Hallowdream

Image by tverdohlib

They first met on Halloween. They were just kids then. She was dressed as a pirate, with an eye patch and a hook and a papier-mâché parrot which kept falling off of her shoulder. He was a ghost. His mother would be furious when she learned that he had cut holes in a perfectly good bedsheet.

She was coming down the path from the Hinkle place as he was was walking up.

“Hardly worth the bother,” she informed him. “You’ll only get an apple.”

Her parrot fell off once again and hit the ground.

He bent down and picked it up and handed it back.

“I think you should keep it,” she said. “I think it’s as dead as you are.”

Later in the evening they ran into each other again and spent some time comparing notes on their takings. He thought she was strange. He liked strange people.

That was the Halloween of 1968. They were ten years old.

On Halloween of 1978 they took each other’s virginity.

It was after a costume party. By two in the morning they had had their fill of dancing and laughing with their crazily costumed comrades. Laura was dressed as a zombie – mask with greenish skin and one dangling eyeball, tattered dress and body paint to indicate decaying flesh and exposed bones. Sam was The Wolfman – hairy mask with built-in fangs, thick chest wig under a leather jacket, and torn jeans with hirsute and clawed feet which slipped easily over his own bare feet.

Sam drove them to the top of the hill overlooking the old Shepherd place, a farm where they loved to walk, to hold each other and to kiss.

“People have always told me to beware of the Big Bad Wolf,” Laura smiled, reaching over and burying her ghoul fingers in his fake chest hair.

“You should be afraid, very afraid, Little Red Rotting Flesh,” he purred. “I get very hungry when the moon is full.”

“So do I, “ she replied. “I think we are just going to have to eat each other,”

He pulled the mask off over his head and set it aside. Then he pulled Laura’s off too. With her disheveled hair and pale sweaty skin she looked unspeakably ravishing to him.

“Do werewolves have hairy boners?” she asked, unzipping his jeans and fishing out his rock hard cock.

“You’re awful hot for a corpse,” he growled, reaching up under her torn dress and hooking his fingers into her panties. “This body paint tastes terrible though.”

“I don’t have any paint on my pussy,” she pointed out.

On Halloween ten years later they were married and they owned the Shepherd Place. For eight years they had been living there and growing corn. It wasn’t enough to live on, so she had an on-line clothing business and he was a part-time mechanic in the nearby town.

Now they celebrated Halloween on their own, cuddling in front of a scary movie, eating pumpkin pie and ending the night with some appropriately-themed role-play.

“This movie is scaring me stiff,” he would always say at some stage while watching the movie.

“Good. Stiff is the way I like you best,” she would reply.

“Are you enjoying the movie?” he would ask.

“It’s scaring my pants off,” she would answer.

“Good. That’s the way I like you best,” he would respond.

By the end of the evening the lounge room had become Camp Crystal Lake. The fire crackling and  popping in the fireplace provided campfire vibes.

Sam crouched behind a chair wearing a hockey mask and holding a plastic replica of Rambo’s knife.

Laura lay naked and masturbating in a pool of moonlight. A perfect, sexually uninhibited, victim for Jason on this Halloween Friday the 13th. With her left hand she fondled her full soft breasts. She licked her lips and moaned softly. The moonlight glistened on her slick wet fingers and as they slid in and out between the soft swollen lips of her pussy.

Sam thought he’d never seen a sight so beautiful.

“When are you going to attack me?” she whispered, between moans.

“All in good time,” Sam whispered back. “God, I love watching you.”

“You’re supposed to be angry about what a slut I am,” she scolded. “You’re supposed to be more interested in my intestines than my pussy. If you don’t jump on me soon, I’m gonna cum.”

And she did. She started to quiver all over and then she squirted all over the rug.

Sam jumped out from behind the chair and straddled her, holding his knife aloft. He could feel her juices soaking into the seat of his pants.

“And so you fall into my trap, Jason,” she cried, swinging her right fist up to knock the knife out of Sam’s hands. Then she rolled him over onto his back and quickly tied his hands together with a piece of rope which had been lying near the fireplace.

“Let’s see what lies beneath the mask,” she mused, pulling it away and coming up close to look deep in his eyes. “Mmmmm. Kind of cute. Pity you are an unbelievably evil serial killer.”

Sam spat in her face, deciding he should play up to his characterisation and somewhat frustrated by his character’s inability to say anything.

“You cheeky sod!” she exclaimed. “I have a better use for your saliva.”

The soft silky globes of her bottom, glowing golden in the firelight, descended onto his face.

While Sam sucked the juices from her warm pussy lips, she unzipped his pants and pulled them down to free his stiff cock.

“This is the only thing I want to be stabbed with, Jason,” she purred, giving it a playful lick.

She stood up, turned around and then slowly lowered herself onto his manhood, carefully guiding it with one hand.

“Can you see now that there are some things which are even more fun than killing and disembowelling teenagers?” she asked.

Sam nodded vigorously and then they came together.

“Pity I can’t trust you,” Laura sighed. “I’m still going to have to keep you tied up in my cellar. But don’t worry. I’ll look after you well.”

Ten years later, Sam was dead and Laura was living in the farmhouse alone.

Strangely enough, it had happened on Halloween night three years previously.

For six months, Sam had been away working on an oil rig. They hated being apart, but the money was good. Halloween was their special time though and they were determined to spend it together.

It was a stormy afternoon as Sam drove home. All going well he should arrive in the early evening. The windshield wipers were barely up to the job of clearing the wall of water from in front of his eyes. The wind was shaking the trees. Every so often he had to drive around a fallen branch. There was the flash of lightning and the boom of thunder.

With a splintering crash a huge branch fell across the rode in front of his truck. There was no way he would be able to move it. But he was damned if he was going to spend Halloween night sitting in a truck in the rain.

It was only another half mile to get home. He would walk it. He thought about the warmth of the fire once he got there. That and the warmth of his wife’s love.

The rain drenched his clothes instantly. The rain blinded him. But he ploughed on.

He pictured his destination in his imagination. He pictured it on a sunny day. The blue sky, the green fields of wheat, the scarecrow Laura had dressed in some of his old clothes, the old-fashioned farm house, the old tree with the tire swing…

It happened just as he crested the hill and saw the light in the windows. It was just a blur to his rain sodden eyes but he knew were he was.

And then he was gone. He didn’t even see the flash of the lightning which took his life.

Laura had an anxious night. The following day was the worst of her life.

Now, three years later, she felt that the moments of joy in her life were respites from a larger sense of emptiness. And Halloween was hard to bear.

This year she went to bed early.

And she had a dream.

It began when she looked out the window of the farmhouse and saw something unusual. The scarecrow was waving at her. She waved back.

The next thing she knew, there was a knock on the front door. She opened it.

“Don’t be scared of me,” said the scarecrow.

“I’m not,” she replied. “I suppose you are just looking for directions to get to the yellow brick road.”

“I’ve been watching over you,” he explained.

“I’ve felt you,” she confessed, and now she didn’t feel like she was talking about the scarecrow.

“I came this way, because he was already wearing my clothes,” the straw man added.

“Sam…” she began, a tear falling from her eye. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I haven’t missed you at all, because I’ve never been away,” he told her. “I couldn’t let go. You’re supposed to let go. But you held me like a magnet. I flow in nature now, but I only flow in those places which are close to you. The frustration is that I can’t touch you. I can be the breeze that caresses your naked skin, but I can only be it, I can’t control it. I can’t make anything happen that would touch your life. Except this dream. Because it’s Halloween and Halloween is magic.”

And the more they talked the less he was a scarecrow and the more he was Sam. Eventually he was Sam as Sam had been and they were lying naked in each other’s arms. He made love to her with three solid years of hunger and she received it with three solid years of yearning.

In the morning, she awoke feeling satiated. No more did she long for Sam. To her it seemed that Sam was everywhere and always. She and Sam were one.

When she went out into the cornfield she saw that the scarecrow was gone. Where it had been was a newly sprouted pumpkin vine.

Scenes from the Class Struggle in Sherwood Forest

 

“We’ll be stealing from the rich and giving to the poor,” Robin Hood explained as he leant back against a large oak tree hidden deep within the forest.

“The Lord did forbid stealing,” replied Friar Tuck. “It’s one of the big ten no-noes!”

“Property is theft!” the green-clad leader of the Merry Men declared zealously.

“That being the case, I’ll just rescue this piece of ill-gotten loot,” the Friar laughed as he gobbled down the shepherd’s pie Robin had cooked for his lunch.

“Not my property, you pig!”

“I’m afraid I’m a slow learner in the ways of wickedness.”

“We’ll be helping the poor,” Robin started again. “That’s in your line of business, isn’t it?”

“To be sure. Feed the hungry, shelter the homeless and clothe the naked,” the holy man declared with satisfaction.

“Well the hungry now is me, since you ate my lunch!”

But the Friar’s mind was wondering.

“Of course a person can have too much of a good thing, as well,” he explained. “Some of my charming lady parishioners needed to be relieved of their clothes in order that they could have a divine blessing bestowed upon them…”

“Too much of a good thing!” Robin broke in excitedly. “Think of it as a favour we are doing for the rich to rescue them from the stagnation of sufficiency.”

Tuck grabbed Robin’s mug of mead and drained it.

“You’ve won me over!” he cried.

“Will you stop taking what’s not yours!” Robin complained.

“You are going to have to make up your mind, my son,” replied Tuck, and let out a resounding belch.

*     *     *

Bartholomew and Thaddeus were two of the Sheriff of Nottingham’s best men. It was their job to transport the big bags of tax money from the local towns to the Nottingham Bank. They did this in a horse drawn cart.

On the day in question, the cart was bumping along the rugged road through the forest, the bags of money dappled with the sunlight which penetrated the foliage above.

“Thud!” came the sound of a knife embedding itself in a tree trunk beside the road. There was a note attached.

Bartholomew jumped down from the cart and read the note aloud.

“Dear Bartholomew and Thaddeus (hey! it’s for us!), We are a pair of horny forest nymphs and we are just dying to fuck you! (oh, wow!) Take off all of your clothes and run, don’t walk, down to the riverbank where we are waiting. You’ll have to be quick as we can only linger in the material realm for another fifteen minutes.”

It was a matter of seconds before the Sheriff of Nottingham’s most trusted guards were running naked through the forest, leaving the money unguarded.

“Like stealing candy from a baby,” said Will Scarlet to Robin Hood as they dropped from the trees and dragged the bags of money to their campsite. Friar Tuck grabbed the guard’s clothes. It would be a long time before they showed their faces again in the city.

*     *     *

The next day, Robin Hood set off to give a share of the stolen money to a person of impoverished circumstances.

He chose Farmer Giles. Farmer Giles worked a farm owned by a wealthy nobleman. In return he received only food and lodging.

“I bring you good tidings!” Robin cried as he waved to the farmer, who was standing on the porch of the farm house.

“Good tidings would be most welcome,” replied the grey-bearded man who looked older than his years.

“You are now a man of wealth,” Robin returned with a grin.

“How can such a thing be?”

“I have a big bag of money for you,” he explained, holding it up.

“What do wish to purchase?” the farmer wanted to know. “I have nothing.”

At this moment, Melanie, the farmer’s auburn-haired daughter, walked out of the barn, having finished her task of milking the cows.

Robin’s eyes were drawn Melanie’s pretty rosy face and her impressive breasts which threatened to burst free from her simple peasant dress.

“Ah, I understand!” exclaimed the farmer. “You are willing to pay much money to fuck my daughter.”

“No! No!” cried Robin in frustration. “Maybe I could come inside for a moment or two and attempt to explain the concept of wealth redistribution.”

“What’s going on, father?” asked Melanie.

“This man wants to give us money, but he won’t say what he wants to buy,” he explained.

“We don’t have anything,” she put in.

“I thought he wanted to pay to fuck you,” the farmer told her. “But he said he doesn’t.”

“That’s a pity! I could do with a good seeing to,” she responded.

“It’s nothing personal,” stammered a flustered Robin. “I do find you attractive.”

“No shit!” Melanie guffawed. “Is that an arrow in your tights! I think I just saw it quiver.”

There was no alternative but to bow to the inevitable.

Robin Hood reached over and squeezed Melanie’s meaty thigh.

Melanie took him by the hand and led him towards the barn. Before they entered she bent down and grabbed the hem of her skirt and pulled it up over her body. She was stark naked as she dropped it in the dust beside her. Robin sighed deeply as he drank in the heaven of her massive breasts and wide thighs and the tangle of ginger pubes that hid her palace of pleasure. Her eyes had a naughty twinkle as she turned around and dragged Robin into the barn, her soft pink bottom wobbling before him.

“Look the other way, Bessy,” she told the cow.

When they arrived at the mound of hay in the corner, which seemed the ideal location on which to fuck, she pulled down Robin’s green tights. The amplitude of his ardour was demonstrated by the rigidity of his rod.

“I don’t know why you tried to deny that you want me,” she murmured, lightly running her fingers up and down his stiff prick. “Just shy I guess.”

She covered his cock with kisses and then began slurping on it like it was some sweet delight.

“I like this better than milking cows,” she sighed.

Soon Robin was naked and she was astride him in the hay. He loved the way her naked breasts pushed in soft warmth against his sweaty hairy chest, and she loved the way he spanked her bum as she rode his cock.

“Ooooooohhhhh!” Melanie quivered as she came, and a second later Robin spurted inside her.

*     *     *

“They wouldn’t take the money except as payment for something,” Robin explained to Will Scarlet and Friar Tuck. “I had to accept sexual services.”

“That’s a coincidence. Me too,” replied Will.

At that point, the ironically named Little John entered the campsite leading a very old skinny cow.

“They insisted that I take it,” he sighed.

“Who did you give your money to, Will?” asked Robin.

“Old Horace the Hobo,” Will informed him.

“But I thought you said you had to accept sexual services,” Robin queried.

“I’m trying not to the think about it,” he groaned.

*     *     *

“Let’s try a drop and run policy,” Robin suggested. “We can leave a bag of money outside people’s houses by night. They won’t know where it came from and so we can save ourselves from being ideologically compromised by commercial transactions.”

So that’s what they did. They delivered ten bags of money by the front doors of ten houses in the middle of the night.

The next morning there was a knock on the door of the Sheriff of Nottingham.

“Come in,” he said.

A peasant entered his office. He didn’t know his name. He didn’t pay much attention to peasants.

“Sir, a rich man has obviously been careless and lost a bag of money. I found it near my front door. I’m sure he will be missing it,” he explained.

“Hmmmm. And I suppose you are expecting a reward,” the Sheriff, grumbled.

“Only the reward that comes to all righteous souls when they act as their brother’s keeper,” he explained with a bow and a tug of the forelock.

Another face appeared around the door.

“Sir, I think this big bag of money must belong to a rich man…” the newcomer began.

Soon, there were ten bags of money in the Sheriff of Nottingham’s office.

Pressed Together : Wank Wednesday

Today's Wank Wednesday prompt word is #echo. Today's Wank Wednesday prompt word is #echo.

For more information on this writing challenge, and to find links to the other stories visit Word Ejaculation.

Pressed Together

Did you ever see that film His Girl Friday? Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. Very funny. All about a newspaper reporter who teams up with his ex-wife to break a big story? It's all a scheme to break up her new relationship and get her back for himself. I used to love that movie. Not anymore. Now it has bad associations for me.

I've been a reporter on the Daily Echo for twelve years now. My name is Charles Foster. For the first of those two years, Roberta Sullivan was my assistant. For the next five years, she was my assistant and my wife. We were a great team, until she discovered that, when I came home much later than she did, it was because I was putting more than just the paper to bed. Our divorce was a messy one. It was in all the papers, except the Echo.

Then, a month ago, three events occurred. They had no causal connection, but they were pre-requisites for an exquisite form of torture inflicted on me by what I can only term fate.

Roberta divorced for the second time. Intolerable Cruelty was the reason she gave in court. This comedy, starring George Clooney and Catherine Zeta-Jones, was her husband Charles Blanding's favourite movie. And he insisted on watching it at least once a week.

"If it had been The Big Lebowski or Fargo or pretty much any other Coen Brothers movie, I could have put up with it," she declared in court. After the jury were shown the film they voted unanimously in her favour.

For the four years when she'd been married to Blandings, film critic for the Senior Citizen's Gazette, Roberta had been happy to stay at home and work on her novel about a woman who spent two years working as the assistant to a reporter, fell in love with him, married him, continued to work with him for a number of years, and then caught him cheating on her.

The second thing which occurred was that Roberta received her 347th rejection slip. Reluctantly, she decided that she would have to return to work.

Since there were only two major newspapers in our town, the Echo and the Tribune, Roberta sought employment at the Tribune. The editor told her that he would normally have jumped at the chance to employ such a highly regarded research assistant, but, unfortunately, the combined influence of the financial crisis and competition from the internet mean that the paper would be folding in three days.

That was the third event. And it led to Roberta applying for her old job back at the Echo. Since I was the only reporter who didn't have his own research assistant, the editor assigned her to work with me once more. I tried to dissuade him, but, ever since that incident when I accidentally illustrated a story about a dirty old man who was exposing himself to young women in the park with a photo of prominent real estate developer Francis Fosdike, he has, perhaps understandably, been of the opinion that any favours are owed by me to him and not the other way around.

Let me tell you a little bit about Roberta. She is quite possibly the most infuriating woman on the face of the planet. This would not be the case if she didn't have her charms. In fact, what makes her so infuriating is that she is so desirable. A treasure you cannot surrender and yet with a price far too high to pay. That is Roberta in a nutshell.

Physically, she is still truly luscious. She's tipping forty now, but with her long red hair, pale skin with freckles, her large breasts (which just seem to get more enticing the further I know they must now hang down when she takes her bra off), her broad womanly hips and that round bottom which has a life of its own as it jiggles beneath her loose skirt and whatever conservative panties she is wearing.

Ah, conservative. There's the rub. When we were married and working together she was so beautiful and so sweetly affectionate, loving nothing more than kissing and cuddling, even in the office. But she was conservative. I won't say she was a prude. She liked sex as much as the next woman, as long as it was in the dark, under the bed covers. But I hardly ever saw her naked. I very much wanted to. Sometimes I'd walk in on her when she was in the shower, but that would put me in the shit with her for the rest of the day. And I definitely couldn't watch porn when she was around. What do you do when the light of your life cramps your style?

Now I could see that I was going to get the worst of both worlds. I wasn't going to get any nookie from her, but she would no doubt be as generous as ever with criticism of my imperfections.

"Neither of us want this," she said to me on the first day, "but let's not try to cut our noses off to spite our faces. I don't want to make it easy for you, I'll admit that. And I'm sure that you don't want to make it easy for me. But don't make it harder for yourself just so it will be harder for me."

"Oh, don't worry," I leered. "There are many women I'll make it harder for, and you are not one of them."

"Very funny," she replied sarcastically. "But it will take more than dick jokes to get under my skin. I'm not the shrinking violet I once was."

"We'll see," I mumbled.

The story I was working on was a big one involving political corruption of the worst kind. There were rumours that Mayor McLean was working hand in glove with mob boss Tony Margheriti, going light on law and order in return for drugs and prostitutes for the entertainment of important campaign supporters. To discover the truth we would have to go undercover in places where Margheriti hung out.

One of the places where he hung out, in more ways than one, was Dolphin Cove Nudist Beach.

For a while it seemed like everything might be going my way and this situation may not be so bad after all. There were two things which would give me great pleasure. One was to see my ex-wife's luscious nude body after all these years. The other was to totally humiliate her.

I would just tell her that we were going to Margheriti's favourite beach. I wouldn't tell her it was a nudist beach. In fact, I would act as if it were a surprise to me too. She would be horrified, but, her dedication to her job, not to mention financial desperation, would win out. She would have to strip completely naked. And I'd make her walk around that way in front of loads of strange men, all the time squirming with embarrassment inside and seething with anger at what I was doing to her. I was practically rubbing my hands with glee. And the idea made me so horny I had to nip quickly into the loo for a quick wank. It wouldn't do for me to get over-excited. I would have to keep at least a little of my mind on the job.

"You didn't tell me this was a nude beach," Roberta pointed out when we arrived. "This isn't my idea of going undercover."

"I'm as surprised as you," I declared. "One doesn't normally associate gangsters with nudism."

I quickly undressed.

"If you didn't know," Roberta asked, "then why didn't you bring any bathers?"

"That just goes to show how forgetful I can be when I'm chasing a big story," I pointed out. "It's a good thing I have such a perspicacious assistant. Now take all of your clothes off. We can't let your prudishness get in the way of our task."

"When was I prudish?" she asked, as she kicked off her shoes, unzipped the back of her white summer dress and let it drop to the sand. I wasn't wrong, she looked as good as she ever had in the few times she'd worn a bikini during our marriage. Then she unhooked her bra and let it drop. When I saw her full pale breasts with their nipples like strawberry-flavoured lollies dangle free, swaying loosely above her slightly rounded belly, I just wanted to grab them and bury my face in them and suck on those nipples. "Are you sure you are allowed to walk around like that?" she asked, looking down at my now rampant erection.

"Ah, this could be a problem," I conceded, as I watch her pull down her panties to bare her tangle of fiery pubes, which failed to entirely hide the pink slit of her tantalising cunt. She turned away from me and bent down to pick up her clothes. The sight almost caused me to cum on the spot. Her bum was a masterpiece and the way it was stretched before me like that filled my head with thoughts of fucking her in her pink puckered little asshole, something I'd never done before.

Girls Out West

"Oh, dear," she cried when she turned back around. And then she burst into hysterical laughter as she pointed at my stiff cock. "Did I do that?" she asked. "I didn't know you still cared."

This wasn't quite working out the way I'd hoped it would.

"Perhaps it would be a good idea if I keep a low profile," I suggested, trying to rescue some shred of dignity. "I'll observe from behind a palm tree. And take notes."

"O.K." she replied, trying to keep a straight face. "So can you see Margheriti?"

"Yes," I told her. "He's the tanned muscular gentleman wearing the fedora and smoking the cigar."

"Oh, he's cute!" she exclaimed, and trotted off across the sand towards his umbrella.

I hung back behind a large tree until I lost my hard-on and then followed the tree line down towards Margheriti's umbrella. Once there I again observed the situation from behind a tree.

"Ask that ravishing redhead if she would like to have a drink with me," he instructed one of his minions.

When Roberta was led over, Margheriti stood up to raise his hat to her. I swear his fat bronzed cock hung about half way to his knees.

"You have such lovely pale skin," he told her. "You mustn't allow yourself to get burned. I can see that you are not used to visiting nude beaches."

"No, I'm not," she admitted. "To tell you the truth, I'm a little embarrassed." And she was blushing, but whether from her exposure or the fact that she was having a hard job dragging her eyes away from the gangster's massive schlong, was a matter for conjecture.

"Protection is one of my specialties," he informed her. "Let me fortify you with 15+." And with that he picked up a bottle of sunscreen, squirted some in his hand, indicated for her to turn away from him, and began to rub it into her back.

She was certainly doing a good job of ingratiating herself with the man. As I watched, he continued to smear sunscreen over her body, moving progressively to more intimate regions. Damn, why hadn't I thought about the whole sunscreen issue. It could have been me fondling her big soft slippery breasts. My boner returned with a vengeance as I watched the gangster slide his hands all over her big bum.

"Hey, that's the place the sun doesn't shine!" she cried as he slid a big slippery finger all the way to the third knuckle up her tight pink arsehole.

She didn't complain though when he began fingering her hot hairy pussy.

"Cheeky boy," she said with a wink.

Could this be the same woman to whom I'd been married for so long? Surely it wasn't boring Blandings who had loosened her up?

The situation was serious though. At this rate, that lascivious Italian might rape her at any moment. He was a powerful muscular man and I wasn't sure she would have the strength or courage to fight back.

"You're not allowed to do that kind of thing in public!" I cried, bursting suddenly out of the underbrush.

The authorities were summoned. And I was arrested. After all, I was the one with an erection.

***

"That was very unprofessional of you," Roberta scolded me, after delivering my bail. "Threatening to report a gangster to the authorities is not the way to get close to him."

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," I reassured her. "I'm sure he won't recognise me with my clothes on. And he doesn't know that you and I are connected, so your... errr... good work has not been wasted."

"What's next on our list of his hang-outs to visit?" she wanted to know.

"I think I'll take care of this one on my own," I informed her. "There is a good chance I'll be able to strike up a conversation with him."

"Where is it?" she insisted.

"His strip club - The Punctured Pussy," I replied with a casually manufactured air of indifference.

"Yeah, I bet you want to go there alone," she sneered.

"Well, it makes sense. I'm less likely to draw attention to myself," I replied.

She grumbled, but I ended up walking into the neon-studded club alone. The music thumped out a primal beat as girls with too much silicone and too much tan swung around the poles.

I saw Margheriti sitting over in a corner with a blonde on either side. I took a booth right next to him in hopes that I could overhear his conversation if any of his men joined him. But the loud music made it impossible to hear anything.

"And tonight's a very special night," announced the M.C. "It's amateur night! We have a great selection of lovelies for you tonight, all of them showing their pussies off in public for the very first time. And the prize money I have to admit is not that substantial and you know what that means! It means they're performing for you tonight because it get's them wet!"

"Bunch of sluts!" I said to myself, turning around to get a better view of the stage.

"Put your hands together for Xenobia!" cried the M.C.

"Hey, she's a bit of alright!" I exclaimed, as a busty woman wearing a turban, a harlequin mask and a Chinese blue silk dress with a slit up the side strutted out onto the stage.

"Take it off! Take it off!" I yelled lustily.

She unzipped her dress as she swayed to the music, and then pealed it off. Underneath she wore a black bra and matching panties. She was much sexier than the professional strippers with her pale skin and fleshy form. I decided to postpone my attempts at surveillance and go down and get a closer look.

She turned her back and teased us by pulling her panties halfway down to reveal a few inches of buttcrack and then pulling them back up again. Then she unclipped her bra and threw it away, turning back to face the audience with her hands clasped coyly over her big soft freckly breasts.

"Shake those ta-tas!" I cried, as she threw wide her arms and let her luscious naked breasts swing free.

She when quickly unwound her turban to reveal her long red hair and pulled off her mask to reveal that she was, as you have no doubt guessed, my ex-wife Roberta.

"What do you think you are doing?" I cried, but there was no way she could hear me over the pounding beat of the music.

In desperation I pulled out a $20 note and waved it in her direction. She sauntered over to me with a shit-eating grin on her face and squatted down to let me shove the money down her panties.

"What's the idea?" I asked.

"You don't think I'd trust you to be able to do the job alone, do you?" she asked. "Anyway, that nude beach experience gave me quite a taste for being perved at." Then she stood back up and began gyrating around the stage once more.

"God, she's gorgeous," sighed a spotty youth sitting beside me. "I love older women."

"Don't judge the book by the cover," I grumbled.

I told myself that her attitude was just bravado. She just didn't want me to know how humiliated this whole scenario made her feel. But, as a clinical observer of factual evidence, I had to admit that the dampness of the crotch of her panties argued persuasively against this conclusion. And when she pulled them down and threw them into the audience, squatting down and spreading her legs so that we could all see the pink swollen lips of her pussy (which was now clean-shaven), the creamy liquid dribbling from it down her thigh was pretty much the clincher. My ex-wife was a dirty bitch, and it was too late for me to enjoy the fact.

Roberta didn't win the competition, but, as she wandered around the club in her bra and panties, the spotty youth approached her and asked for a lap dance.

"I don't actually work here," she pointed out.

"That's O.K.," he replied. "I'll give you $200."

Roberta looked over at Margheriti. He was deep in conversation with a tall blonde man. And then she looked at me sitting in the booth next to them, once more trying to hear their conversation. I looked at her, she looked at me. And the longer she looked at me the more her eyes narrowed and her lips set in a hard line.

"Sure, why not," she told the youth as she looked me steadily in the eye and allowed her lips to curl up into a cruel smile.

We were supposed to be working undercover to collect information, not giving lap-dances. This was insubordination from someone who was supposed to be working under me. I had to decide which was more important, the surveillance or keeping my assistant in line. I wasn't making much headway with the surveillance I had to admit. And, if I allowed Roberta to get the feeling that she didn't have to answer to me it could sabotage all future efforts. I had to get into the lap dancing lounge and observe Roberta's flagrantly unprofessional behaviour with my own eyes so that I could reprimand her about it later.

"How much for a lap-dance?" I asked a slim Asian girl named Lily as she walked past dressed in bra and g-string.

"Fifty dollars for ten minutes," she replied with an insincere smile.

By the time I'd paid my money and she'd led me by the hand out into the shadowy room full of padded armchairs and couches, Roberta was already completely naked and smothering the guy's face with her big soft breasts.

"You know that there is no touching, don't you?" asked Lily as she sat me down in a chair and planted her soft bottom on my knee.

"Yes, yes," I said absently as I watched Roberta bend over and spread her arse cheeks for her customer.

It didn't take long for Roberta to spot me there in the semi-darkness.

"Why don't you feel my tits," she said to the young man. "You know you want to."

"But that isn't allowed, is it?" he asked nervously.

"I don't work here, remember," she responded. "What are they going to do, fire me? Feel me up to your heart's content."

I felt like telling Margheriti about this flagrant flouting of the rules of his club, but I realised that that would tend to undermine our investigation.

"Feel how wet my cunt is?" purred Roberta as the walking advert for pimple cream blatantly wanked her off. Then she looked over at me and poked out her tongue.

Two can play at this game, I thought to myself. And so I roughly grabbed Lily's breasts.

Crack! The sound of Lily's palm coming into violent contact with my face echoed around the lap dance lounge. But she wasn't as violent as the two gorillas who roughed me up and hurled me out onto the street.

Half an hour later, Roberta exited the club, dressed once more in her silk dress.

"That was fun," she smiled, then, noticing my black eye, "I bet that smarts."

"You've got something running down your chin," I pointed out.

"Whoops!" she giggled, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"You sucked that pimply guy off, didn't you?" I accused.

"No... Well, yes I did... But it isn't his cum," she informed me.

"Then whose?" I wanted to know.

"Margheriti's," she said. "He recognised me and asked if I was stalking him. The only way to keep him from suspecting I'm a reporter was to say that I was stalking him because, after seeing his huge cock, all I could think about was sliding it right to the back of my throat and tickling his beautiful balls with my tongue until he flooded me with his hot creamy jism."

"You really are becoming an expert at deception," I admitted begrudgingly.

"And the best part is that he was so impressed with my oral abilities that he has invited me to an orgy next Saturday night at his mansion," she beamed proudly.

***

Now it was my turn to not trust Roberta. I was desperate to get to that orgy too. And, after a bit of thought I came up with the perfect way of getting an invite. I would disguise myself as... a reporter. It's the old "hide in plain sight" strategy. Margheriti would want nothing to do with a reporter from the Daily Echo, but if the non-existent Mobster's Monthly wanted to do a profile on him his ego would not allow him to refuse.

His mansion was enormous and it was filled with a multitude of beautiful men and women in various states of undress. It occurred to me that Roberta and I could both spend the evening wandering through this libidinous labyrinth without ever crossing paths.

"You have some hot chicks here," I commented to Margheriti, after we had concluded the interview.

"Ah, yes," he smiled. "But none like the suck monkey."

"The suck monkey?" I asked, in bewilderment.

"That is what we have nicknamed her," he replied. "She loves sucking cock. And she loves the idea of anonymous sex. She was disappointed when I said we had no glory holes. A Margheriti does not drill holes in the walls of his mansion. But she has taken up residence in my bedroom with the light off. Any man who enters the room will get his cock thoroughly sucked and his cum thirstily guzzled by the suck monkey."

Finding Roberta could wait. There was no way I was going to pass up a bit of suck monkey action. I ran up the stairs and into the master bedroom. A female figure was standing in the shadows. I said nothing. She said nothing. I threw off my clothes, lay down on the bed and waited.

Soon I felt the mattress sink as she sat beside me. Her soft hand tenderly stroked my cock to stiffness. And then I felt the caress of her hot breath on my rigid rod before it slid slowly into the warm wetness of her mouth.

She sucked my cock with all the uninhibited enthusiasm of a piglet sucking it's mother's teat. I could see why they called her the suck monkey, there was something gloriously subhuman about the way she surrendered herself to the sexual act.

Soon I was quivering and quaking and spurting my creamy load into her magnificent mouth.

"If my ex-wife had been able to suck cock like that I never would have cheated on her," I declared.

"Charles! What the hell are you doing here?" asked the suck monkey, sounding amazingly like Roberta.

Well, to cut a three column story down to a two column one, Roberta wrote the article without me and the editor was so impressed that now she is the head reporter and I'm her assistant. She even refers to me as "her boy Friday."

But I will get my revenge. I can see it now. We'll be doing an article on the bondage sub-culture. I'll trick her into letting me handcuff her to the bed. Then I'll strip her naked. She won't want to let me pleasure her body. She won't want to let me suck on her stiff nipples. She won't want me to flick my tongue over her oh-so-sensitive clit. She won't want these things because she will be humiliated by how they cause her to lose all control. She will beg me not to violate her vagina with my pulsating prick. But I won't be fooled. I'll know that is what she really wants, just like Brer Rabbit wanted to be thrown in the briar patch. So, instead, I'll jack off and squirt my cum all over her face. And then I'll laugh as I smear it all over her cheeks and her lips and her nose as she fumes in livid rage. It's going to be awesome.

But then reality intrudes.

"It doesn't take an hour to take a shit. I know what you are doing in there and it isn't appropriate in work time. Come out immediately and get back to the filing..."

The End

I, A Dick : Wank Wednesday

Today's Wank Wednesday prompt word is #shadow. For more info on this writing challenge and for links to the other stories visit the Word Ejaculation site.

I, A Dick

What horniness lurks in the panties of women? The Shadow knows.

I'm The Shadow. Not the one who was the subject of the radio show in the 30s. He died ages ago. It's one of those things like with The Phantom - a new one takes the place of the old when they get past it.

But, like the original Shadow, I have a prominent proboscis and I make my living by sticking it into other people's business. I'm a private eye - a dick. Unlike my predecessors though, I don't solve murders. Cheating wives are my specialty.

My name comes from my ability, using my dark cloak and dark hat, to fade into the shadows when tailing someone. I have a talent for virtual invisibility. Virtual invisibility comes through the combined effect of two talents :

1. Knowing where someone will be looking.

2. Being somewhere else.

This is the tale of what happened when I was hired to investigate famed erotic romance novelist Tamara Tingle (clearly not her real name). Her husband, publishing magnate Nigel Knobworthy (unfortunately his real name), suspected that not all of Tamara's libido surplus was being sublimated into her literary works. His instincts told him that other boners than his had been playing in what he considered his personal rumpus room.

First I followed her down to the post office around noontime. It was a small one-man post office. I slipped in inconspicuously and pretended to be looking at the funny birthday cards.

"I've got a package for you," Tamara said to Postman Pat (his real name and he gets so much shit about it), "do you have a package for me."

"Coooorrrrrrr!" replied the veteran stamp-licker, leering at Tamara's thoughtfully displayed cleavage. Clearly the two were on familiar terms.

Pat hurried over to the door. He closed it, locked it and turned outward the sign which read "Out to Lunch". Neither of them noticed my presence behind the display stand of discount-priced Andre Rieu DVDs.

"Mmmmm, you do have a package for me," sighed Tamara as they headed out into the back room. She was fondling Pat's erect penis through his regulation trousers.

Pat picked her up and lay her on the mail table.

"I'm afraid you'll have to stay here," he told her. "We aren't allowed to post anything that might catch fire, and you are way to hot."

Tamara giggled and unzipped his pants, pulling out his rock hard cock.

"Wow!" she exclaimed. "Your prick's gone postal!"

He quickly tore off the rest of his clothes, and then set about tenderly disrobing his lady love. He slid the straps of her dress down over her shoulders and reached under her to unclip her bra. He sighed with delight at the unveiling of her lush, creamy stiff-nippled boobs.

He grabbed a sheet of stamps and tore off two of them. Then he licked her pert pink nipples and slapped a picture of Queen Elizabeth's face on each of them.

"I hope your package isn't too big to fit in my slot," smiled Tamara, as he pulled off her dress and slid down her panties. He gave her stiff clit a good licking and decorated that too with the smiling face of the matriarch of the Windsor clan.

He then picked up a magic marker and wrote an address on her little round belly :

Tamara Tingle

1 Wet Pussy Way

Orgasmville 0000

Heaven

"Mmmmmmm, send me there... send me there..." pleaded the notorious novelist of naughtiness.

Pat grabbed her legs and slid his postman's prick deep into her hot horny hole.

"Your post and my box," she moaned, "the perfect team."

She came over and over again. Pat wanted to keep going, but he could hear people knocking on the door wanting to mail their letters. So he pulled out of her well-satisfied pussy and ejaculated all over the queen's face.

I recorded it all on my camera phone.

The pair dressed quickly, then Pat unlocked the door. I walked out backwards so that he would think I was walking in. So far so good.

That night I examined the evidence carefully, so carefully, in fact, that I used up a whole box of tissues.

The next day Tamara gave a lecture on genre writing at the local university.

After the lecture I stood nearby listening to her conversing with an under-graduate.

"How's our little charity organisation going?" she asked.

"If you are in the mood to give until it hurts," he replied, "there are fifteen poor unfortunates in need or your assistance."

I followed them to a deserted classroom. The fifteen unfortunates turned out to be the entire university Dungeons and Dragons Club and the dilemma from which they needed to be liberated was the state of virginity.

At first they were a little shy, but once they realised that they could role a dice to see who got to stick their cock into which hole, they took to this new group activity like ducks to water. [Or like a second-rate author of humorous erotica to a well-worn cliche. Ed.]

"You guys are going to do fine now you've lost your cherries," she reassured them, as she squeezed her bum-hole around a spotted youth's sizeable cock, while a fat hairy guy fucked her juicy cunt and the rest wanked off in the wings. She didn't just pay lip service to their carnal talents, she used her luscious lips on their cocks and balls as well.

Half way through the orgy a hot girl walked in on them.

"Wow!" she cried. "Can girls join the Dungeons and Dragons Club?"

"Sure!" cried the guys in unison.

"If I'd known you got nude and played for fuck forfeits," she informed them, pulling off her t-shirt to reveal her massive bra-less boobs, "I would have applied ages ago."

"Much has been achieved here today," Tamara's friend told her, giving her a kiss on her way out.

"Who's that dude with the cloak and black hat?" asked the fat hairy guy. But by the time the others looked I was gone.

I can't give you the name of the guy Tamara visited on the following day, because he is a famous best-selling horror novelist. They had met up during the filming of a documentary on the creative process a few months before.

Now he was back in town and he invited Tamara to join him in his hotel room that evening.

I disguised myself as room service in a tear-away velcro-fastened uniform like strippers use. While the pair were hoeing into their grub, I whipped off the white uniform and merged with the bedroom curtains.

After their meal, Tamara had a shower and came back to lie naked on the bed while her Stephen-King-competing companion attended to his own ablutions.

The lights were off in the room. A slice of light shone through the door, illuminating the wall facing the bed. Suddenly, Tamara screamed as a sinister shadow fell across the wall. It was the shadow of a massive erect cock and it was coming to get her.

The cock which threw the shadow, of course, was not really that big. It was an optical illusion. But it was big enough. Tamara lit a candle beside the bed. In the flickering light she watched the figure that approached the bed. It was naked except for a hockey mask. And its cock clearly had evil intentions.

"Jab me, Jason!" cried Tamara, enthusiastically. "Fuck me, Freddy! Leatherface, be my lover! Choose me, Chucky!"

"Chucky?" queried the masked maniac.

"I like Chucky," she replied, defensively. "He's cute."

"Stab! Stab! Stab! Stab! Stab!" he cried, as he punished her pussy by pounding it with his prick.

"Oh, yeah!" she moaned. "Kill me more! Kill me more!" And she quivered through several orgasms.

"You really are my little scream queen," he smiled evilly, as he sat back on his heals brandishing his still rampant weapon.

"A pity I'm not having my period," she laughed. "Then it would really be a gore-fest."

For a horror author, he appeared to be a bit squeamish at this suggestion and moved on to the next scenario.

"After emerging from the steamy swamp the hideous beast proceeded to terrorise the gorgeous village maiden," he intoned as he slid his hard cock up over Tamara's belly and between her boobs heading for her face.

"Oh, God!" she screamed, "surely this is the spawn of Hell itself. I've never seen anything so hideous... all purple and veiny, and with one horrible lifeless eye staring at me..."

"The monster gave a spasming twitch," groaned the scribe of scariness, as his cock gave in to the delicious sensation of sliding up over the soft flesh of her chin, "and drenched the poor maiden with it's ectoplasm." With this he shot spurt after spurt of his creamy cum all over her face.

Tamara giggled.

"I got slimed!" she cried, smearing his jism all over her cheeks and blowing cum-bubbles with it.

"I was trying for Cthulu mythos and you turned it into Ghostbusters!" he cried in exasperation.

"I like Ghostbusters," replied Tamara. "It has Bill Murray in it. I wish I had Bill Murray in me."

I couldn't help it. I laughed. The number one thing you are supposed to not do when being invisible.

"Who are you?" they wanted to know.

"The Shadow. Private Dick. Hired by Mr. Knobworthy," I introduced myself.

"My husband's jealous?" she asked. "That's sweet. Really it is."

"I'm afraid I'll have to present him with the evidence I've gathered," I explained. "I don't like to do it, but its my job."

"I love my husband," Tamara replied. "That's why I fuck other men. It would be cruel to drain such an important man with all of my sexual needs. We have a good sex life within its limits. But I need more and he doesn't. I don't love any of these other men I have sex with. They love me, of course. How could they not. But its just sex for me."

"I think I'll step out and get some air," said the horror author. "This is getting a bit too personal. Feel free to make yourselves at home until you've sorted this all out."

"Give me all the evidence," suggested Tamara when we were alone, "and I'll suck your cock like it's never been sucked before."

"When you say 'like it's never been sucked before' are we just talking about some kind of weird technique, which might even be painful?" I asked.

"No, I mean your cock will be Romeo and my tongue will be Juliet, only this time they'll get the happy ending they so richly deserve," she explained.

"Oh, O.K.," I replied.

All of my cases have ended pretty much the same way. One of these days I'll learn to resist the wiles of women. Until then I'll just have to keep up my second job as a parking inspector.

The End