Halloween 

Most guys my age view Halloween as an opportunity to drive fast, soap windows, toss eggs and uproot mailboxes. This year I found myself escorting a four-foot-tall orange-and-black striped tiger to a costume party. The star sophomore linebacker of the Central High Panthers held the hand of a six-year-old Tigger as we crossed the parking lot to the grammar school auditorium. And I loved it.

Erin entered my life two years ago. A drunk driver crossed the centerline, and wiped out her family. I saw her for the first time on the evening news, a burnt and broken little girl, hugging a bloody torn stuffed tiger. Her dad’s will left care and custody in my parent’s hands, and I had a sister. We met in her hospital room. By sheer dumb luck, the stuffed tiger I picked up for her exactly matched the one the nurses had taken from her.

It is hardwired into our brains to care for the young. The appeal of puppies and kittens is irresistible. My parents were immune, but the smile on her face when she reached for that toy melted my heart. The way she tried to smile through her tears, her tiny hand crushing two of my fingers as the nurse inserted a needle and drew blood, captured me. I told her that it might take longer, but the doctors would do as good a job for her as they had for Tigger.

Two years later they weren’t quite done. Her shattered left leg had been screwed and pinned back together. She still wore a brace on her knee. Her leg would have to be broken again and reset, as it had healed shorter than the other. Her face was near normal, but further grafts and surgery were scheduled. The scars from the burns and grafting were slowly fading. She could move freely now, well enough to be the lead tiger in the honeypot dance.

Most of the backstage moms were familiar to me. We’d seen each other at T-ball and Brownies and dance class often enough to nod at each other. They still didn’t quite have the six-foot four-inch linebacker in their midst figured out. I knew some of them by name, most by their daughter’s.

Ellen’s mom seized my arm in near panic. "Bobby! Can you do me a terrible favor? One of the horsemen couldn’t make it, and I’m in an awful fix. Would you wear one of the pantomime horses for me?"

For those who haven’t seen all of Benny Hill’s reruns, a pantomime horse is a hollow fiberglass shell, about the size of a good-sized rocking horse, that you wear around your waist. There are leggings to make your legs resemble a horse’s, while molded boots and legs represent the rider’s. Suspenders extend into the body cavity. An elastic hoop on the costume vest conceals the opening. Hat, gingham shirt and gloves complete the outfit.

The designer apparently had never considered someone of my height wearing the suit. The vest barely reached from my shoulders to the saddle, the elastic fighting a losing battle to stay attached. The suspenders were fully extended, and I had already lost the fastener twice. The waistband of the leggings came only halfway up my ass. I tried to roll up the legs of my boxers, but they quickly fell into sight. They bunched up awkwardly when stuffed into the tights. Reluctantly I left them on the shelf in the dressing room.

Sally Jones had a similar problem. Her costume shirt wouldn’t quite button across her impressive chest. The vest looked more like a tightly packed boustier. "Hi Bobby," she said, "I’m Mustang Sally tonight."

"Ride Sally, ride!" I kidded.

"How shall I introduce you?" Mrs. Smith asked. She was the ringmaster of this circus. She was costumed as an 1888’s school marm, with piled up hair, lace shirt buttoned to the neck, and a bustle under her long skirt.

"How ‘bout Cowboy Bob ma’am."

"No. My husband has already claimed that one."

"How about ‘Dead-eye Dick?" I asked, brandishing my six-shooter.

She snatched the pistol from my hand. "This evening is not about violence," she scolded, "Give me the holster."

The buckle from my gunbelt fell into the cavity of my horse when I removed it. Mustang Sally tried to help retrieve it, but the bulk of our horse bodies prevented her getting close enough to be successful. The view down her cleavage, as she bent over my saddle, was breathtaking. My loose cock unrolled and started to extend up toward the neck of my pony. Mrs. Smith took over the search, inadvertently finding my erection also. She held me longer than I would have expected, before identifying and dropping my cock like a hot poker. The buckle fell to the floor.

"Some of us are named for our horses." Mustang Sally said. "Carol is Indian Princess Pinto, Beth is Pawnee Palomino."

"I’m afraid my mount is a donkey Ma’am"

Sally blushed all the way down to her cleavage. Mrs. Smith sniffed, but stared at me for a long moment before going on stage. Sally took my hand and pulled me to a seam in the curtain, where we could watch the first group of dancers.

My eyes burned as I watched Erin lead her file of tiggers whooping around the honeypot. I spoke her line of corny dialog with her as she addressed the audience. I hoped no one saw my tears as she raised her arms and twirled around the stage.

Princess Pinto put her arm around my shoulders and pulled my head into her chest. "That’s one tough little tiger," she said. "She’s come a long way."

I sniffled, and blew my nose, and lost the buckle for my left suspender.

Both horsewomen helped find the fastener and reattach the elastic. Neither seemed surprised by my bare cock, but the size of my erection seemed to fascinate them. After they’d stroked me to full length, Mrs. Smith helped them measure: Three hands long.

"Nine inches," I said as I cupped one of Sally’s full firm breasts.

"44D," she replied.

We hustled out to take our turn on stage. Sally and I towed a miniature covered wagon around a light bulb and cellophane campfire. Princess Pinto and her one-woman-tribe chased us, shooting suction cup arrows, until the cavalry, Lieutenant Lillian and Cowboy Bob, chased them off. We were a hit.

We stayed in costume and served punch and cookies and milk. We passed out bags of candy corn and miniature pumpkins. Two by two we took turns giving wagon rides in the aisles. Cowboy Bob’s beeper went off. While he changed, Mrs. Smith took advantage of the opportunity to readjust my suspenders. She adjusted me to orgasm before he called for her to leave.

During my second break, I helped Sally remove her costume. I feasted on her magnificent nipples, while three fingers brought her to orgasm. Her husband and daughter came to collect her then, before we could "start on a new foal."

Princess Pinto and I had time for just a brief kiss and snuggle before the kids arrived to be carried to the cars. We did have time to schedule a slumber party and sleepover next weekend. In fact Erin and I have a full social calendar for the next three months, but nothing on school nights.