already, and his coat has actual brass buttons.

He grips my hand and pulls me into a one-armed hug that smells of spiced rum and sandalwood cologne.

"Captain Blackbeard, at my engagement. The tabloids will have a field day." I say.

"Let them. I look better in eyeliner than half the women here." Stephen jauntily replies.

I hastily explain to Megan who it is and what he looks like.

Megan has a quick giggle and shakes Stephen's hand.

Behind him, Adam my other groomsman shuffles through the door in a white lab coat splattered with neon-green dye, goggles pushed up into his dark brown hair, a clipboard under one arm.

His side-part has gone full mad-scientist, sticking up in tufts where the goggles have pressed it flat. He bears an uncanny resemblance to Professor Frink, and I tell him so.

"Yeah, yeah. Frink. I've heard it before. But I am the letter M for mad scientist." He says back as he adjusts his goggles.

"But tonight, I am Dr Alistair Frinkenstein, and this" He says as he brandishes a test tube of something that glows faintly green under the chandelier,

"This is my fiancé's-ruin-in-a-tube. One sip and he'll propose to the nearest lamppost." Adam says laughing almost evilly.

"Put it away, AA." I say before I explain to Megan what Adam or Frink looks like.

He grins and pockets the tube. Taking Megan's hand and kissing it.

My mother, Elizabeth sweeps in at half-seven, and the hall goes quiet for three full seconds.

My mother has chosen or been persuaded into, a French maid's uniform. Black dress that finishes mid thigh, white apron, lace headpiece, fishnet stockings, heels that click on the polished floor like a metronome counting down to something.

She's fifty-two and wearing it like she invented the concept. John Bath nearly walks into a chair.

Adam and Stephen stop dead in their tracks.

"Mum." I say.

"Jon, darling." She kisses both my cheeks. Her perfume is jasmine and something sharper underneath.

"Do you like it? The letter M for Maid." Mum says.

"It's very.." I search for a word that isn't 'transparent.'

"Fetchingly inappropriate," Stephen offers, bowing with a flourish of his tricorn hat.

John recovers his voice.

"Elizabeth, you look wonderful." John says but he's staring. Anne is also staring, though her expression is harder to read.

Her lips are pressed into a line that might be amusement and might be something else entirely.

"M for Maid, Clever." Anne says slowly.

"I thought so too." Elizabeth says as she smooths the apron.

"M for Maid, and M for Mother of the Groom. Two birds, one corset." Elizabeth says laughing.

Our neighbours, The Lambs arrive in a cluster.

Lindsey the one in glasses, wearing a leopard-print jumpsuit that strains across her size-twelve bust introduces herself as a Leopard, letter L.

Linda, her twin, has chosen a lioness costume in tawny velvet, a mane of synthetic fur framing her face. She's an inch slimmer, but the resemblance is otherwise perfect.

Their son Miles trails behind, dressed as a Buccaneer loose white shirt unlaced at the throat, leather vest, a plastic cutlass wedged through his belt.

He's twenty-two, blond, built like a sprinter, and looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"L, L for Leopard." Lindsey says, pointing at her jumpsuit.

"And L for Lioness," Linda adds.

"B for Buccaneer," Miles mutters, not making eye contact with anyone.

His jaw is set. He tugs at the shirt collar.

"B for Bored, more like," Stephen murmurs next to me. I nudge him.

Miles looks around and his nearly pop out of their sockets when he sees a maid unaware of her age or who she is.

Mae Fox enters next, and the room recalibrates. Another redhead. Another neighbour.

She's Maleficent, the horned headdress, the green face paint, the black robes cascading to the floor.

Her fiery red hair, darker more auburn than Megan or the Baths, light copper spills from beneath the horns, and her emerald eyes flash above the green makeup.

She looks like she could curse the entire hall and enjoy doing it.

But the costume can't hide the figure full bust, narrow waist, the kind of curves she's been accentuating since I've known her.

"M for Maleficent," she announces, with a flurry of her right hand seemingly both announcing and cursing at the same time as the horns catch the chandelier light.

"Don't look at me like that, Jon. I'm a neighbour, not a villain." She says with a hint of sauciness.

"You're dressed as the Mistress of All Evil." I reply cheerfully.

"Semantics Watch this one. Us reds have to watch out for each other." She says as she kisses Megan.

Megan laughs appreciating the irony of Mae's statement.

Mae laughs as she caresses Megan's hand before moving off to mingle.

"Is Mae from number 14 a ginge as well?" Megan askes me.

"Yes she is but a deeper, richer more Auburn tone." I explain back to Megan.

Another set of neighbours. The De La Vega sisters Isabella and Rosa come through together.

They are Colombian and although sisters are completely different.

Isabella is older, athletic build and big tits, think Sofia Vergara meets Eva Mendez. Works as a Latin dance teacher owns her own studio. Isabella is the man eater who gets hit on twenty times a day.

Rosa, younger, more studious bookish, more mousy. Disappears into the shadows, works as an Obstetrician.

Rosa is in her work clothes, scrubs light blue, wire-framed glasses, dark blue Crocs.

"M for Medic or Medica, but really just my work clothes. I came from a shift." she says.

Her sister Isabella, all five-five of her, is dressed as a Corsair, white blouse, black waistcoat, a red sash at her hips, five-inch red heels that make her calf muscles flex visibly. Tight light leggings that finish just below the knee.

Her brunette hair is straight and glossy, her lips painted red.

Her fingernails match the lips.

Her white blouse with the puffy sleeves is half undone, exposing not only her cleavage but the curve of her breasts underneath. It is saucy, provocative, tempting.

But that is how Isabella dresses everyday. Isabella is the sort of hypersexual and hyper sexualised Latina a lot of men have wet dreams about, fit, slim, the reverse dollar sign silhouette big boobs and the curvy culo. Women hate her view her as competition, Men wonder at her beauty, fall over themselves to be with her, even when she goes shopping in the supermarket men follow her puppy like.

I remember dropping The two De La Vega's off at the airport once, Rosa had one suitcase for six weeks in Colombia, Isabella four. Isabella kissed me goodbye on the cheek a group of four teenage boys, wolf whistled and shouted I was a lucky man. Then offered to carry her bags for her. Tounges just about hitting the ground. They ignored Rosa.

"C for Corsair," Isabella says, and her accent wraps around the consonant like honey. "And before you ask, yes, I will be drinking rum tonight."

"She'll regret it by eleven," Rosa says.

"I never regret anything." Isabella says leaning forward to kiss not only Megan but also me.

Isabella then hands Megan a small gift bag.

"Chocolate made form family's own cocoa grown on our family's plantation from heirloom trees. For you Megan." Isabella purrs.

Rosa shakes both our hands before they move off to mingle talking to each other is Spanish.

More neighbours, The Jackson family arrives en masse.

Poppy, their daughter, is in a Sexy Librarian costume so tight the seams are doing overtime. Thomas Jackson, their eighteen-year-old, is the Lion King a furry mane-hood and a sceptical expression.

Britney, the mother, struts in wearing a schoolgirl uniform so tight it looks painted on.

White blouse knotted at her waist, plaid skirt, knee-high socks, her blonde hair in pigtails, red lipstick, gold tear-drop earrings catching the light. She looks like Britney Spears. She's meant to. She's forty-two years old and not one person in this hall would believe it.

"Letter B, For Britney. Obviously." Britney says, twirling a pigtail around one finger.

More neighbours. The Barbers Thomas and Penny arrive as Batman and Batgirl.

Penny the mother in her late forties is dressed in skin tight black with a cape and high heeled boots

Thomas the eighteen year old son is Batman.

Kiki D' Aire another neighbour is with them, dressed as a bird in a white feathered mask and a yellow cardigan.

Sandra Greene, Anne's oldest friend, lumbers in wearing a full bear suit. She pushes the headpiece back, her face flushed and sweating, and embraces Anne.

"B for Bear," Sandra says.

"And before you say anything, yes, I'm roasting in here. But Anne told me to make an effort." Sandra continues after a breath.

"You look ridiculous," Anne says, and kisses her cheek. Before introducing Sandra to me and Sandra shaking my hand and kissing Megan.

Before moving together talking and laughing together.

Megan's bridesmaids arrive together.

Helen, small, athletic, blind, with her dark blonde hair loose is wearing a Playboy Bunny outfit, the ears bobbing above her head. Her golden retriever, Buddy, trots beside her in a velvet collar, complete with a bow tie.

Ryann, olive-skinned and athletic, is in a Jedi robe, her white cane sweeping the floor in precise arcs.

They navigate the crowd with the synchronised ease of two women who've done this a thousand times Ryann's hand on Helen's elbow, Buddy guiding them both.

"B for Bunny," Helen says, adjusting her ears. Her bodysuit exposing her cleavage underneath the black teddy, with white collar and cuffs. With bunny ears on a headband. And a bright white cotton tail on her ass.

My groomsman Adam notices and actually stops talking as he gazes at Helen.

"J for Jedi, May the Force be with the happy couple." Ryann says as she grins

Before Ryann, Helen and Megan share a brief three way kiss as three BFF's would.

Rachel my old colleague from the force walks in wearing her actual police uniform.

Light blue shirt, dark blue trousers, the thick black equipment belt with handcuffs and nightstick, the stab-proof vest. She's even brought the peaked cap with the chequered band. She looks like she's about to arrest someone.

"C for Cop," she says, and her blue eyes hold mine for a beat longer than necessary. Her tone is short almost blunt, very similar to Rosa on Brooklyn nine-nine.

"I'm here to keep the peace. Someone has to. And is this Megan?" Rachel asks taking Megan's hand in hers.

"You're not on duty, Rach." I say.

"Never off duty, Jon. You know that." Rachel replies.

She is followed by Mike my best man who is not in costume.

"Mike. Nice to have you." I say.

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world mate." Mikes says shaking my arm.

"Who is that?" Mike asks pointing at a maid.

"That Mike, is my mother. Remember her?" I ask.

"Elizabeth? Wow! I remember her. Wonder if she remembers me from that day when we were both eighteen." Mike says.

"I'm sure she does." I say not wanting Mike to elaborate in front of Megan.

"Oh and M for Mike." Mike declares.

Mike walks off making a bee line for my mother. Momentarily distracted by Isabella.

I describe to Megan what everyone is dressed as they come in.

Last of all, Stacey. Megan's older sister.

She comes through the door at seven-forty-five, and the hall does that thing again where it recalibrates.

She's Lara Croft. The costume is precise teal vest, brown shorts, holstered guns, boots, a plait that reaches her shoulder blades. The only thing not right is the fact that Stacey is a red, not a brunette.

Her pale skin catches the light.

Freckles dust her chest above the vest's low neckline. She's five-seven, athletic, and she's looking at me.

"L for Lara," Stacey says, and her green eyes don't leave mine as she passes. Her hand brushes my arm.

"Hello, Jon." Stacey says to me, her tone saucy, slightly seductive.

"Stacey. You clean up well." I reply as she moves past me. The scent of her, trails in her wake.

I turn back to Megan. Her hand finds mine again, her thumb running across my knuckles. "Everyone's here?" Megan asks more confirming.

"Yes Everyone." I reply.

"Good. I'm hungry." Megan replies.

"Shall we go? And thank you for the sammies yesterday they were nice." I say as I take Megan in the crook of my elbow. And refer to the lunch of Sandwiches she had me for me yesterday.

"That no problem, what was in them?" Megan replies happily.

"Ham, Tomato, cheese, herbs and Ginger." I reply.

"Ginger?" Megan queries.

"Yes three strands of your golden copper hair." I reply.

"Oh sorry, cant see them and hair is too light to feel. Beside you have no complaints about hair in your food when it is slightly lower down." Megan says referring to my penchant and enjoyment I get from eating her pussy.

"Touche." I reply as we approach the table.

The meal is a three-course affair served on long tables draped in white linen, the candles flickering in glass holders between the centrepieces.

I sit at the head, Megan to my right, her cane propped against the table leg,

Buddy's settled under Helen's chair along the table.

The conversation washes around me, Stephen telling a story about a stag-do gone wrong, Adam explaining quantum physics to a thoroughly confused Rosa, Mae Fox holding court with Sandra about property values.

Stacey sits directly across from me.

She's positioned herself there, I'm sure of it. Every time I look up, her green eyes are waiting.

She crosses her legs under the table, and I feel the toe of her boot brush my shin. I shift my leg. She doesn't blink.

"So, Jon," she says, carving into her chicken.

"when are you going to tell me what the honeymoon is?" Stacey continues as she suggestively eats her chicken, perhaps over suggestively.

"We haven't decided yet." I answer.

"You haven't decided? You've had awhile." Stacey replies.

"Well Megan wants somewhere with good food. I want somewhere with history. We're working on it." I reply.

Stacey leans forward. The vest shifts. Exposing the curve of her breast underneath.

"Sounds like Europe. I know a place in Cyprus. Very private. Very quiet." Stacey says.

Another pause.

"Very romantic." Stacey says.

Megan's hand tightens on my thigh under the table. She can't see the look Stacey is giving me, but she can hear I'm certain she can hear the particular frequency in her sister's voice.

Megan has been blind since she was four. Her ears are instruments of precision.

"Cyprus sounds lovely, Stace," Megan says, and her tone is perfectly even, perfectly warm. "Write it down for us." Megan continues.

Stacey sits back. Her jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, and then she smiles.

"Of course. Sis." Stacey says. Somewhat sarcastically.

After the meal, the DJ strikes up. Isabella, who hasn't stopped moving all evening, her hips keeping a constant subtle rhythm to whatever music is playing approaches us on the dance floor.

"I must tell you both something," she says, her Colombian thick with a purr.

Her red nails catching the light.

"Fuego y Pasión, my studio I want to give you free dance lessons. For the wedding. Your first dance, it should be. Hot, fiery." She says as she presses her hand to her chest.

"It should be magical." Isabella continues.

Megan's face lights up.

"Really?" Megan asks

"Really. Mi Amore. We start next week. I teach you everything the waltz, the rumba, Lambada, whatever you want. And you Jon" she says as she points at me,

"you need to learn to lead properly. No stumbling." Isabella says her Colombian accent purring but curt.

"I don't stumble." I say defensively.

"You stumbled twice tonight. And what little dancing you have done is good but you lack rhythm. Typical Ballerina." Isabella comments.

"That was, there was a table. And I have rhythm. And you have been on your feet since you were three." I say again defensively.

Isabella waves her hand. Scoffing.

"No excuses. Next week. Tuesday. Seven o'clock. Both of you." She purrs.

I look around and see Rosa and Jon discussing medical things. Mike and Miles eyeballing Elizabeth my mother. Helen, Ryann and Adam discussing something between themselves.

Adam, nerdy scientist Adam seems interested in Helen.

Everyone is almost mingling.

The formal dance comes at nine.

The DJ plays something slow, strings and piano, and I guide Megan to the centre of the floor.

Her hand settles on my shoulder.

Mine finds the curve of her waist, her bare skin above the fish-tail's fabric, is warm and soft.

We move together, and she follows my lead with the kind of trust that makes my chest ache.

Megan doesn't give trust easily but when she does she does, she trusts you wholly and fully.

The room watches. I can feel their eyes. Stacey's among them. Stacey is watching hungrily. Isabella's and my mother's more judgemental.

I briefly wonder to myself if Stacey will in fact try to make a move on me and try to 'steal' me away from her sister. I love Megan and I can't envision being with anyone else, ever. And then I remember some words that Anne their mother said to me before I pounded my future mother in law. "I'm the slut, Stacey's the flirt and Megan's the good girl." Was what Anne said to me. Making me think with Stacey it is all about the chase, not the catch but the chase.

"You're stepping on my tail," Megan murmurs. Bringing me back to the here and now.

"Sorry." I murmur in reply.

"Stop apologising. Just lead." Megan says back. Her tone is a mixture of frustration and slight anger.

So I lead. And I lead good.

We circle the floor, her body against mine, the shells of her bikini top pressing against my chest. Her hair smells of Apples and something floral the shampoo she's used since I've known her.

I breathe it in. The chandelier light catches the green of her tail and turns it to emerald. All sparkly and reflective.

And we dance. We show the assembled guests and onlookers the best damned dance a blind woman and a former male ballet dancer can give.

"I love you," she says, quiet enough that only I hear.

"I love you too." I reply.

"Even though you step on my tail?" Megan says teasingly.

"Especially because I step on your tail." I reply back jokingly.

She laughs. It's the best sound in the room.

The music comes to a slow stop after ten minutes. I lean my head forward and kiss Megan. The crowd erupts in a cacophony of noise, cheering and applauding and the occasional woop- woop.

Then the DJ changes the tune, more upbeat and they invite others to join in on the floor. It becomes more night clubby.

I see Jon and Anne join in, My mother and Miles.

Isabella and Thomas.

Adam and Helen.

Stephen and Ryaan

And oddly enough Mike and Stacey.

Isabella leads Thomas over to us.

"Very good, but you still need to learn. I teach. And Magen. Make sure he look after you." Isabella says loudly to us her English sounding more broken.

"Oh he does Issie." Megan replies back.

"Good. Now Tomas lets see how a young virile man like you dances." Isabella says saucily. Smacking Thomas's eighteen year backside so hard we can hear it.

Isabella and Thomas move off. Thomas being half dragged.

"Issie?" I ask.

"Yes, I call her Issie and she calls me Megsy when you aren't around. And every Tuesday all us women meet for how could put it coffee and cake? Or a weekly bitch session?" Megan replies with a laugh.

We dance in a myriad of moves both good and bad as partners swap, but Megan and I both sway together in a time and place all our own in the middle.

The supper is served a nice, steamed pudding. Which we all sit and eat.

Speeches follow.

John Bath rises first, his chimney-sweep cap in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other.

His voice carries the room steady, measured, the doctor's bedside manner applied to public speaking.

He speaks about Megan as a child, about her diagnosis, about the night she came home from hospital and he held her in the dark and promised to keep her safe.

He speaks about meeting me, about the way I looked at his daughter 'not with pity, not with charity, but with the kind of look that makes a father want to check your credentials.' Laughter follows.. He raises his glass.

"To my future son. Welcome to the family, Jon." John finishes with.

I raise my glass. Megan's hand finds mine under the table.

Mike Thompson my best man, a stocky bloke with a crew cut and a stand-up comedian's sense of timing takes the microphone. He waits for quiet.

"I was going to write something heartfelt," he says,

"But then I remembered that Jon is standing right there, and it'd be a shame to waste it." He says grinning.

"I've known Jon since we were five. He's been my best mate for thirty-odd years. And I can tell you, with absolute certainty" he says turning to face me,

"that he is the luckiest man in this room. Not because he's marrying Megan. Although, yes, obviously that. But because Megan is blind, and she cannot see how genuinely ugly he is. I mean look at the guy, bad skin, missing teeth, balding. He makes an elephant's backside look good." Mike says joking.

The hall detonates. Stephen spits his drink. Adam's lab coat shakes with his laughter. Even Anne, composed Anne, covers her mouth. Megan is laughing so hard she leans into me, her shoulders shaking, the shells of her top pressing against my arm.

"He's not wrong," Megan says loudly.

"Thanks, love." I reply.

Elizabeth takes the microphone last. She's still in the French maid's outfit, and I can see John Bath watching her from across the room, watching the way the bodice fits, the way the fishnets catch the light. Anne is watching him watch her.

"I'm Elizabeth," my mother says.

"Jon's mother. And I want to say my son has made me proud in many ways. But nothing prouder than tonight." She says as she looks at me.

"He chose someone who sees him truly sees him in a way that has nothing to do with eyes." She says.

"I have watched him make his mistakes, I have seen him through bad times and good. When his first wife died, it struck him hard. As you all know she too was a cop and her death made national TV. He went through all that. And the day of the funeral, after everyone had gone, and the media circus had died down. He went home, and he sat on the edge of their bed. He didn't drink. He just sat in the dark, clutching his teddy bear. And he cried, he cried, bawled even and when I comforted him all he could say was why? Something in him died, he became withdrawn, he slowly got his life back on track. I was against him buying his taxi franchise at first. But he got out of the house. It gave him an opportunity to get out of the house and meet people. And because of that he met this wonderful lady that's sitting there beside him. I'll admit that I had my doubts when I heard she was blind. But she has convinced me, she is indeed one in a million. To Megan. Welcome to our family." She says as raises her glass. Megan is tearful.

Everyone claps

I take the floor.

"To all of us assembled here. I just want to say I found this lady. Megan. I found in one of the darkest confusing time of my life. I had buried my first wife Jenny. She had been snatched away from me. And I was unsure of what I wanted to be and to who. But I found her or maybe she found me, she is my fiancé, my hero. She is my everything. We may disagree and we have our differences, particularly in regard to food and music. But she completes me. And I love her. I love her more than anything. And to all the singletons here. Mike, Adam, Stephen. Stacey, Helen, Ryann, Isabella, among others I hope you find someone as special and as lovely as I have. Yes Megan is blind and yes as Mike so eloquently put it, she can't see how ugly I am. But it doesn't matter. I love her because of who she is. John and Anne you are a credit and you brought her up well. Not once has her blindness held her back. Nor has it defined her. She is a credit to your upbringing. I want to thank you. And as I have said before I love her and I cant wait to make her my wife." I say looking at the expressions on everyone's faces.

Then I pick up my drink and as per my instructions everyone has been served a small shot of Whiskey.

"You will notice everyone has been served a small shot of Whiskey or as it known in my family and world 'Ginger Lady.' Now raise your 'Ginger Lady' and join me as we salute my 'Ginger Lady Miss Megan Bath. To Megan." I say and raise my glass of whiskey.

The room stands all except Megan.

"To Megan." We all say.

The applause is warm. Megan's eyes are bright behind the black glasses. She squeezes my hand three times our code for "I love you."

The evening wears on. The DJ plays faster sets.

People dance. I watch the room move Stephen and Isabella tearing up the floor with a salsa that looks far too accomplished for a man in a tricorn hat, Adam attempting to explain the theory of relativity to a thoroughly charmed Rosa, But his attention is diverted on Helen.

Rachel standing by the bar with her arms crossed, watching everything with the practised eye of someone who's spent fifteen years reading rooms for threats.

Stacey finds me by the bar.

"Nice speech, Buy me a drink?" Stacey says.

She's close.

The Lara Croft vest is tight across her chest, and she's not wearing a bra I can see the faint outline of her nipples pressing against the teal fabric. Her pale skin is flushed from dancing.

"It's an open bar, Stacey." I reply.

"Then get me one anyway." Stacey says.

I signal the bartender. She takes the gin and tonic, sips it, and doesn't move away.

The space between us is too narrow. I can smell the vanilla and black pepper again, under the tonic's lime.

"You look good in that costume," she says. Her eyes move down me and back up.

"The tights are, revealing." Stacey says somewhat teasingingly.

"It's a Prince Charming costume." I say almost matter of factly.

"Exactly." Stacey says as she steps closer. Her knee brushes my thigh.

"Megan's a lucky girl." Stacey says saucily

"She is and I'm a lucky man." I reply. I know where Stacey wants to take this.

"You know, I've always thought." Stacey begins, and I can feel the conversation tilting toward something I don't want it to tilt toward,

"that if things had been different." Stacey says.

"Stacey." I say firmly.

She stops. Her jaw tightens.

Then she smiles too wide, too bright.

"I'm joking. Relax." She touches my arm again.

"Go dance with your fiancée. My sister." Stacey says.

I go. But the touch lingers.

The dancing winds down. The candles burn low. The hall has that particular amber glow that comes from a party reaching its peak or maybe it's end.

Conversations are louder, laughter is looser, inhibitions thinner.

Megan finds me by the stage.

Her hand slides up my chest, fingers curling into the gold trim of my epaulettes.

"Jon." Megan says as she feels me.

"Mm." I reply.

"I need you." Megan whispers.

Three words.

Her voice is low, a frequency she only uses when she means exactly that.

I look down at her the black glasses, the red hair, the shells against her pale skin, the green tail and my body responds before my brain catches up.

"Where?" I ask.

"Bathroom. Now." Megan says back.

She turns. I follow. The cane sweeps ahead of her, tapping the floor in quick, precise strikes.

We pass the bar, the tables, the edge of the dance floor.

Stephen catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. I ignore him.

The bathroom corridor is empty. The music is muffled here bass and melody filtered through brick walls.

Megan pushes through the door. I check behind us, no one and I follow.

The lock clicks. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead.

Megan sets her cane against the wall and reaches for me, both hands fisting the front of my costume.

She pulls me down. Her mouth finds mine. She's hungry but not for food.

She tastes like champagne and strawberries.

Her lips are warm, soft and urgent.

Her tongue pushes past my teeth, and I groan into her mouth.

My hands find her waist bare skin above the tail, hot and smooth.

I pull her against me.

She gasps when she feels me, I'm already hard, the fabric of my tights doing nothing to hide it.

"I've been thinking about this all night," she breathes against my lips. Giving a small kiss with each syllable.

"Since when?" I pant.

"Since you put the costume on." Megan admits coyly.

Her fingers find the waistband of my tights and yanks them forcefully down.

The fabric comes down.

Megan takes her black glasses off folding them and placing them gently on the vanity. She has only worn them tonight for two reasons, one the bright light, She maybe blind but the lights can sometimes be too much. Two Some of the guests mainly the neighbours and groomsmen etc have not seen her eyes, and the opaque whiteness. She does so people don't look, don't freak out.

My cock springs free thick, hard, aching.

Megan's hand wraps around it. Her grip is firm, practised, her thumb circling the head in slow strokes that make my hips buck forward.

"Fuck! Megan!" I gasp

"You're so hard," she whispers. Her hand pumps once, twice.

"So big. I love this dick. And you." Megan says.

I reach for the shells of her bra.

They're tied at the back I find the knot, fumble it, and the whole structure comes loose.

Her boobs spill free small but large, pale, light pink nipples already stiff.

I cup one. She arches into my palm, her breath hitching.

"More. More. Give me more!" Megan gasps.

I duck my head. My mouth finds her nipple.

I suck, hard, wet, my tongue flicking the stiff peak.

Megan's hand tightens on my cock. Her head falls back. A moan escapes her, high and breathless.

"Ah! Your mouth is so good." She moans. Her hands find my head and she holds me there almost like a mother cradling an infant as she breastfeeds them.

Her hips grind forward. The tail rustles against the floor.

"I need you inside me. Now!" Megan demands.

Megan is hot, horny and in no mood for niceties.

I spin her around.

She braces against the sink, her hands gripping the porcelain.

I pull at the tail it's designed to split, a hidden seam and it comes apart, revealing her bare hips, her thighs, the trimmed thatch of red hair between her legs.

She's already wet. I can see it glistening on her inner thighs, the evidence of hours of wanting. Hours of waiting. And the wait is over.

I line myself up. The head of my cock nudges her entrance. She's slick, hot, trembling. I push forward. Into her.

The sound she makes is a shuddering, guttural moan of 'Nnngh' and it ricochets off the tiles.

I grip her hips and sink deeper. She's tight.

She's always tight. Her cunt stretches around me, the wet heat of her pulling me in inch by inch.

"Oh god! you're so thick! Ahhh! " She cries. As I place a hand on top of each of her shoulders.

Her fingers scrabble at the porcelain.

"Your cock is so fucking big!" Megan says half moaning half crying.

I pull back. Thrust. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the bathroom. She pushes back to meet me, her spine arching, her red hair swinging.

"Harder! Harder! Harder! Fuck me harder, Jon!" she gasps loudly.

I drive into her. The pace is brutal months of anticipation, of formal dances and polite conversation and stolen glances, all of it channelled into each thrust.

The sink rattles. The mirror steams. Her breasts bounce with every impact. I reach around and cup them both, pinching her nipples, rolling them between my thumbs and forefingers. As I relentlessly pound her pussy.

"Ahhh! yes! Yes! touch me there! Don't stop!" Megan cries.

I won't. I can't. The wet slap of our fucking is obscene, echoing, a filthy soundtrack that I know anyone standing outside the door would hear.

But I don't care. I couldn't give a goddamned fuck. Megan's cunt is gripping me, clenching and releasing in waves, her body begging, pleading for more.

As I fuck her like a cheap whore in the bathroom.

"Tell me what you want," I growl against her ear.

"Your cock inside me so deep. Ahhhh!" She cries in reply.

She's losing coherence. Her words come in fragments, broken by moans.

"Don't stop, please, please." Megan pants almost whimpering.

I shift my angle. The head of my cock drags against her front wall.

She screams a raw, uncontrolled sound that I stifle with my hand over her mouth. Her teeth sink into my palm. Biting me.

"I'M CLOSE, SO CLOSE. SO FUCKING CLOSE! " she whimpers against my fingers.

I release her breast and slide my hand down her stomach.

My fingers find her clit swollen, slick. I circle it. Once. Twice.

Her whole body locks.

Her back arches like a bow.

The moan that tears from her is a stuttering, fractured thing

"AH! AH! I! I CAN'T! OH GOD! I'M! AHHHHH! FUCK! FUCK YES! YES FUCK! JE, JE, JESUS CHRIST! JESUS GODDMANED FUCKING CHRIST!" Megan cries out so loud I can hear it echo off the walls.

Megan cries out As she cums, her juices gushing forth.

Her cunt clamping down on me in rhythmic pulses, her thighs shaking, her fingers white-knuckled on the sink.

The orgasm rips through her. I feel it every spasm, every squeeze, the rush of wet heat flooding my cock.

I fuck her through it. Three more thrusts. Four. On the fifth, I bury myself to the root and cum with a loud, guttural groan, a groan torn from my chest, my cock pulsing inside her, spurting hot and thick ribbons of cum deep inside her.

I grip her hips and hold her against me, riding the wave, my forehead pressed between her shoulder blades.

We stay like that for thirty seconds. Breathing. The fluorescent light buzzes. The music thumps through the walls.

"That was." Megan laughs. It's shaky, breathless.

"Yeah." I reply.

"We should freshen up." Megan says breathlessly.

I pull out. She reaches for the paper towels.

Finding them based solely on touch.

We clean up in silence it's efficient, practised.

I retie the tights. She reassembles the shells, re-fastens the tail. Her fingers find her cane.

"How do I look?" Megan asks

I adjust a strand of her hair.

"Perfect." I reply.

"Liar. My shells are crooked." Megan replies.

"Now?" I ask as I straighten them.

"Any excuse to feel me up isn't it Jon Cole? But better." She says. Smiling.

She finds my hand, squeezes it three times.

"I love you." Megan says

"I love you too." I say as I kiss her on the forehead.

We slip out of the bathroom. Stephen is at the bar.

He catches my eye. His lips twitch. Like he knows but he says nothing. I love that man.

Megan orders a drink and John Megan's father approaches me and pulls me aside.

"Well done son, I didn't know my little girl was so loud." John says jokingly as he pats me on the back. Before moving off grinning.

Back in the hall, the party is beginning to wind down. People cluster in small groups, conversations slower, voices softer.

The final announcement comes at eleven.

Megan taps her glass with a spoon.

The hall quiets. Her voice is steady, warm, carrying to the rafters.

"Thank you all for coming," she says.

"It means the world to us. And I want to tell you the wedding will be in two months. At St Anne's Catholic Church." Megan announces.

She pauses. The room holds its breath.

"And the honeymoon? Someone calls out.

Megan grins,

"Hasn't been decided yet. So if anyone has suggestions, my husband-to-be is taking them. Preferably somewhere with a beach." Megan continues.

"And good food," I add.

The room erupts in cheers. Glasses rise.. John Bath embraces Anne. Elizabeth kisses my cheek. Stacey stands at the back of the room, her Lara Croft costume catching the light, her green eyes fixed on me across the crowd.

I look away.

Megan's hand finds mine. Her thumb traces my knuckles.

"Two months," she says.

"Two months." I repeat.

"I can't wait." Megan says.

I kiss her. The shells press against my chest. The hall cheers. Somewhere in the crowd, Buddy barks once a single, joyful unusual sound and Helen shushes him, laughing.

The chandelier light catches the red rose in my lapel. The petals are soft against my fingers when I touch them. Two months. A church. A reception. Good food.

We farewell the guests as they leave, thanking them for coming and wishing them good night.

Rachel stops me by the door.

"Good party, Jon." Her blue eyes hold mine. The police uniform is still buttoned to the throat, the equipment belt still buckled, but there's something in her expression a crack in the professional composure.

"Thanks." I stammer.

"And Cole. You look happy." Rachel says with no emotion apparent in her voice

"I am happy." I reply back.

She nods. Her hand touches her nightstick. A habit.

"She's a good woman, Megan." Rachel says nodding.

"She is." I reply in agreement.

Rachel's gaze lingers another moment. Then she nods again and walks away, her boots clicking on the polished floor.

Isabella corners me and Megan by the stage.

"Tuesday. Seven o'clock. Don't forget." Isabella purrs.

"We won't." Megan replies.

"And Jon wear something you can move in. Not whatever this is." Isabella says as she gestures at my tights, lingering at the bulge which I didn't know was apparent.

Megan grins.

"He looks handsome." Megan replies

"He looks like he's wrapped in gold foil." Isabella replies.

And Megan. Always Megan.

Megan and I wish all guests goodnight as they leave one by one.

Helen and Ryann leave together, Adam leaves nervously. Stopping to ask if we have Helen's number.

It has been a good night. And despite her best attempts I have not risen to Stacey's advances.

I have remained true to Megan.