The Lizard Fluffs at Midnight

"The Tooth Fairy forgot to turn up last night, the boy was upset." Dawn was making idle chat whilst we were waiting for the office daily briefing.

I was tapping at my laptop with a side of coffee, mostly correcting the autocorrect that had just uncorrected my work. Others were putting the world to rights in the time-honoured fashion. Wasting time while the boss was doing whatever bosses do.

Dawn continued now that she had the attention of several of her friends. "The tooth was all wrapped up in tissue paper and tucked under his pillow but I forgot all about it. What a disaster; tears at breakfast. I managed to sort it out though, I managed to blame the person who popped the bubble-wrap."

The rest of the room turned to listen to the explanation as she continued, dead pan. "I told him that whenever a bubble-wrap was popped, a fairy died somewhere in the world. So someone, somewhere has finally popped the bubble that killed the Tooth Fairy."

Dawn really did have a dark humour. You'd never think it when you first met her; she appeared to be quite the plain Jane, quietly spoken and demure. She had a legendary streak though, she once turned up with a dead insect glued to her hand and slapped the boss firmly on the back of his head while he wasn't looking. When his head stopped vibrating she pretended to have saved him from being stung.

She was short and stocky but was a real dark horse; she was the one who swapped the dirtiest stories with her friends and could insert lewd innuendo into the most innocent of remarks.

Whilst we looked at her horrified at the thought of telling a child about bubble wrap and fairies, with perfect timing my network connection froze and I was left pounding a useless keyboard. Frustrated, I hammered loudly on random keys and imagined that it forced a bearded nerd in a stained sweater tucked into his underwear into action, running to replace a rubber band somewhere.

Dawn looked across, "Does that have any effect?"

I sighed, "No, but it makes me feel better."

"I find that whacking my mouse does it for me."

I struggled to find anything remotely polite to say to that. Luckily, just then the editor rushed into the room. Nothing strange there, he was always in a rush.

He was an old-timer journalist; stout and balding with a perma-stench of stale whisky and tobacco. He fancied that his local newspaper investigated international scandal, but in reality it was mostly a collection of lame stories about cat shows that filled the spaces between the adverts. If we were lucky we might have a complaint from an ornithologist that his binoculars had been stolen; that could fill a whole page with a sad face surrounded by pictures of birds and accounts of an extensive police investigation into a shocking crime wave.

How we longed for a good car crash.

Plenty of gore, that was what attracted the readers. Bent metal was better than nothing, but dismembered bodies sold serious copy. Even just a tiny puddle of blood increased sales out of all proportion. The macabre public did their best to assist, gathering about scenes to take photos and sending them in for publication, then leaving flowers wrapped in cellophane and posting crap on social media to pretend they cared. Hugs and thoughts, my arse.

This week, the highlight of this particular corner of the international press was the annual local Elvis festival. The town was becoming full of grown men with silly wigs and flared pants grunting "Uh huh" at each other. It was likely to fill column inches for several weeks, including summaries, post mortems, letters to the editor, plans for next year, court cases when the drunks who had been arrested came to trial...

The editor handed out some assignments. Someone to cover the main event hall, another for the street fringe scene, someone else to go around the pubs and bars for public interest items.

I always tried to make sure that I avoided that particular short straw and this year I had spent several weeks developing my own assignment specially timed to conflict with it. It was about some religion-sex-and-drugs swinger group and rumours abounded about people being indoctrinated and losing their personalities.

Someone had dubbed it the 'Twig Davidians', but at last I had something that I might possibly turn into a proper story.

As far as I could determine no-one at this group was being hurt even everything was true but it was my paid duty to bring this sad tale of hedonism to the cleansing eye of the prurient public. It wasn't even a closed commune, surely the first rule of such societies. It was just a weekend meeting of like spirits. Whatever was going on, it wasn't cult religion.

Our 'in' was an internet forum that I had joined, posting regularly to gain an on-line reputation and an invitation. It would be difficult to be accepted into the group as a single male so Dawn would be my pretend wife.

The event itself was a Halloween party -- the sort of thing that I'd normally hide from. Enforced jollity, stupid outfits, what was there to like? I couldn't see any serious cult having recruitment drives at fancy dress parties.

We had considered having Dawn go by herself but there were drawbacks. Firstly, I wanted to be there to escape the alternative. Secondly Dawn might need back-up, thirdly I'd seen a comment that unaccompanied females were regarded as unicorns. They might exist somewhere but certainly not here.

So that evening we met at the office, all dressed up ready to go and with a miniature camera in Dawn's handbag. She was in black heels and a red dress that was just a little too short and a little too tight. It showed off every bulge, even inventing a couple more of its own.

Really she should have chosen a dress that fitted loosely rather than try to convince herself that she was twenty years younger, twenty pounds lighter. Dawn was one of those ladies who are always on a diet, always at the gym but who never achieve that sylph-like figure that some manage without any real effort.

A pair of devil's horns and a forked scaly tail sufficed for the theme. The tail hung down from underneath the dress and the high heels raised her ass to a perky altitude. The phrase 'up at the crack of Dawn' came to mind.

I had my best suit on and a pink tie that may (or may not) have suggested that I was in touch with my sensitive side. I had bought a doll which I'd chopped the legs off and stuffed inside my shirt with some wadding, toy sausages and red make-up. The effect was supposed to be that a monster baby was erupting from my stomach. Underneath, duct tape kept it all in place. In the mirror I reckoned that it looked quite realistic.

Dawn had had a fresh hair-do for the occasion, on expenses of course. It actually suited her, adding a couple of inches to her height. At least it distracted the eye from her clinging dress which was cut short enough to give a glimpse of stocking-top, and low enough to offer a tantalising view of her cleavage -- especially when she sat.

That cleavage was legendary in the office. Pillow-soft white flesh that evoked a giddiness not unlike standing on the edge of a cliff. When looking at her chest you felt an irresistible urge to dive straight in and lose yourself. Bugger the consequences, as some submarine commander might have said. Brace yourselves, we dive at Dawn.

Yes, we liked our 'Dawn' jokes.

Few risked saying anything inappropriate to her face though, even in that environment where political correctness had not yet been invented there were some people that sane members of the human race just didn't make coarse comments to. No, such comments were not made in public.

We drove to the event, which was a house-party that hopefully would be attended by several of the alleged perverts. On the way Dawn was in philosophical mood. "They can programme a car to drive itself along the road, right? They fit cameras that can read road signs and make the car react accordingly. So how come they test whether you're not a robot by your ability to recognise a road sign in a picture?"

I didn't have any answer to that but just then we passed a shrine to a road accident that had filled several pages of last week's edition. Pink ribbon, cards and plastic covered dead vegetation. A wonderful heap of trash to celebrate a life lost. There was a board against a wall displaying the slogan 'Our Beautiful Daughter'.

"That always gets me. It's terrible when a beautiful girl is killed", Dawn sniffed theatrically. "I don't mind so much when it's an ugly one."

I laughed "You're a cold fish. It's someone's child for goodness sake."

She was unmoved. "Is it too late to call her an ambulance?"

I was ready for this one and chanted with her, "She was an ambulance, she was an ambulance."

Dawn continued, "I know how I'm going to make myself a millionaire. I'm going to pack this job in and buy a little van and go to the scene of crashes and fires -- anywhere someone has died. Then I'll sell flowers and shit out of the back of the van. Cards, teddy bears, candles, the lot. All I need to do is keep the radio on and drive to the next one as they happen. I'll make a fucking fortune. Books of Remembrance - what's the profit margin on them if I get a bulk order online? I'll get loose-leaf versions and if not too many people sign them I'll nick them back, pull the pages out and sell them again."

Typical Dawn, a finely developed sense of cynicism and always seeing the best opportunities. "I'll get one of those loudspeakers that they put on ice-cream vans to drum up trade, what tune do you think would be best?" We pondered song choices for the rest of the journey, trying to come up with something that would get her lynched. 'Highway to Hell'? 'Another One Bites the Dust'? 'Stayin' Alive'?

* * *

When we arrived, the venue was a very expensive house owned by a local millionaire and his trophy wife. The place was fabulous, an old mansion in its own grounds concealed by woodland. I had never noticed it before and I had lived close to the area all my life. It was at the end of a long driveway and we were greeted by our hostess whilst a flunky parked the car. I'll never get used to that; handing the keys over to some spotty youth of unknown parentage and seeing my transport being driven away.

The lady of the house greeted us at the door. She was almost as tall as me, with impossible breasts under a white silk gown which originally may have been intended to convey an image of virginal virtue but was now shredded to portray a zombie bride. One of the holes in her outfit was strategically placed to allow a brown nipple to poke through as if it were taking a look at the scenery. I instinctively checked if it was actually a concealed camera but it was real, a genuine nipple without a care in the world.

Her enhanced lips pouted extravagantly, covered with scarlet lipstick and her genuine bottle-blonde hair was piled high. White make-up emphasised her cheek bones and dark flashing eyes. She was accompanied by two maidens, bearing trays of champagne. The first thing that struck me was that the girls wore green make-up and had shaven heads.

It's funny how we always look at the face first. I say this because they were wearing Arabian style sheer white loose pants, with red thong panties clearly visible through the material. And they were topless. Apart from sandals they wore nothing else at all; their green colouring extended over their entire bodies. Perfect bare emerald breasts were displayed without comment as we were led inside.

Inside, male staff took our coats. They were dressed exactly the same as the girls, all green biceps and muscular chests with strong thighs visible under the pants with red thong pouches. They were also shaved totally hairless. Everything including their eyebrows had been removed as far as I could tell. All kept their eyes firmly to the front; I studied them as closely as I could and none of them were checking out the hostess's nosy nipple or even their colleagues' bodies. It was all slightly unnerving.

Victor, our millionaire host was short. Due to his lack of stature we could all look down on his bald head as he flashed his oversized and expensive wrist-watch and tugged on the cuffs of his suit as if he was posing for the cover of a style magazine. He wasn't wearing anything too extreme for the party; I think it was a depiction of Uncle Fester from the Addams Family but I'm probably mistaken. It could have been The Penguin from Batman as far as I know.

The other guests were dressed in the usual array of slutty and bizarre costumes. A lady in a grey fitted suit followed us in who wouldn't have looked out of place in an office until she span around theatrically to shed the suit, revealing a very tight Wonder-Woman outfit. On inspection this consisted of very tightly fitting star spangled panties, but with a body-painted top. Sizeable breasts that would easily have put Lynda Carter to shame were carefully air-brushed with red and gold.

One man had come as a bare-chested builder with leather braces holding up his work-pants and tool belt. What these two outfits had to do with the theme of Halloween I wasn't too sure. Perhaps I had taken it a bit too seriously.

We all gathered at the side of a huge infinity pool. There was the usual preliminaries of drinks while the guests arrived, then the meal was served. While it was being eaten a well-muscled lady entertained us by performing tricks with a large steel hoop.

She wasn't shy; she was totally nude and twirled around us doing cartwheels braced inside the hoop with her arms and legs forming the spokes. As a finale the lights dimmed and unexpectedly, a laser from a butt-plug flashed a beam around the room.

When the performance finished I noticed a lizard lady crouched in the corner. The lizard had cropped white hair and her skin was covered with scales, luminescent and shimmering. They swathed over her body, both concealing and emphasising her flat stomach, small pert breasts and strong thighs. Then she went up the wall.

I don't mean that she went crazy; she just climbed the wall.

I studied the surface but I couldn't see any hand-holds; they must have been well hidden, because she seemed to walk up the vertical surface without effort. She had a strange gait, a combination of slither and strut particularly when she reached the ceiling and crawled upside down following the edge. When she came to the corner she settled down and remained stationary for the rest of the period that I could see her.

Once the food had been eaten and more drink had flowed, many of the guests started to divest themselves of their clothes. Several of them then jumped into the pool whilst green staff with baskets took care of the discarded garments. Dawn placed her handbag strategically on a shelf so that the proceedings would be recorded and removed her red dress to reveal a laced basque which she managed to retain.

Her stockings showed an expanse of thigh leading to a large and well-formed butt. Underneath that ill-fitting outfit my colleague had an impressive physique; I had never realised that she had such a superb set of bulging leg muscles that led to a quite remarkable rump.

She avoided the pool, all the best to keep her free hair-do perfect and wandered off, circulating amongst the other guests. I felt as if I needed to be protective of her and made sure that I kept track of her movements for a while, her black and red lacy outfit was easy enough to spot amongst the others who were becoming increasingly nude. I admit, I did do a bit of spotting in that direction - just to make sure that I couldn't make out the edge of an areola.

After a while of watching Dawn mingle, I realised that she still had the devil's tail hanging down behind her below the laced bows of the lingerie but I couldn't see how she managed to keep it attached. The ornament disappeared out of sight between her magnificent buttocks; it may have been attached to her lacy thong-back pair of panties, but I thought it might be rude if I asked her to bend over to check.

As we were there to find out about and report on anything that occurred, it made sense to allow my clothes to be taken with the others. This happened whilst I was engaged in polite conversation with a middle-aged couple. There I was talking about the unseasonably warm weather when I noticed hands unfastening my shirt.

A fit young lady with a fine green body was kneeling before me; I was wary of what she was about to do but it turned out that all she wanted was to take care of my pants. Soon I was wearing just my black socks and she was folding my clothes into a basket. Then finally sockless, I checked the location of the camera. I had no particular desire to have my figure in the film when we were finished. The bag was facing diagonally across the area where most people were standing and chatting. It was OK, the pool wasn't covered and I was not in the field of view. The green goddess had already moved silently away, her breasts jutting out.

It's normal in these tabloid stories for our 'intrepid reporters' to choose an appropriate juncture to make our excuses and leave, but so far it all seemed rather tame. Okay, there was a lot of skin to be seen of various hues, both from staff and from guests, but there was nothing illegal and certainly nothing that couldn't be seen on many beaches or at music festivals of the world.

I never saw Bob the Builder again, I assumed that he spent the night inspecting the plumbing in the kitchen whilst an absent-minded lady did housework over him before remembering that her underwear had been left in the bedroom.

I started talking to Wonder-Woman who had removed the panties which was an improvement, natural flesh doing what it does naturally. Her labia descended visibly, pigmented to contrast with her thighs, the paint on her chest strangely disguising the fact that she was undressed even from a close distance.

She told me that her name was Maddy, she had come to these events several times and found them beneficial to helping her lose weight. That surprised me, OK I wasn't in peak fitness by a long way but I hadn't expected the place to be a diet and fitness club. If I had, I would have avoided it. In my view gyms were detestable places for sweaty bores to slog away at tedious repetitive exercises.

However Maddy clarified herself. There were no treadmills or rowing machines here; apart from the pool people made their own workout arrangements.

Without my shirt and the taped up doll, I was left with smears of red make-up on my stomach. Maddy suggested that she show me the shower-room to clean up. It hadn't really occurred to me that a pool area would have such a facility, but of course it did and she knew her way around.

I went into the shower stall, then without any real discussion Maddy was in there with me, working the controls. There were bottles of soap arranged on a shelf and several shower-heads that all spurted hot water simultaneously from different angles. Quickly we were drenched and soaped up, then Maddy was standing with her arms wide apart inviting me to wash the body-paint away from her breasts. Soft flesh soon stiffened, as her large areolae emerged from behind the pigment and part of my anatomy started poking her in the belly.

She wasn't at all put out at being nudged in that way, but took hold of it and moved it down so that it tucked under the swell of the belly that had bulged against the costume earlier. Now the skin there was so soft that I could barely feel it, but the pressure was steadily pushing downwards. Then Maddy stood on tip-toe and I slid between her thighs. Our bellies came into contact.

"So, this is your first time at these parties?" Maddy looked questioningly.

I admitted that it was so.

"I thought so, it's easy to tell newcomers who don't really know the drill."