Halloween foot powder

by Bud Boytaurbody

Someone spikes the punch with oddly labeled foot powder and guess what happens.

I'd never seen Trent in such a state, although I had to give him credit for trying not to show it. It was at the “Gods & Monsters” Halloween party, now in full swing. Someone had spiked the punch with “foot powder,” Trent explained, only it wasn't ordinary foot powder. He was trying to show me, his outlandish vampire costume getting in the way, the huge high-collared vampire's robe ungainly and constricting as it seemed to pile up above his shoulders and crowd his arm movements, in the strobe-lit room where wildly costumed guys were dancing and laughing, their costumes a mix of sparkle and shadow under the disco lights.

“I've never used it—I was going to try it sometime when I was alone, in the middle of vacation or something,” he shouted to me through the din of music, as I smiled at the crazy label of the big tin. A classically proportioned nude youth was shown reclining luxuriously on a warm mound odozens of beautifully shaped male feet, artwork which appeared to me to mean that the powder offered the last word in comfort and relief for feet.

“It's just foot powder,” I told Trent, trying to reassure him. “The punch tastes fine; in fact, it's a big hit—guys have been drinking gallons of it all evening” I gestured at all the sweating guys who were swilling tall glasses of the stuff, passing it to each other as they danced.

“What I mean is, I don't think anyone put this stuff in the punch,” I told him, but he seemed to not be able to believe me. “Trent,” I said, trying to overcome the doubt that clouded his handsome features, “it's just foot powder.”

“I wish you were right,” he said, “but look.”

He unbuttoned the lapels of the ungainly jacket/cape vampire-costume thing he was wearing, and pulled it up to show me how he created the towering effect around his shoulders—or so I thought at first. What I was seeing wasn't registering with me.

A pair of handsome long legs from the knees down—I know: someone was hanging by their knees from his shoulders, their knees over his shoulders, their handsome bare shins, ankles and feet hanging over his muscular chest, straddling his broad shoulders and powerful long neck. I couldn't figure the costume out. It was a lot of work just to have an extra pair of legs coming over Trent's shoulders hanging over his chest. I didn't get the effect they were trying for.

“Who is it?” I said, trying to show him I thought it clever. “Is it supposed to be someone you've put under your spell or something?”

“It's all me,” he said, looking scared in spite of the powerful effects of the punch that were beginning to register in his handsome face. “I started changing after I drank the punch an hour or so ago.”

“But you're standing up,” I said, not getting it. “Who's in that costume with you?”

“No one,” Trent said, swaying, his speach slightly slurred. “See, I can wiggle these toes.” The toes of the handsome bare feet came alive for emphasis. Trent looked awfully warm in that colossal get-up. I couldn't imagine how the other guy was managing, upside down behind Trent, hanging by his knees and smothered in the costume. It was overdone, ridiculous, and the concept was unclear. But I was patient and encouraging to Trent, who was obviously really bothered even though the punch was working on him, but I couldn't make sense of it. I decided to go along with whatever kind of joke it was supposed to be, so I grabbed both of the handsome feet (they really were sexy!) and squeezed them, enjoying their handsome shape, and tried to yell past Trent, into Trent's costume, at their owner.

“You're really putting your best feet forward, nice job! Can I get you some punch?”

“Would you stop that!” Trent said. “You're turning me on!”

“Good, but what about our handsome-footed friend here? Hello hello?” I said, squeezing the beautiful pair of feet, then tickling them.

“NO!” shrieked Trent, astonished—the long legs and feet yanked out of my hands and I realized that they were attached to Trent! His costume was coming undone, revealing the sweating flanks of his torso and a second torso-like extension from which the extra legs sprung, which was muscularly extended from Trent's handsome ass—he had a second pair of hindquarters, folded up his back so the extra legs could hang from his shoulders!

“Omigod Trent!” I shouted. “You're a centaur!”

“Idiot!” he said. “I was trying to hide this so you could help me!”

I was totally confused and dazed, feeling sorry for Trent but unable to stop my own arousal—despite his ruined costume falling everywhere, he was incredibly sexy now that his hind legs were exposed, glistening with sweat in the disco light.

The guys around him were swaying and whooping, too far gone to be anything but aroused by his four legs—they grabbed Trent's hindquarters, unfolding them from off his shoulders, lowering his centaur hindquarters so his hind legs and feet could wrap around them instead, and they danced with his hind legs around their waists, the guy closest to it lining himself up to mount Trent's handsome hind ass. Obviously finally overcome by whatever had changed him, Trent howled with pleasure, his hind feet dropping heavily but with agility to the ground, his four muscular long legs and his four incredibly handsome male feet unable to stop moving with the music, loving the guy's entry into his hindquarters. He was trying to push off the rest of his costume, shedding the clothes from his front legs awkwardly, because his penises were huge between his front and hind legs, and because—his hands had turned to huge handsome feet as well! The large wristfeet pushed and turned, trying to push away the remains of the costume, but other guys grabbed them, kissing Trent's wristfeet.

I was in a near swoon with the erotic beauty of Trent's transformation, but I was noticing the other dancing guys becoming four legged, as costumes began to fall sparkling to the floor and sweating muscular bodies began to emerge four-legged from them, as the foot powder-spiked punch worked its magic on the beautiful guys.

Maybe it was because the DJ was now wristfooted as well that he put on a slow dance number, but whatever the reason, the moment was beautiful as literally everyone in the room fell in love, sweating torsos sweetly embraced in wristfooted hugs, as huge, heavy wristfeet hung over the shoulders of the handsome lovers as they slowly danced their foursomes of legs together, pausing only to kiss deeply and to mate, making wristfooted, four-legged love.

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