Fucking Thor. Aka A Horny Halloween Party

AKA Another Costumed cocking calamity.

Ah, Halloween. The glorious time of year when suddenly having a dressing up box is considered a boon and not a childish cry for help. The time when perceived wisdom has every female using the thinly veiled excuse to dress up as outrageously slutty as they can conceive, while guys make as minimal effort as possible to wear something so unnotable as can barely be described as ‘dressing up’.

Thankfully though, the type of people I’ve tried to spend my life surrounded by don’t slip into the cliche of this perceived wisdom. Which isn’t to say myself and certain female friends don’t take the opportunity to make the most of exciting costume opportunities, but rather that we tend to mix with guys who actually do make an effort. Which is to say that myself and friends are varying degrees of geeky at heart, and like our costumes to be accurate as well as arousing, and vastly prefer the type of guy who’s actually produced a costume of some merit, rather than simply donned a nice shirt and calling himself a cowboy.

I was 22, still living with university made friends and we all were, to the very best of our ability, still trying to live the student lifestyle as much as was possible. We weren’t great at it, given that two of us had acquired full time jobs and one was hovering over the precipice of potentially getting engaged to her uni-found boyfriend, but that’s by-the-by. Halloween was rolling around and it felt like the ideal opportunity to recapture the heady days of mere years before via a gloriously messy costume house party.

I’ll save recounting the months of planning as, hugely satisfying though it was, I doubt it’s something the vast majority would find actively arousing. Many people were invited including a barrage of university friends who’d all gone their own way since, and everyone was encouraged to bring other friends, as we were keen to capture the student feeling of barely having any idea who was in your house. The ONLY stipulation was that a GOOD QUALITY of fancy dress was required.

The party itself rolled around and we were thrilled with the level of effort everyone had put in. The costumes were almost all exceptionally inventive, clever, or just plain accurate - and those few who hadn’t taken the instruction seriously were shunned all evening as recompense - and, joyously, many invitees had indeed brought along friends . As such the house was packed, the alcohol flowed freely, and everyone had a wonderful time.

I’d been toying with the idea of going as something so wonderfully geeky and obscure that no-one would recognise its origin, but decided that an evening of having to explain my outfit probably wasn’t the type of fun I was hoping for, so instead went for the Dark Knight Rises Catwoman’s incredibly tight fitting bodysuit. Mercifully, having been planning the event since July, I was just about able to squeeze myself into it.

So, with the party in full swing and having felt as though I’d fulfilled host duties by doing as much mingling and ’Wow, great costume!’ing as I could, I allowed myself to relax and instead turn my attention to the other great cliche of a halloween party; indulging in some (costumed) casual sex.

The pickings were rich. During my mingling I’d made note of a few particularly attractive guys I knew I would make the effort to seek out and geek out/twerk against/outrageously flirt with (whichever I felt would be most effective at the time). However, it was just as I was about to launch into these endeavours and hunt out an incredibly fetching Marty McFly-alike, that I saw him.

Thor.

Now let me make it clear immediately that this guy looked nothing at all like Chris Hemsworth. I only wish I were that lucky. But he had a chiseled jaw and arms that I’m confident I could have hung from, and my primitive brain immediately knew I had no option other than to throw myself at him.

Which I duly did. Though not before unzipping a generous portion of the front of my costume - utterly breaking my self imposed rule of ‘accuracy above all else’ - but ensuring he’d hopefully have something to distract his attention from all of the short skirts that would inevitably surround him.

I can’t pretend my first impression was a good one. As I approach him he looks my way, smiles broadly and declared ‘Nice Black Widow!’.

Now what I should have done was smile enthusiastically and rolled with it. I had his attention and a perfect opening gambit. But instead I did what all men love; correct him.

’It’s Catwoman, actually. From the Dark Knight Rises.”

‘Oh.’ he says, disheartened. ‘Cool. Sorry. I’m just more of a Marvel guy.’

Sensing my impending failure, I launch into full geek mode extolling the many and various virtues of the MCU as it was at the time. (Minimal. But I’m an articulate geek who can talk for hours, so i didn’t need much.) Somehow, this works. Soon we’re drinking together, chatting freely and, from my perspective at least, flirting generously while trying not to just picture his glorious bare arms pinning me down.

The flirting continued for some time - the whole while my head filled with nothing but vulgar images of me attempting to handle his mighty weapon - before I can contain myself no longer and lean forward for a kiss. Thankfully, he responded enthusiastically, his big hand immediately reaching to take a handful of my leather-clad bottom. Wanting to waste no time I tell him my bedroom is upstairs and, before you can pronounce Mjölnir, we were upstairs, door closed, and hands busy exploring each other.

As he fully unziped the bodysuit, he tells me he’s always fantasised about fucking Black Widow. And even as horny minded as I then was I could help but remind him I was actually Catwoman.

If he even heard my response he didn’t acknowledge it, as he had his head between my tits and seemed otherwise engaged. I also at some point made a joke about wanting him to Ragnerok my world, which he didn’t get. This was long before the film of the same name was released, and I was basing it purely on Norse mythology which, I agree, isn’t exactly the peak of either humour or sexy talk.

I had no choice but to take my entire costume off - it was an all in one, so to make anything accessible it all had to go. (Going to the toilet had been a joy). But I requested he keep as much of his on as possible, which he duly obliged.

The ensuing fucking did not disappoint. While his oral skills were lacking in subtlety, his glorious arms did indeed grant him a god-given strength, and he had no issue at all with both picking me up and pinning me down.

It was, by any definition, excellent sex.

Until the very end.

We were both on the bed, I was on all fours and he was fucking me from behind. I’d made a joke about it being ironic I was being fucked doggystyle, but he’d perhaps wisely ignored it. His breath was growing shallow and he declared he’s going to cum. I looked back and asked him where, poising myself ready to flip position to ensure he finishes in a fashion that will make him want to do this again as soon as possible.

‘Your tits’. He grunted.

Dutifully, I slide off him and spin myself round getting on my knees. Although he seems poised to finish himself off, I prefer to claim the final victory for myself and instead grab his cock and begin to stroke him, looking up for maximum eye contact.

‘I’m on my knees looking up at Thor about to cum on me. This has been a good day,’ I remeber thinking to myself.

‘I’ve always wanted to cum on Black Widow’s tits’. He grunts, his ending nigh.

Now. Reader. Believe me when I say that every single fibre of my being was screaming at me to just carry on what I was doing and ignore this comment. It was meaningless, it changed nothing, and he was, at best, three strokes away from finishing and completing the best sexual experience I’d had in months.

So why. WHY did I pause for a fraction of a second to remind him I was Catwoman?

Needless to say the momentary pause combined with the ever-so-sexy correction killed the mood stone dead. I swear in that moment I saw his shoulders shrug, and felt all the blood drain from his cock.

I knew I’d ruined it so immediately laughed as though I was joking, and took his cock in my mouth in attempt to salvage the burning wreckage.

After a few minutes he came. I swallowed as an automatic reaction, entirely forgetting he’d wanted to finish on my tits.

He seemed happy enough, but I felt strangely compelled to apologise, before telling myself that’s stupid.

Instead I told him my hosuemate has a red wig, and next time I WILL be Black Widow.

The next day I bought myself a red wig.

We dated for four months. It never got worn. Too much of a THOR-ny issue.