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Save Point: Wardrobe Malfunction

The Night Of The Howl

It is the Night of the Howl, and in the less concealed clubs of the Greater City, the pulsing pneuma of the sethura culture, they are already dancing wreathed in slippery bubble-foam introduced in by way of the roof sprinklers that would normally damp down any outbreak of fire with a shower of fine cooling mist. In an outburst of excited decadence, they are already busy rubbing up against one another, shedding clothes and wrestling playfully in the foam.

The foam itself is just harmless bubbles and a lot of compressed air, it doesn't even sting the eyes, and whilst lubriciously slippery, dries to a fine powder that is easy to vacuum up or dust from the skin. It even gently cleans the surfaces it wets, collecting the dirt whilst solvent and trapping it.

Skin is in, and steel-blade music turned up to even more than the usual assault, as the partygoers get in on an early start. Later things will break down and there will be milk-drinking and violence, maybe even the Jagath called out a time or two, but now is the best moment for those in love with the actual dancing and the music, not just the drugs and the hookups. Spirits are high and they're getting in a moment of wild freedom, before drying off and heading out to visit parents and other relatives for the usual family events.

~*~

The name is very old, and means night of the howl, or night of songs, or something somewhere in between. It's not a common event, happening occasionally and in a challenging to predict manner when the three moons align or come close to it, forming a sequence called 'the Eye of Wolfmother' in its complete and perfect form. There are four other possible 'lesser eyes' of varying significance to the sacred, which are considered to form part of the Houses of the Demi-Mondaine, but the Eye of Wolfmother trumps them all and is always the occasion for a public holiday. At the Wolfmother Chapel in the center of the university grounds, there is an all-night and all-day observance, as the eye may occur during either, thus turning her devotees into avid star-gazers with special lenses to block the sun from burning their eyes when looking into the dawn or dusk.

This year, the eye will open and look down at a time favorable to its observation of another, more regularly organized event, which is the yearly dance held for the graduating students. Like the eye it has various traditional significances, and although everyone calls it just the dance, it's a highly important social event in many more ways than one, and there will be a lot more going on than just some dancing. It's a very specifically adult event, drinking and couples encouraged, and often a place to settle grievances, finally have sex with someone, or various combinations of the above.

There's also no official limitation on after-parties. You can leave with whom you want, go where you want, and do whatever you like without attracting repercussions. Sethkill has heard several of the guys arranging their own domination of the Houses of the Demi-Mondaine, in the form of a long-planned trip to a well-respected whorehouse toward the older corner of the city, up from the Lowgrounds district near the waterfront. "It's not just some cheap brothel," they keep explaining to everyone else and each other, "this place has class. If we time it right, we might even be able to get it off with a beautiful sethuress at the exact moment of the totality!"

He wishes them luck. It isn't like they haven't been practicing enough, with both virtual girls and willing online partners who enjoy weave-sex, yet he can't help but suspect that the real thing may prove a little more complex.

~*~

Keselt's dress, which she hoped to surprise him with, is a genuine antique, having once belonged to her grandmother a very, very long time ago. It's also a stunningly tight fit, since the fashions of the century from which it originates involved the wearing of slender, tightly fitting war-frames to correct one's health, build and posture, and to train the body into movements considered graceful and supple, or simply more desirable by the standards of the era.

The war-frame was itself a technological resurgence of the same concepts and ideas that had, in another even more distant era, inspired carved-bone corsets and framed dresses, initially for the sound reasons of support and protection, which were then squeezed until the strings creaked. But one thing that is for certain is that it wasn't designed to handle Keselt's boobs. She's rather bigger in the hips and chest than her grandmother was and it shows.

The dress itself is an elegant over-the shoulder white single-sheath, made of some indestructible synthetic that was probably state of the art at the time. A v-shaped neckline at the top is matched by a broader v-shape formed where it splits above the hips and narrows into two small short loin cloths, one for the front and one for the back. There are intricate, single-colour patterns woven in to the cloth at a very fine level with different reflectivity and lighting behaviour, like a modern riff on a blackside priestesses robe, but exactly opposite. This must probably have outraged someone when it was first displayed, but that was long ago now and the cause forgotten.

The fabric is in fact partly translucent, which would make for an awkward display of dark nipples pressed up against the fabric, but anchored along the back as part of the spine are two interlaced ribbons, made of some sort of elasticated material designed to match the dress. The sheath is just a little bit stretchy, as much as it has to be to accommodate movement whilst holding that perfect line, but the ribbon-straps are far more so, and lace at cross-diagonals back and forth across the wearers body to cover her nipples and, at the narrow-point of the midriff, hold everything down low and in place so it doesn't ride up.

Sethkill thinks she looks amazing, and he isn't afraid to say it, so waxes rapturous on the subject until he she is amused and he runs out of adjectives. To compliment her seemingly simple dress, she's also wearing a stupendously large pair of gold earrings, hollow vertical tubes with upwards spurs on the gilded outer edges. Below these, extremely fine gold chains lead down to the lowest ear piercings she has, forming hanging loops that swing with her movements and expressions.

Despite being thin and well-made, the sheer size of them adds up to a weight that pulls her ears wide, and it gives her a slightly amused expression at all times, so he's just trying to make the real Keselt match his own impressionary one.

She also has a pair of gold anklets to the same design, but whether these also belonged to distant grandmother, she hasn't said. He'd guess they're her choice, although it's impossible to tell. She's gone barefoot, no room for flowers or other silliness, to keep it simple and understated in a way that takes his breath away.

~*~

Halfway through the evening, there is an awkward moment when one of the elasticated ribbon-straps on Keselts dress gives way, probably due to its age, causing the whole thing, unbalanced, to contract both upwards and downwards. She clutches hastily at the front and rear loincloths to try and pull them back down, quickly covering up the fact that she isn't wearing panties and all that stands between a quite handsome spade and the everyone's gaze is sheer cloth.

Unfortunately, that leaves no hand free to pull up the neckline of her dress, which is by those very actions also working its way downward. She really has no idea what to do next.

For a moment it seems as though her love of high fashion on those special occasions has betrayed her, and she might be completely undone. Her jaw drops, and she's just getting ready to panic and run for the bathrooms when Sethkill gallantly steps up and embraces her to block everyone's line of sight, making a point of getting both hands on her ass so it looks like he's chatting her up, and maybe copping a quick feel between dances.

In fact, his very practical hands are assessing the damage, then snapping the other strap in order to balance the whole thing up, coming up with a solution she wouldn't have thought of - pulling the whole thing down underneath her topmost set of breasts, so as to hug and support them from underneath, like a push-up. It's not strictly appropriate, for a formal occasion, but not technically against the rules, and she is beyond a doubt still the best-dressed one there.

"Oh dear, there appears to have been a slight wardrobe malfunction," declares Sethkill, showing her off on his arm and implying with intentionally heavy-handed muzzle expressions that he, and only he is currently responsible for her state of dishabille. A tall glass of spiced wine-and-milk, as quickly snaffled from the nearest table, and not strictly speaking his, completes the illusion.

They dance some more, and if it is kind of a bit odd to feel the air brushing past her tits as they do so, she adjusts quickly. He's still great fun to dance with, formal or otherwise, and now she keeps catching sideways glances from their classmates, regardless of the gender, seeming more envious than outraged. She hears variations on, 'she really has a great set of jugs' in from several different directions, despite the fact that they've all probably seen her before a few times getting changed after creative anachronism classes, or at leg-wrestling practice.

She finds herself pleased at just how much she's enjoying the envy of others, and that by dressing up like this she can remind them that she really is able to be something special, and not just that sethuress they've seen around. When they're sitting down, he sits behind her and works on tying up the ribbon-straps in an orderly manner, making up for his 'passionate gesture'.

She can't help but think, though, that she's a little more exposed to him than she's been before. It isn't new, they've seen each other plenty of times swimming and playing when they were kids, but this is somehow a more adult event, and even with the dress firmly secured, she feels more naked, somehow. She likes it.

~*~

"Wow, that's fascinating!" exclaims Keselt, meaning in both the interesting and hard to look away senses. "It's like your own little private aurora. How does it work?"

"Virtual particles. They're not really valid in this local frame of reference, so they break down and decompose to light almost immediately. Like the incidental glow you see sometimes, when doing magic. See how they form a distribution, sort of like magnetic field lines?"

"Is it dangerous?" she asks carefully. It wouldn't be a good idea to try and touch the effect if it was to melt her hand or something.

"No, it doesn't interact. You can put your hand in if you want, and see what it looks like when the light forms inside your skin. From its point of view, we have no thickness, and so it passes straight through us with just the merest hint of incidental illumination."

Keselt tries it and experiences nothing but the faintest, possibly imaginary, tingling as her palm joins in with the radiation. "This is cool! Why haven't I ever seen this before?"

"It doesn't do anything. If you open an aperture to the elsewhere then turn it on, it's a propulsion system, but here it's nothing but a pretty light-show. There's no reason to run it except maybe as a test. But wait, there's more."

He goes over to the workbench, which is really more of an improvised console made from a pair of identical boxes some of his components must have come in, and looks through assorted tools to find a basic remote that controls the facilities, workshop doors, and what have you. It's simplistic enough not to go wrong, essentially, and so works on the first try when he turns off the overhead white-light array, designed to evenly and artificially illuminate the room.

They end up in the dark, but one illuminated by the aurora of the drive exhaust, like it was a night sky. "It's better than the view outside the city! And completely private," exclaims Keselt hungrily.

"That's pretty much exactly what I was thinking," agrees Sethkill.

She's starting to have an idea of what she'd like to do to him, and why he bought her here. This is perhaps the weirdest romantic gesture that's ever been thrown her way, but it has certain charms all of its own. They talked about whether, maybe, they should do it for real on such this significant occasion, as they've always been a bit reluctant to jump right in. They could've done it folded into the weave, safely and as often as they wanted, but it wouldn't have quite been real and a first time is a first time, right? And there's been all sorts of fun and games and touching, most recently when he fixed her dress by baring her top pair of tits, it all felt quite natural and no-one seemed to mind and she rather liked his firm touch on her.

Why do it on a cold hillside in the dark, when there's ready access to everything right here? She'd bet that he's got some warmed spiced wine, her preferred lube conveniently to hand. Engineering a perfect situation for her, with careful advance thought.

"My sethuressas chariot awaits," he advises, with a graceful gesture of offering, using an archaic form indicating submission to her as his lead female. Despite herself it gives her a little thrill.

The objects he's gesturing at, already unboxed but not yet installed, are two ready-made piloting seats from a well-known manufacturer. Their selling point is that, in upright and locked position, they meet the traditional sturdiness criteria for a conventional aircraft or spacecraft. But since it's now an age of antigravitics, they can also fold back and down like a conventional car seat, and are shipped that way for convenience. In that orientation, they're more like recliners or bucket seats, what with all the impact and support webbing and padded edges.

The ship, when completed, will have three, but thus far only one has been installed. These are the passenger seats, left out until everything else is ready.

She rapidly grasps his idea and helps him to drag them out, one each, their cardboard left in place underneath to enable them to be slid easily across the floor. That he'd involve her equally in doing this physical task, even at such a moment, only confirms her feelings about him. In a collaborative action of each pushing into the other until everything is comfortably aligned, they set the seats up together next one another so they can both enjoy the dancing patterns of the virtual light.

He has a cooler handy, exactly as she'd guessed, and passes her a bottle. Not green wine then, but something a little lighter, her favourite refreshing beverage, for after they've done something hard together or it's been a long day. Crisp and cool. They clink the rims together.

Yes, this one's definitely a keeper.

She drinks only a little bit, down to the neck, before she makes up his mind for him and rolls over onto his seat instead, so her tits are comfortably positioned right in front of his muzzle, where he can't possibly miss them. Making herself clear.

"It's time, honey," she explains calmly, and takes charge of the situation.