Monica knocked, waited a moment, then knocked again. She could hear the muted din of many people talking inside, so she figured that no one would likely hear her knocking. Still, she rapped once again. When no one responded after another minute, she shrugged and tried the door.

The knob turned, and the door eased open. Stepping forward past the threshold, she found herself in a dimly lit foyer. Decorations lined the walls and dangled from the ceiling, encompassing the usual range of monsters, dead things, and creepy crawlies. While not outright grotesque, the displays leaned more towards the realistic kind, rather than the goofy type aimed at kids.

"Hello?" Monica called, closing the door behind her.

She heard a throng of voices from down the short hallway, but no one responded to her. Then, a woman wearing cat ears and painted on whiskers poked her head around the corner, smiled, waved, and vanished back behind the wall. Monica accepted the acknowledgment of her presence and, deciding it was all she was going to get out here, made her way towards where the revelers were.

She paused briefly at a wall-mounted mirror and self-appraised her appearance in it. At the suggestion of a budget-conscious geek friend of hers, she had chosen to dress as Vine, that once obscure but now popular superheroine with the hit series on Netwatch. She wore a domino mask (leftover from last year), a full body leotard (from college dance classes), a homemade utility belt (craft and dollar store supplies), fingerless gloves (snip, snip on an old pair she'd found in the back of the closet), and a pair of stiletto heels (shoe outlet). Her reflection assured her that she didn't look half-bad in the getup, and she might even look pretty good.

Now assuaged, she turned the corner and joined the party.
 
The large room before her held various chairs and couches, with several tables containing food and drink lining the walls. A few dozen people sat, milled, or moved about. All of them wore costumes, making Monica glad that she had decided to, and all of them were women. That last observation struck her as odd, but she presumed the men were in another room, doing whatever male thing that keeps men away from their women at a social gathering.

Monica moved into the space and scouted out the easiest route to a table. She was neither hungry, nor all that thirsty, but getting refreshments would give her something to do until she acclimated to the people around her. Once she had a cup and plate in-hand, she put her back to the table and began to people watch.

The first costume she noticed was Wilma Flintstone. She gazed admiringly at both its simplicity and accuracy. To complete the picture, the woman was a redhead and had her hair coiffed perfectly to match the look of the cartoon. And, she wore nothing on her feet. That detail impressed Monica, who wouldn't be willing to go barefoot at any such event that wasn't at a pool or beach.

As she watched, a Betty Rubble moved up to join the Wilma in conversation. Betty's outfit matched Wilma's in design, down to the wearer's styled black hair and bare feet.

Next, Monica caught sight of a pair of Wonder Women. She didn't read comic books, and until they had become popular, she hadn't watched shows or movies about superheroes. But now that they were popular, she kept up with the big ones, at least. So she had some familiarity with Wonder Woman and the basic design of her outfit.

These two women sported different versions of the costume. The first could have stepped right off the movie set. She had everything down to a T, from physique to hair to clothing to props. Except that...she didn't wear boots. She stood there, in all her otherwise Amazonian glory, barefoot. Monica tried to remember if the Amazons had gone shoeless on their secret island in the movie. No, she didn't think they had.

The second woman mirrored the illustrations that Monica had seen online and on geek apparel. Her costume boasted bright colors with large star-shaped accessories. But, oddly enough, she didn't have the character's iconic red boots. The closest thing she did have was red polish adorning her bare toes.

"Interesting," Monica muttered to herself, as she went back to scanning the room.

Her wandering gaze soon found a sexy nurse. She nodded at the normalcy of such a costume at an adult party. This one included a white cap, formfitting blouse and skirt, stethoscope, fishnet stockings, and...no shoes. The fishnets ended at the woman's ankles, and beneath them her feet were bare.

"Am I missing something?" Monica thought. "Is this a shoes-off house?"

The invitation hadn't mentioned anything like that, nor had she noticed any kind of mat or rack at the front door where guests could leave their footwear.

The cat who had waved at her earlier walked by. Monica looked sown to see bare feet below the woman's tights. She now began to grow uncomfortable. Was she expected to ditch her shoes? Vine never went barefoot on the show, and the heels definitely completed her costume. So she really didn't want to lose them. But neither did she want to be rude if there was a shoes-off rule.

She changed her people watching to feet watching. Sure enough, every witch, devil, vampire, pirate, superheroine, animal, and sports costume lacked footwear. Every woman in the room, except Monica, was barefoot.

With a sigh, Monica shed her beloved stilettos, stashing them under the table that she stood by. She scrunched and splayed her toes, feeling and appreciating the plush carpeting underfoot. But why did she still feel self-conscious, now that she was conforming with everyone else? She pondered that question as someone approached her.

A sexy vampire smiled at Monica while procuring herself a drink.

"Great costume," the vampire said, eyeing Monica up and down approvingly. "I haven't seen another Vine tonight. Nice job!"

"Thanks," Monica barely had time to say before another woman--a black and white striped referee--came up to her.

"Ooh, Vine," the sexy ref said. "I like it. Don't stand over here, where no one can see you. Show yourself off."

"Oh, well, thanks, sure," Monica stammered, as the two women led her into the crowd.

Her guided walk garnered her many nods, smiles, and ogles. All of the gestures seemed friendly and affirming, but Monica couldn't help but feel a bit put off by it them. Why were they noticing and complimenting her now? Her costume lacked the key accessory of her stilettos, without which the character never went in the show. But it wasn't until Monica had taken them off that she'd made a blip on anyone's radar. Now, everyone couldn't get enough of her.

"Gorgeous!" someone said, though Monica didn't see who. "Wait until Cyril sees her!"

"Oh yeah, he's going to love her...and that outfit!" another unidentifiable person said.

Cyril. That was a name Monica knew. It belonged to the party's host. She didn't know him personally, but he was the friend of a friend, and he'd sent her the invitation. So, there was at least one man here--him. Did he really invite only women to this party? She didn't hear male voices in another room, nor sounds of a movie or game that might keep them occupied. So maybe Cyril did only invite women. And maybe he insisted that they all go barefoot.

The thought unnerved her. She could think of several non-creepy, totally rational and respectable reasons for an unshod, female only gathering. But all of those reasons withered in her imagination under a deluge of less appealing possibilities.

Maybe this wasn't a party she wanted to be at. Maybe she'd be happier going home and streaming a show on Netwatch. Yes, she decided, going home was what she wanted to do. She just needed to extricate herself from the crowd, retrieve her shoes, and be on her way.

"Ooh, here's Cyril now! Make sure he sees Vine! Yes, he's definitely going to want to talk with her!"

The voices came at Monica from all sides, as she made her way back to the table. She stopped and looked behind her for the mentioned host. When she didn't immediately see him, she turned back towards the table.

And there he was. He stood where she had earlier, back to the table, facing out into the room. He smiled sweetly at her and extended his hand in greeting.

Monica walked up to him and shook his hand.

"Monica, right?" he asked. "Wow. What a great costume. You make an exquisite Vine."

Nothing about him wasn't normal, average, or plain. Nothing except...his eyes. And...his voice. His eyes shone brightly and penetrated deeply. His voice soothed like a skilled masseur, while at the same time commanded like a veteran field officer.
 
"Thank you so much," Monica said. "It's nice to meet you. And thank you for inviting me to your party. It's really fun. But, you know, I, uh, need to get going."

She motioned below the table and began to say that she needed to get her shoes. But then Cyril spoke, cutting her off before she could.

"You don't need to go anywhere."

"I don't need...to go anywhere?"

"No, you can stay here. You want to stay here."

"I can...stay here? I want to...stay here?"

Monica listened to Cyril, as she stared into his eyes. She didn't understand why she wanted to both go and stay now. Why did she want to stay? Why didn't she need to go? It was hard to concentrate enough to figure things out. It was easier to not worry about it, to forget. It was easier to stay.

Two sets of strong, feminine hands grasped her arms. Gently but firmly, they pulled her away from Cyril. They turned her around and guided her back into the crowd of women.

But as she lost sight of Cyril, Monica's mind began to clear. She remembered. She knew. She didn't want to stay. She wanted to leave. She needed to leave.

"Can you let go of me, please?" she asked the women on either side of her. "Seriously, I need to get going."

Neither woman relaxed her grip. Fear and anger flooded into Monica. She knew the fear would weaken her, while the anger would strengthen her. And she knew on some very deep, primal level that she needed strength right now.

"Let go!" she said, wrenching her arms free. "I'm leaving!"

She whirled around. And found herself face to face with Cyril. She glared at him and made ready to yell at, shove, or punch him as needed.

But then his eyes locked onto hers, and her angered faded. Her fear dissolved. The edges smoothed. The prickles eased. She sighed in contentment. She needed only to exist in Cyril's eyes for all to be well.

A sharp sting in her arm momentarily roused her. But then, a pleasant warmth and a wave of sleepiness spiraled her downward into darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monica awoke, feeling warm and cozy. Slowly the pleasant feelings faded, replaced by confusion as full awareness returned. Where was she? What had happened?

She blinked to clear her vision and then took in her surroundings. She sat in a recliner with her feet propped up. Across from her was a similar chair with no occupant. The small room that housed the chairs had little else in it, except for a few holiday decorations. To her left, she saw a door that was closed.

Taking a breath, she fought through a cloying forgetfulness as thick as those faux spider webs made of cotton. Finally, with much effort, her memory returned. The party. The women. Cyril. His eyes. His voice. She had lost herself in those eyes, been swayed by that voice. Then, the sting. A shot? Had she been drugged? Yes, she thought so.

She remained in her costume and without her shoes. No surprise there. When she tried to get up, she couldn't. That was a surprise, a very unpleasant one. She looked down to see metal bands securing her wrists, waist, and ankles to the chair.

"What the--?" she cried, suddenly more fearful than she had ever been in her life.

The door opened. Two costumed women half walked, half dragged a third woman into the room. The third woman's eyes were open but glazed over. Drops of spittle dotted her lower lip. She wore a sexy soldier's outfit, comprised of khaki tank top, cammo leggings, and a toy rifle slung over her shoulder. Her feet, and those of the other two, were of course bare.

Monica shouted at the two women. One turned towards her and smiled, placing a finger in front of her lips and glancing at a syringe full of clear liquid in her other hand. Monica understood the threat, however friendly it had been presented. She quieted.

The two women placed the third in the chair across from Monica, reclining it so that its occupants legs raised up. The soles of the seated woman's bare feet now faced Monica, as Monica's faced her. But the woman remained in a stupor and was oblivious to both her position and situation.

One of the other women--the one without the syringe--pressed a button on the side of chair. Instantly, metals bands slid out from housings that Monica hadn't noticed and restrained the reclining woman. Now, costumes notwithstanding, she and Monica were mirror images of one another.

"What's going on?" Monica asked the two women. "What are you doing to us? And why?"

She received only smiles in response to her questions. Then the two women spoke to each other as if she wasn't there.

"Cyril said we could stay and watch."

"Oh, goody! I've never seen it before."

"It's such a treat to see!"

"I bet it is!"

"What is? What?" Monica asked again.

As the women grinned vapidly at her, she heard and felt a mechanical thump behind her. She couldn't twist around enough to see anything, but when she looked straight ahead at the other woman in the chair, she could see something:

An object akin to a salon hair dryer rose up from behind the chair on thin, jointed supports. The object had a brushed metal finish and sported small, inset lights on the underside of its rim. Once the bottom of it had cleared the top of the chair, it moved forward and then began descending. Monica could tell it would finish its descent atop the woman's head.

Glancing up above her own head, she could see the exact same thing. She shuddered and wondered what horror was in store for her. Torture? Electrocution? Or was this all just a party gag? Was her predicament being shown to and/or recorded for the other guests? Were they laughing at her baseless fears? That thought both angered her and brought her comfort. Better that, even though she wasn't in on the sick joke, than any horrifying alternative.

She watched as the object fitted itself, helmet-like, over the woman's head. Then the one that lowered over her own head obscured her vision, and she could see nothing else.

Suddenly, the lights within the helmet flashed, causing her to wince and shut her eyes. At the same time, she heard rhythmic buzzes and felt like her head was being gently scratched by dozens of fingernails in time with the buzzing. The sensation quickly intensified into outright tickling, causing her to squirm, giggle, and utter, "No, no, please, no!"

The lights continued to flash, the rhythms buzzed, and the tickling endured unabated. Monica thought she would go mad under the onslaught of unwanted stimuli. She pleaded and screamed for it to stop.

But then, the tickling lessened and slowly transformed into what felt like a luxurious massage. Monica sighed in relief. She continued to sigh as the massage began relaxing her. Soon, that warm, soothing feeling she had felt under Cyril's influence returned to her. A small piece of her consciousness railed against it. But the rest of her quickly gave in, wanting nothing but relief, relaxation, and pleasure.

The women gleefully watched as Monica's expression changed over time from one of fear to defiance to turmoil and then, finally, to ecstasy. Though they didn't remember their own experiences in the chair, they knew that the machine was brainwashing her to serve and obey Cyril as a wholly submissive and obedient slave. They understood in some capacity that they, too, had undergone that process. But understanding wasn't important to them. Only the need to serve Cyril was, and the joy it brought them to do it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monica ate, drank, and chatted with a sexy devil and the cat who had first greeted her when she arrived. She couldn't believe what a fun party this had turned out to be and what a great host Cyril was. She looked forward to getting to know (serving...obeying...submitting to) him throughout the evening and into the future.

Just at the edge of perception, she noticed a new female guest joining the party. The woman wore a gender swapped Indiana Jones costume, complete with fedora, old leather jacket, and coiled bullwhip at her belt. For the sake of sexiness, she had forgone boots in favor of sleek, open-toed high heels. Despite the creativity of the outfit, no one paid her much mind, including Monica.

Over the next few minutes, the woman slowly came to the same realization that Monica had earlier: She was the only person wearing shoes. In a flush of embarrassment, she quickly exited the room, went back to the front door, and took off her pumps. She stashed them off to the side as inconspicuously as possible. Then she walked barefoot back to the party, curious as to why she hadn't been made aware of such an important house rule.

Monica was the first to greet the woman upon her return, showering her with compliments on such a well-made and sexy costume.

"Oh, well, thank you," the woman said.

"You know, Cyril is just going to love that outfit and how you look in it," Monica said joyfully, as other women began to flock adoringly around the newcomer. "Here he is now. Why don't you go show him...."