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I was fortunate enough to speak with George Weisgerber, aka Tailor Made from VH1's popular reality shows "I Love New York" and "I Love Money." He was the win... Author's story link: author: nicnoc246 https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/itkpxv/mr_chatter_would_love_to_tailor_you/ thumbnail cover image: Image by ... Mr. Chatter Would Love To Tailor You. Story. Read it here! 2. 0 comments. share. save hide report. 2. Posted by 4 days ago. Narrations Of Stories From Habitsville! Story Performance. Hello everyone! Recently I've had quite a few creators reach out to ask permission to narrate some of my stories, to which my answer is almost always 'yes.' My ... Mr. Chatter (From Mr. Chatter Would Love To Tailor You) Derek (From Mr. Chatter Would Love To Tailor You) I would also like to add the parameter that in order to post as any of these characters, you must read the story that they are involved in in order to get a starting point. For instance, if you post about Phil playing in a softball ... Mr. Chatter Would Love To Tailor You. If you see a new story from Samuel Singer pop up here, you must know that all is not well in Habitsville. And you would be right. It started with good news. The stories that I’ve written for the Habitsville Gazette have actually gained a bit of popularity about town, and because of this, I’ve been ... Mr. Chatter Would Love To Tailor You. Story. Read it here! 2. 0 comments. share. save hide report. Continue browsing in r/samuelsinger. r/samuelsinger. Welcome to Habitsville. As you know, things are a little bit... different in our town. IT stealing Tailor's roses then claiming that Lawrence Fishburne ordered them, TM & IT presenting a business proposal to New York and her mother and more. Check it out. If You See Someone, Say ... Mr. Chatterbox is the twentieth book in the Mr. Men series by Roger Hargreaves. Mr. Chatterbox is a person who can't stop talking. He will talk on and on, even to himself. He talks leaving the mailman late delivering all his mail, and causing Mr. Bowler, the hatter, to come home late to cold dinner. Mr. Bowler sells Mr. Chatterbox a magic hat that will grow if Mr. Chatterbox talks too much. It ... Welcome to Habitsville. As you know, things are a little bit... different in our town. ... Log in sign up. User account menu • New Story Alert! Mr. Chatter Would Love To Tailor You. Story.

2020.09.16 00:03 nicnoc246 Tight clothes voyeur

If you see a new story from Samuel Singer pop up here, you might suspect that all is not well in Habitsville.
And you would be right.
It started with good news. The stories that I’ve written for the Habitsville Gazette have actually gained a bit of popularity about town, and because of this, I’ve been invited to speak on our local TV station, WHVTV.
I know it may seem insignificant—being a guest on your own hometown’s tiny station when you already write for the newspaper doesn’t look like a big step up. But I’ve been through some tough stuff, as you’ve no doubt read, and I am unabashedly excited about this. Let me have this one thing.
Although it might be a bit vain, I wanted to look good on the big screen. So, I’d gotten myself a new outfit—pants, shirt, jacket, even a new pair of shoes, though I wasn’t sure they’d actually show my feet on the program.
The problem was, not everything fit perfectly.
There’s a tailor’s shop in Habitsville, and since I’ve never been given a reason to go, it was completely uncharted territory for me. But this was my big break, and I wasn’t going to spare any expense. So a few days ago, I made my way to Fit and Trim Tailor’s, in downtown Habitsville.
It was a modest building, nestled between two other shops: a Butcher and, oddly enough, a children’s Day Care. When I walked inside, garment bag draped over my arm, I was immediately greeted by a very excited man.
“Welcome!” he said, in a bright, too-loud voice. “My name is Mr. Chatter. How can we at Fit and Trim Tailor’s help you today?” It took me a moment to answer, not because I didn’t know what I needed, but because I was too distracted staring at the strange figure in front of me.
First of all, he was of an indecipherable age. He had shoulder length, slicked back gray hair, but his face was perfectly smooth. Perhaps a view of his eyes would have given me a clue, had I been able to see them. He wore eyeglasses that reflected so brightly, it was impossible to see what lie beneath, and any attempt at eye contact merely reflected the image of the shop back to me.
He was garishly dressed in a lavender suit and green striped tie. I offhandedly considered that perhaps I shouldn’t trust this man with my clothes. But, like I said, this was the only tailor’s in town.
“Hi, I’m Sam. I wanted to get fitted for these,” I said nervously, motioning to the garment bag. I was unsure of how the entire procedure was meant to go, but Mr. Chatter clasped his hands together in delight. Although he was a rather slim man, his hands were strangely thick and meaty.
“Perfect, right this way—“ he started, leading me towards a curtained fitting room. But, before we got there, another man entered from the back.
While Mr. Chatter was fashionable, animated, and ageless, the man that entered the room was the opposite. He was sort of hunched and short, with a large unkempt mustache that seemed to take up the entire bottom half of his face. He wore some sort of loose fitting gray tunic that hung all the way to the floor, and was stained with a variety of different materials I couldn’t place. His eyes, like Mr. Chatter’s, were invisible, shielded by small round-lensed spectacles of the same reflective surface. Pinned to his tunic was a small rectangular nametag, surprisingly shiny, that clearly read the name ‘Nestor’.
“Ah, yes, Nestor. Take it next door, quick as you can,” Mr. Chatter said, before continuing towards the curtained room. But, my feet refused to follow him, and it wasn’t because I was stricken by Nestor’s strange appearance.

No, it was what he was holding that gave me pause.

It was a metal bucket, slightly rusted. It looked well-used. Inside was a substance that seemed oddly familiar, although I was unable to immediately place it.
It was thick and gelatinous, and there was a lot of it. It was a bit translucent, but I could see that it’s true color when gathered together was a sick yellow. I could tell by the sheen off its surface in the light of the shop that there was moisture to it. It hit the two-thirds mark on the bucket, full enough to make my stomach turn.
And then, Nestor took it away, towards the front of the shop and then out the door. I tried to watch where he took it, but before I could, Mr. Chatter had taken my hand and was dragging me towards the fitting room.
“Go ahead and change into the garments you’ve brought, and we’ll get started.” I stepped inside the enclosed space, but before I drew the curtain, a new shape appeared.
“Alright, I’m ready!” A curtain drew back, and from the fitting room next to mine, a young man emerged. Unlike myself, he looked like he actually should be on television. He was handsome, with the glowing confidence of someone who was used to having attention turned on him.
“Wonderful, Derek. Go ahead and step onto the platform in front of the mirrors.” Mr. Chatter watched the young man do as he was told, before turning back to me. “See you soon, Sam,” he said, the glass over his eyes glinting along with his teeth. Then, he pulled my curtain shut.
By this point, I didn’t have a great feeling about this place, although it was hard to say exactly why. It was like I was getting bits and pieces of something unsettling, without being able to see it as a whole.

And then, I pulled back my curtain a bit, just enough to peek out at the events unfolding in the main store, without Derek or Mr. Chatter spying me.

Derek had stepped onto the platform, and was admiring himself in the three trifold mirrors that stood in front of him. His outfit of choice was far fancier than mine. It was a jet black tuxedo, and as far as I could tell, it fit perfectly.
As he flexed for himself, Mr. Chatter circled him, measuring tape in hand. After a few minutes of measuring, Mr. Chatter rolled the tape up, and smiled. “I think I see where we can make a few changes. Too tight in the torso, and too long in the leg, yes?”
Derek, still admiring himself, nodded. “Yeah, I think you’re right. I mean, I look good already. But I just want to look perfect, you know? It’s not every day you get married.”
Mr. Chatter smiled wider. “Absolutely, sir.”
He set the measuring tape down with his thick hands, but then, he did something strange. I expected him to reach for pins, to make the adjustments to the clothes and then sew them later. But instead, he walked over the cash register. He bent down, reaching his arm back, somewhere I couldn’t see behind the desk.
“Are you ready man?” Derek asked, leaning back on the podium to see what the tailor was doing. “Let’s get this party started.”

Then, something strange happened.

There was a loud click like a switch being flipped. In that moment, the three mirrors in front of Derek all flashed, one simultaneous bright light. I saw another flash in my peripheral vision, but I couldn’t tell what emitted the light. I had to blink a few times after it was done in order for my eyes to readjust, but when they did, I saw an odd sight.
Derek had stopped posing, and now was standing completely and utterly still. Not as if he was trying to hold still for the work the tailor was going to do. It was as though he was no longer a human being, and instead was a mannequin.
There was a sound of a door opening, and through my gap in the curtain, I saw Nestor joining Mr. Chatter in front of the statuesque Derek. “Is the bucket empty?” Mr. Chatter asked, to which Nestor silently slid the metal container over to him.
Mr. Chatter made a small tsk of disappointment. “Well this is no good at all,” he said, stepping once again around Derek. “There’s just hardly any meat on these bones. Not much to work with.” He sighed heavily. “We’ve got another one in the dressing room. His mirror should have stalled him too.”
I anxiously turned to look at the mirror against the wall of my dressing room. That must have been the flash in the corner of my eye, but since I was watching Mr. Chatter, I didn’t get whatever treatment poor Derek was currently under the spell of.
“We better get going,” Mr. Chatter said.

Then, he pulled out a pair of small, delicate scissors.

Nestor silently stepped onto the podium with Derek, and he did something odd—he removed the man’s jacket, shirt, and pants. The young man didn’t so much as blink as the stranger gathered up his tuxedo and carried them over to a clothing rack in the back of the shop.
Then, Mr. Chatter stepped onto the podium. He held the scissors aloft, the cold point of the metal pressed against the warm=blooded skin of the being before him. “Nestor. The bucket.”
The little man scuttled back over, picked up his rusty bucket, and held it up to the tailor.

Then, Mr. Chatter began to cut.

I saw it again. The substance I had seen when I first arrived, that filled Nestor’s bucket up to nearly two-thirds its capacity. And, although there was much less than there had been before, and it was mixed with something tougher, stringier, and redder, there it was.
Piling up in Nestor’s bucket was a collection of human fat.
The sick feeling in my stomach gave a sudden lurch, and I feared I was going to get sick and give away my voyeurism. I pushed what rose up back down, and willed myself to keep watching.
It was strange—even though Derek had to be amassing huge wounds, there wasn’t any blood. It was as though whatever frozen state he was in stopped his blood too, making it impossible to spill.
Mr. Chatter didn’t stay on Derek’s torso for very long, but then again, his shirt and jacket hadn’t been that tight. He left bits of skin hanging lose and open, Derek’s ribcage and thumping heart exposed like a vivisected frog in high school biology.
Mr. Chatter moved onto the next problem. The legs.
“Do you have the samples?” Mr. Chatter asked, and Nestor nodded. He set down his bucket, and reached somewhere within his cloak. He pulled out what looked like odd little red and tan disks. “Are those the two’s or the two and a halfs?” Mr. Chatter asked. “Derek needs twos.”
Nestor nodded, putting the disks back into the folds of his garment. He brought out his hands again, this time with two slightly smaller circles. “Thank you,” Mr. Chatter said. Then, he did something so horrible, it’s difficult for me to even write.
He took his scissors, and cut clean through Derek’s leg, right below the knee.
“A little help,” he said, and with Nestor’s help, the two tilted Derek’s top half back, creating a small space between his body and his newly severed leg. Then, Nestor gingerly placed one of his flesh disks into that space, and the two heaved the man back upon the modified limb.
They clumsily did the same for the other side, and there it was—
Derek was two inches taller.
It didn’t take long for Mr. Chatter to whip stitch the young man back together. He had a large sewing needle, and a long piece of thread that I heavily suspected was made out of... organic materials. Mr. Chatter moved about Derek’s body quickly and expertly, until he became still.
He snipped the end of his thread.
Mr. Chatter looked to Nestor, who was holding his bucket. “We didn’t get much, did we?” Nestor remained silent, but he shook his head solemnly. Mr. Chatter sighed again. “They aren’t going to be too happy about that.” He looked over Derek for a moment, as though admiring his handiwork. “No matter. You may redress him.”
I wondered who ‘they’ was, but my main suspect only made me feel sicker. As I watched, Nestor put Derek’s tuxedo back on him. I could see it—the way his shirt and jacket fit his body perfectly, and his pants hit right at the heel. The modifications had worked.

And there was no way in hell it was happening to me.

I counted to three, and then burst out of my dressing room. I left my garment bag behind, and sprinted straight for the door, not daring to steal one more glance for what bits of Derek remained piled in the bucket.
Thankfully, I was too fast for them to stop me. I ran all the way across the street, my heart pounding into my throat, until I burst into a little café.
And yet, I strangely couldn’t go home. There was something that I was curious about, something that bothered me immensely.
I sat at a table near the front window, and watched. Only a few minutes after I left, I saw Derek leave the shop, smiling and carrying his tuxedo over his arm. I wondered if he would ever begin to understand what strange things happened to him at Fit and Trim Tailor’s. I wondered if I ever would.
And then, I saw it—the small hunched figure of Nestor, emerging from the front door of the shop. In his hand, swinging on its rusty handle, was the bucket full of human fat and flesh.
He walked out of the shop and then entered the establishment directly next to the tailor’s.

But, it wasn’t the Butcher’s, as I suspected.

Nestor walked through the front door of the Day Care.
submitted by nicnoc246 to nosleep [link] [comments]


2020.07.20 16:12 savanna20Jul Tight clothes voyeur

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submitted by savanna20Jul to Dino_Blue [link] [comments]


2020.06.08 22:02 unknownhorrorwriter2 Idol Worship (Part 1/2)

The Crane house was just ordinary, abandoned trash. Boring even. The house was a two-story farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Miles of woods surrounded it. Needless to say, there weren't any neighbors for miles either. The house's mailbox stood tall, wearing its abundance of rust for a paint job. Rather than a paved driveway, a long stretch of faded dirt ran through the house's tall grass and weeds, all the way up to the decrepit front porch.
The clear country sky illuminated the home in a vivid light. The house a beacon that only drew local paranormal enthusiasts and juvenile delinquents looking for cheap thrills in the small town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Even if you didn't believe in ghosts, the Crane house certainly did look the part.
The once-pretty country home looked to have gone uninhabited for decades. Crooked shutters guarded the large cracked windows. Busted wooden steps led up to the house's creaky front porch. The home's bricks all faded with age.
An archaic lantern hung on the porch, its glass case long shattered. The rocking chairs were at least functional if you could look past the layers of thick cobwebs wrapped all around them.
Given the house's many deficiencies and its hopeless place in the open market, the hot Georgia night brought a huge surprise when a pristine and shiny new convertible zoomed down the long dirt driveway.
Appearing with the sudden quickness of a mirage, the car's tires scattered dust everywhere. The convertible's top was down, the occupants inside blasting loud and obnoxious pop music.
The car came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from the porch. As the rag top started coming back down, the music and lights were shut off. After the doors swung open, jovial laughter echoed through the night.
Out stepped two beautiful young women. Bonnie Campbell and Carty Elizabeth, both of them in their late-20s and both of them ultra-attractive. A gay couple just as clever as they were sensual. These weren't the nerdy ghost enthusiasts, the Stanwyck High dropouts, or any of the other typical yokel explorers. This was a couple straight out of a Beverly Hills photo shoot.
Bonnie was a tall and streetwise Latina. Fit enough to be a supermodel, but too anti-establishment for that kinda shit. Everything about her was rebellious. From her hairstyle all the way to her attire. But instead of being scary or intimidating, the aggressive swagger was hot thanks in part to her pretty face.... a fact Bonnie was well aware of.
On the other hand, Carty was less confrontational in both her personality and style. While Bonnie gladly wore the "Butch" persona, Carty was the feminine "girly-girl" of the pair. But like Bonnie, Carty didn't take much shit either. After all, these ladies were entrepreneurs. Bonnie was holding a wireless mic and Carty a camcorder for a reason. They knew how to exploit what God gave them.
The couple stopped and looked on at the derelict house, both of them awestruck for different reasons. Bonnie with excitement, Carty with more than a little unease.
"Fuck, it's gorgeous," Bonnie said. "Absolutely perfect..."
Carty gave her a weird look. "Gorgeous?"
"You know what I mean." Bonnie grabbed a hold of Carty's hand and led her up to the front porch. "Come on. Let's explore."
With big frightened eyes, Carty looked on at the imposing farmhouse as they got closer and closer to the porch's battered wooden steps. It was a country home from Hell, she thought. A cross between a Cracker Barrel and Amityville.
Like a playful older sibling, Bonnie leaned in toward Carty. "Creepy..." she teased Carty in her best horror-host voice.
Carty pushed Bonnie away from her, annoyed. "Fuck you!"
"Aww, you scared, hon?" Bonnie replied.
"Who wouldn't be?" Carty said. She stole a glance back at their car.
"I've seen worse." Bonnie noticed Carty hadn't even turned on the camcorder yet. Outraged, Bonnie stopped and snatched Carty's arm. "Carty, what the Hell are you doing!"
Carty yanked her arm away from Bonnie's grasp. "What!"
Bonnie waved at the camcorder. "The camera, girl!"
Groaning, Carty turned it on.
"Establishing shots, hello," Bonnie reiterated.
"Here's your damn establishing shot," Carty responded. Agitated, she pointed the camera at Bonnie. "Scene one, enter the bitch Bonnie."
Bonnie cracked up.
Still pissy, Carty lowered the camera. "It's your idea to come here in the first place."
"Man, this ain't even that scary!" Bonnie protested. "That old motel in Decatur was way freakier."
Carty went silent and looked on at the house. Technically, Bonnie was right. This place was no different than your average abandoned shack... but something about it felt different. Maybe they’d gone too far off the beaten path of local haunts. After all, there wasn't a whole lot about the Crane house on-line.
"Shit, the graveyard in Bainbridge," Bonnie went on. "I still have those ant bites on my ass."
Carty chuckled. "Well," she began as she stole a glance at Bonnie's shapely booty. "It still looks pretty nice."
Bonnie admired her own ass. "I think they made it bigger."
"Still not as big as mine," Carty quipped.
"Mmm, but I'm getting there," Bonnie replied. She slapped Carty's bubble butt.
Giggling, Carty pointed the camera at the house. "How'd you find this place anyway?" She looked on at the rocking chairs, both of them mummified in cobwebs.
"You know, just the interwebs," Bonnie said.
"Reddit?"
"Pretty much," Bonnie replied with a smile. She faced Carty and ran her hand along Carty's arm. "Let's go."
Still uneasy, Carty looked at her.
Sensing Carty's unease, Bonnie leaned in closer. For once, Bonnie pushed the camcorder away, giving them a sense of privacy.
The couple shared a sweet kiss. One not for the cameras but for themselves. Its potency certainly did the trick for Carty. She felt all of Bonnie's love for her in that one pleasant embrace.
They smiled at one another. Playing teenage lovers in this magic moment.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked mischievously.
Grinning, Carty looked over at the farmhouse. Either the house wasn't that scary to begin with or the drug that was Bonnie's kiss really had calmed my nerves, Carty thought. "Sure," Carty said.
Bonnie pulled Carty in closer to her as they approached the porch's first step. "I got what I could for the legend."
Carty aimed the camera at the house, getting the "establishing shots." "Any of it true?" she asked Bonnie.
Stopping them in front of the porch stairs, Bonnie turned and grinned at Carty. "True enough."
"Okay," Carty said. Using the camera, she motioned Bonnie toward the porch. "You want the honors?"
In a confident stride, Bonnie stepped up in front of the camera. "Absolutely." She glanced back, making sure the house could be seen behind her for a foreboding backdrop.
Carty pointed the camera right at Bonnie. A steady grip. "Awesome," Carty congratulated herself.
Facing Carty, Bonnie fixed her shirt. Now it showed off her boobs even more than she realized was possible. She straightened her hair quickly for good measure. Her and Carty knew they had to look good on camera. Even when they were trespassing onto creepy private property.
"You ready?" Carty asked Bonnie.
For a final test, Bonnie raised the mic and gave it one firm hit. Ready to go. "Yeah, roll it," Bonnie said.
Eager, Carty flashed her a thumbs up.
Bonnie paused for a moment, letting the camera capture her in all her candid glory: pretty face, a stern yet commanding expression, and some really big breasts. In the staunch darkness and with the terrifying house lurking behind her, Bonnie had the aura of a Playboy-sponsored horror show host. A more sexualized Elvira. Just what Carty knew Bonnie was going for.
"Welcome back, voyeurs," Bonnie said in a ghoulishly campy voice. She squeezed her big boobs together in sexy, obnoxious fashion. "Tonight, your two favorite sexy starlets are taking their well-endowed talents to the sleepy little town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Home of the infamous Crane house."
Struggling to contain her laughter, Carty took a few steps back, capturing a wider shot of the house.
God, Bonnie was really hamming it up tonight, Carty thought. Bonnie's silliness could turn any of these eerie locations into both a literal and figurative playhouse for us.
Bonnie looked right into the camera, being as serious as her "acting" would allow. "Thirty years ago, at this very house, sexy, carefree housewife Bette Crane flipped out on her stud farmer husband." With the dedication of a terrible actress gunning for an Oscar, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. What should've been porn-level lighting actually gave Bonnie an otherworldly quality in the country night. "Bette took a frying pan, the very thing she'd used to make Farmer Studbucket's scrambled eggs for him that morning and then turned it into a vicious weapon!"
"Oh God..." Carty muttered through a smirk.
"Bette Crane savagely beat her husband with that frying pan until his face was mushier and more splattered than the greasiest eggs she'd ever cooked," Bonnie continued. "But the housewife wasn't through. After beating her husband to death, Bette took the biggest butcher knife she could find."
Holding the camcorder with the steadiness of a veteran Hollywood filmmaker, Carty stopped right in front of Bonnie for a closer shot of the host.
"And she walked over to her husband's bludgeoned body," Bonnie went on. "And plunged the knife straight into her forehead!" Toning down the theatrics, Bonnie locked eyes with the camera. One on one with her audience. "Ever since the murder, people believe the Crane house is haunted by evil spirits."
Bonnie pointed toward the farmhouse, as if she were emulating a horror tour guide rather than a horror host. "Stanwyck residents have reported many ghost sightings and paranormal incidents over the years," Bonnie said. "Objects seen flying around, weird noises being heard, even what is believed to be the ghost of Bette Crane still walking around with her bloody frying pan." Bonnie paused for dramatic effect. "So now," she began. Still keeping her serious demeanor, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. "We've arrived not to investigate the Crane house." Bonnie's stray hand moved down toward her breasts. "But for the house to investigate us."
Faster than a Mardi Gras veteran, Bonnie stuck out her tongue and flashed the camera with those glorious breasts. "This is Paranormal Fornication, bitches!" she shouted with glee.
Carty burst out laughing as she lowered the camera.
Bonnie lowered her shirt. "You got it?" she asked.
Still laughing, Carty lowered the camera. "Yeah, for sure."
Bonnie stepped toward Carty. "How was I?" she asked, fully expecting Carty's enthusiastic response.
Carty wrapped her arms around Bonnie. "Magnificent, babe!"
Flattered, Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's back. "Mmm, thank you, boo," Bonnie said.
The couple locked lips once more. A gentle kiss that was much more tender than any of their on-screen ones.
"Alright," Bonnie started. She led them toward the stairs. In director mode, she motioned around the porch. "Try to get a few shots of us going in."
At her command, Carty aimed the camcorder at the house. "Roger that, Bon."
Looking through the lens, Carty thought their walk up to the front door was being filmed like the climactic scene to The Blair Witch Project. A slow trek to a foreboding entrance. It looked great on camera. Maybe we can shoot a real horror film someday.
Bonnie slapped Carty's juicy ass, snapping Carty out of her post-pornographic aspirations.
"Ooh, baby!" Carty exclaimed with a startled smile.
"Just keep filming, babe," Bonnie said.
"I know," Carty said as they made their way up the rickety steps. If it weren't for their model physiques, Carty questioned whether these creaking stairs could even hold them.
Breaking away from Carty, Bonnie strolled up onto the front porch, reveling in this conglomeration of country decay.
"Bonnie!" Carty said with unease. Even just a few feet away, Carty thought the distance between them may as well have been a hundred feet considering the eerie circumstances.
Unconcerned, Bonnie gazed around at the house's offerings. The rocking chairs. The busted windows. Even the harsh graffiti scribbled on the aged wood. This house had it all. "God, just look at it!" Bonnie said. The wooden floor kept creaking and giving in but she didn't care one bit. "What a fucking spot!"
"Yeah..." the nervous Carty said as she stopped next to Bonnie. While filming, Carty kept clinging to the camera. Both as a source of light and as a potential weapon. "Fucking weird..."
Reaching out, Bonnie touched a rocking chair and made contact with all the sticky cobwebs. Bonnie drew her hand back, but the icky texture seemed to give her a thrill rather than sicken her. She watched the chair rock back-and-forth in a slow rhythm. The chair's loud creaking formed a hypnotic tune.
Concerned, Carty snatched Bonnie's arm and pulled her away from it. "What are you doing!" Carty yelled.
Chuckling, Bonnie faced her. "What? I just wanted to see-"
Carty stepped back. "Oh my God, you touched it!"
Trying to calm Carty, Bonnie held her hands up in a facetious manner. "Hey, look, nothing got on me."
"Whatever!" Carty backed away and stumbled into a dangling cobweb. Crying out, she rushed back toward Bonnie. "Fuck!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's shoulder. "Babe, just chill-"
"No!" Carty yelled back at her.
Bonnie motioned toward the rocking chair, highlighting its continuous melody of creaks. "Look, we should be filming the shit!"
At its height of rocking, the chair went completely still. The spiders stopping with it.
"Holy shit!" Bonnie exclaimed.
Nervous, Carty focused her camera on the chairs. "Okay, that was creepy."
"Shit, let's get this party started!" Bonnie said. She stepped toward the front door.
Carty looked at her real quick. "Bonnie!"
Before Carty could stop her, Bonnie snagged the rusty doorknob. She flashed Carty a smile. "Be sure to get this."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked.
Carty gave her an apprehensive nod. "Yeah."
"Okay," Bonnie said. "Into the Crane house we go." She started to turn the loose doorknob when an incessant noise startled her and Carty.
"Shit!" Carty yelled as the couple whirled around.
They saw both rocking chairs now swinging in unison. Beneath the weight of age and the cobwebs, these rocking chairs were going harder and faster than seemed possible. Their consistent creaks a countrified chorus.
All the while, Carty kept filming the eerie event. "Oh my God..." she said in fear.
"Shit, this is amazing!" Bonnie exclaimed. She staggered up toward the chairs.
Carty snatched her shoulder, the tight grip ensuring Bonnie wasn't straying too far. "No, don't leave me!"
The rocking chairs came to a sudden stop. Either a slight breeze had gone away or the spiders had used their collective force once more... or the Crane house's spirits had moved on.
Somewhat disappointed, Bonnie pointed at the chairs. "See, it's nothing," she said to soothe Carty. She caressed Carty's shoulder. "We're gonna be fine."
"I don't know," Carty said. She lowered the camera. "I've got a weird feeling about this place."
Bonnie gave her a playful smile. "You get a weird feeling about everywhere."
"Yeah, but not like this..."
"Well, I'm here," Bonnie replied. She leaned in closer toward Carty's lips. "And I'll protect you."
Reassured as always by Bonnie, a grin cracked through Carty's nerves. "You better."
"You know I will." Bonnie gave Carty a soft kiss on the lips.
Carty liked it.
But right before Carty could expect more, Bonnie nodded at the camera. "You got all that shit, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Carty said.
Back to business, Bonnie looked back at the door. "Awesome."
"God, we're not still going in there, are we?" Carty said.
Bonnie faced her. "Why not?"
Upset, Carty motioned toward the chairs. "Not after all that shit!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's wrist in a gentle grip. "Carty, please. Can we just go inside?"
The silent Carty just looked at Bonnie. Bonnie's pretty face and persuasive brown eyes were such an irresistible combination when Bonnie really wanted to do something. Especially when it came to Bonnie's passion for the paranormal.
"This is what we do," Bonnie went on. "Our scary shit." With a sly and seductive touch, she pulled Carty in closer toward her. "Look, I'll make it up to you, baby. I promise. But let's do this first, okay."
How can I say no, Carty thought. Bonnie was rather tough anyway... certainly, braver than me. She was so cute this excited. She always was. "Okay," Carty gave in.
Bonnie leaned in toward Carty's face. "I promise I'll make it up in there, baby," she said in a seductive whisper. Sweetening the deal, Bonnie guided Carty's hand all against her breasts. "I promise."
Carty didn't have a chance. She felt on one of those double-Ds, immense pleasure coursing through Carty's veins. She cracked a smirk. "Goddammit, Bonnie..."
Chuckling, Bonnie pulled her toward the door. "Come on."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie as Bonnie grabbed the knob once more. "Take two," Carty joked.
Turning, Bonnie smiled for the camera. "Paranormal Fornication, motherfuckers."
With dramatic emphasis, Bonnie turned the old doorknob and let the door swing into the house with a grueling creak.
The open doorway now lied before Carty and Bonnie. The dark farmhouse was beckoning them to enter. Paranormal Fornication must go on! it seemed to scream.
The couple journeyed through the farmhouse's narrow downstairs hallway. The camcorder and Bonnie's small flashlight like torches in uncharted terrain. Behind them, the front door was still wide open, Carty refusing to let Bonnie close it. Carty didn't want that sinking feeling of hearing that door slam shut. It was too definitive… Locked in not just for the night but forever.
Holding her mic and the flashlight, Bonnie led the way, Carty right behind her. Carty did her best to keep up, but Bonnie seemed to glide on that torn carpet. "Slow down," Carty grumbled.
"I am," Bonnie retorted. Her eyes were drawn to a doorway on the left at the very end of the hall.
Through the unflinching camera lens, Carty captured the usual array of spooky clichés inside. There were the broken counters and bookshelves. The torn carpets. The literal holes in the walls that reoccurred in patterns on the faded paint. A wooden staircase in the very back that was a poor farmer's attempt to be regal. Even a small door under the staircase that looked to be designed to be a small child's hiding place. The small door aged yet functional.
But it wasn't these scary attributes that bothered Carty. It was how the house somehow appeared... clean. There weren't any spiderwebs or rodents. No dirt, cigarette butts, beer bottles, or any of the other types of debris the duo saw in all their other explorations. The inside of the Crane home was in decent condition. As if someone had been in there and tried to straighten the place up as much as they could. And to Carty's horror, she thought maybe someone had.
"Hello?" Bonnie asked aloud, her voice echoing down the hallway.
Carty glared at her. "Bonnie, shut up!"
Ignoring Carty, Bonnie went closer and closer to the doorway. "Is there anybody home?" she said, her voice seemingly louder.
Carty could only groan in dismay.
But there was no reply. No answers from the Crane house.
Still following Bonnie, Carty looked toward the stairway. Darkness awaited whoever dared walk up those steps. Or whoever could make it up those steps. Several of them were dilapidated, even moreso than the porch steps. The stairway's crooked railing wouldn't offer much support either.
Uneasy, Carty saw the small door under the staircase was open just a crack. No one appeared to be inside it nor were there any lights on inside. It had to be a closet and a small one at that, Carty figured. Not a bad spot for hide and seek...
Bonnie snatched Carty's arm, scaring the shit out of her.
"Jesus!" Carty yelled at Bonnie.
Shushing Carty, Bonnie stopped them just a foot away from the doorway. "Do you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"What?"
Bonnie clenched tighter to Carty's shoulder. "Just listen," Bonnie said. She waved her microphone toward the doorway. "It's coming from there."
Carty looked toward the doorway.
And there it was. A soft crackle and pop. It sounded soothing. It sounded like Christmas. And then Carty realized it felt like Christmas as well. The dank house felt a little toasty.
"Did you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"Yeah."
Another pop echoed toward the couple.
They looked on at the doorway and saw a faint orange glow radiating from inside the room.
Bonnie pointed at the light, excited. "Look at it!"
Carty stared at the doorway, her fear the exact opposite of Bonnie's enthusiasm. The crackling continued as a soundtrack to the faint glow. Stunned, Carty realized it was a burning fireplace. "Bonnie-" Carty began.
Bonnie grabbed Carty's hand. "Come on!"
Carty was no match for Bonnie's powerful pull. "But wait-" Carty tried to say.
"Just keep filming!"
Bonnie led Carty into the mysterious room.
Through Bonnie's small light and the weak flickers of the fireplace, Carty could make out they were in a spacious room.
Bonnie stopped in the middle of the room, fascinated. "Are you getting this?" asked Bonnie, her eyes gazing all around the living room.
Staying as close to Bonnie as possible, Carty scanned the room with her camera.
It was definitely the farmhouse's living room, but not one from the twenty-first century. There was no T.V. and seemingly no electricity. No family photos or portraits. No decorations at all. And not much furniture aside from a couple of wooden shelves.
"When'd that murder happen again?" Carty asked.
Still shining her flashlight around the room, Bonnie didn't even look at Carty. "I don't know, like maybe thirty years ago?"
Carty saw a tombstone radio standing near the fireplace. An open doorway was about ten feet away from the radio, this one leading into yet another dark room.
Leaning in closer for a better look, Carty could tell this room had a large wooden table. It must've been the kitchenOr what was left of it.
For all the lack of amenities in the living room, at least the antique radio was an impressive if outdated source of entertainment. The fireplace was similarly grandiose.
But thirty years ago, Carty wondered. Didn't the eighties at least have MTV? What were these bitches doing?
"It seems older," Carty said. She pointed the camera toward a raggedy couch that stood by the fireplace and radio. "Looks older."
"Yeah, well it was like 1982, 1983," Bonnie said. She thought she saw something on a corner wall across the room. Bonnie shined her light toward it and squinted her eyes, trying to see what was there.
"1983?" Carty asked. Her amusement shifted toward fear after she focused on the fireplace. So much wood was piled up in there... wood that had been consumed over a longer period of time. "Shit..."
Bonnie could tell the corner wall had large letters drawn on them. "What the Hell is that?" Bonnie wondered aloud.
"What?" Carty asked.
Intrigued, Bonnie stepped closer toward the letters.
Clinging to the camera for her security, Carty followed Bonnie to the spot. "Bonnie, wait!"
Bonnie stopped and stared at the wall, stunned yet awestruck by her new "discovery." "Oh fuck..."
"What is it!" Carty said as she stopped next to her.
Spraypainted letters splattered across the wall. Vile graffiti. The words had been rotting there a long time, practically implanted into the farmhouse's walls at this point. And the words all shared the same color: blood red paint.
Nasty phrases and slurs made up the collection: Bitch! The Crane Cunt! Bette The Psycho Bitch! Murderer! Cocksucker Crane!
Uneasy, Carty filmed the sight in all its vicious glory. She moved the camera around, even seeing how the graffiti carried over onto the other walls. The endless profanities and insults were all a big billboard brought to you by Stanwyck's resident assholes as a commemorative FUCK YOU to Bette Crane.
Carty stared at the entire scene in horror. This was further indication that this secluded farmhouse truly was home to something horrific. Something so traumatic and disturbing that to this day, the citizens of Stanwyck still felt the need to make this vengeance-fueled pilgrimage.
But to Bonnie, the graffiti was further proof that the couple had come to the right spot.
"Shit!" Carty said. She looked over at Bonnie. "We can't stay here."
With the excited eagerness of a kid about to catch a foul ball in the stands, Bonnie reached out toward "Bette The Psycho Bitch."
"Bonnie!" Carty yelled in outrage. She grabbed Bonnie's arm, stopping her.
Bonnie faced her, annoyed. "Carty, what the fuck!"
"What the fuck are you doing!"
Scoffing, Bonnie waved the mic toward the wall. "See for yourself!"
"No!" Carty said. "Someone's been here, Bonnie. And they might still be here."
"It's just a fire-"
"Just a fucking fire!" Ready to leave, a pissed-off Carty headed straight for the hallway.
"Carty!" Bonnie snagged Carty's arm, making Carty face her. "Look at me! This house is empty!" Using the mic, she motioned toward the fireplace. "Whoever did this shit's probably gone anyway."
"Probably!" Carty replied, incredulous.
Desperate to comfort Carty, Bonnie caressed her shoulders. "Hey, whoever it is is more scared of us than we are of them," Bonnie went on. She ran her finger against Carty's smooth cheek. "They're gone, Carty. And they ain't coming back."
"I don't know," Carty said. Still uneasy, Carty looked toward the fireplace.
"Look, Carty, this is what we do. Even when shit gets weird and scary." Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's arm. "We can't stop now."
Carty faced her. "But the fire. This isn't-"
Adamant, Bonnie stepped away from Carty. "They probably left when they heard us pull up! Just think about it, Carty."
"I don't know..."
Proving her point, Bonnie shined her flashlight all around the living room. "Hello!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, bitches!"
"Bonnie!"
"Come out, motherfucker!" Bonnie went on.
No answer was heard. Just the consistent crackle of the crisp fire.
The lack of a response was helping Carty ease up. Much to Bonnie's delight.
"We don't bite!" Bonnie said. She gave Carty a flirtatious smile. "Well. Maybe I do."
Carty chuckled and shook her head.
The whole house seemed silent except for the fire. And the couple's soft laughter.
"See," Bonnie said as she grabbed a hold of Carty's hand. "It's nothing."
"But why here?" Carty asked. "Why can't we just go somewhere else?"
"Look, just think about it, alright," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "This is gonna be so big, Carty." She waved the flashlight around the living room. "I mean just look at this place! A creepy fucking Texas Chainsaw house, and we discover the fireplace, the graffiti! The damn rocking chairs."
Carty didn't argue. She knew she couldn't due to a combination of Bonnie making sense and being too stubborn to turn back now.
Bonnie caressed Carty's face. "Think of the hits, baby," Bonnie went on. "All the ads we'll get on the site."
Debating the idea, Carty looked off toward the bright fireplace.
"We'll make so much money, boo," Bonnie said. “We'll have enough to do the Lady Macbeth piece."
Carty faced Bonnie, allured by the prospect of doing their dream project. Just the sheer mention of it got Carty's attention.
Displaying a warm smile, Bonnie rubbed Carty's shoulder. "Like we always planned. We'll do real movies from now on, no more creeper sex shit."
"You promise this is the last one?" Carty asked, her voice begging for a yes.
"Yes!" the excited Bonnie said.
"Okay..." Carty relented.
"Thank you!"
"Let's do this."
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss. "I love you, baby," Bonnie said.
"I love you too."
"This is gonna be so perfect," Bonnie said. She stepped away from Carty and focused her attention on the corner wall graffiti. "Fucking crazy."
Carty followed Bonnie's gaze toward the gratuitous graffiti. All those vile words were more than just your average juvenile's bullshit. The phrases looked embroidered with emotion. Sculpted from pure disgust and hate.
Thinking about the creepy stairway, Carty looked back toward the hallway. She couldn't help but wonder if their squatter was hiding upstairs rather than in the woods. "This still feels weird," Carty commented.
Bonnie faced her. "Why, babe?"
Nervous, Carty hesitated on how to answer. "I don't know. It's like someone's watching."
Bonnie stepped right in front of Carty, not even attempting to make her sexual tease more nuanced. "Someone's always watching."
Carty grinned.
Thirty minutes later, Bonnie and Carty's film shoot was going hot and heavy. Steamy, sexy, scintillating. Words you usually wouldn't associate with a "haunted house." But then again, this was Paranormal Fornication.
Sprawled out on the couch, the naked duo engaged in passionate and exuberant sex.
Bonnie and Carty's lovemaking was certainly chock-full of genuine pleasure. Their emotions, the moaning, and the undeniable chemistry between the two were well on display. But their exploitative positions and cloying mannerisms proved that they knew how to put on a show.
The warm fire bathed the couple in a glorious light. Their clothes stacked up in neat piles right by the sofa.
Sitting on top of the tombstone radio, the camcorder filmed the couple's erotica with the detachment of an asexual filmmaker.
Leaning back on the sofa, Carty moaned in pleasure.
All the while, Bonnie continued going down on her partner. The pace was frenetic but Bonnie was gentle. She knew all the right spots. And Carty wasn't complaining.
Carty wrapped her hands around Bonnie's head. "Ooh, baby," Carty said. She tilted her head back and shut her eyes. Just let Bonnie do her thing, she thought. Stopping her now would be like stopping LeBron from going in hard with a highlight-reel dunk. Sometimes, you just gotta let greatness do its thing.
"You like that?" Bonnie said with dirty talk glee.
"Yes, baby!" Carty moaned. She opened her eyes just to steal a look over at the camera. A quick glance for their audience.
With rough quickness, Bonnie started to flip Carty over.
"What are you doing?" Carty whispered.
"I gotta get that ass, mamacita," Bonnie replied.
Glaring, Carty stopped Bonnie. "Just hold on!"
"Carty, the camera-"
"I don't give a shit about them!" Carty grumbled as she turned on her stomach. "Just be more gentle next time."
"Okay," Bonnie sighed. Back in porn mode, she caressed Carty's round booty. "That ass, mamacita!" she exclaimed.
Carty cringed at Bonnie's forced delivery. These glorified butt scenes were a little much, she thought. Maybe I should let out a fart to really shake things up.
"That booty though..." Bonnie continued. She gave Carty a quick (and literal) kiss on the ass.
"God..." Carty mumbled. This wasn't the Bonnie she liked.
Bonnie felt along Carty's butt, cradling it for all the camera to see. It was an impressive booty for sure. Fake as Hell, but that certainly didn't bother Bonnie nor the Paranormal Fornication faithful.
"I gotta see that ass in reverse, girl," Bonnie said in a most oversexualized manner. If this was the extent of her acting abilities, her Lady Macbeth performances must've been a fucking disaster.
"Ooh, you want it, baby," Carty responded, disinterested. She wiggled her ass with the enthusiasm of a jaded stripper on her last day at work.
Bonnie smacked Carty on the ass, making that booty jiggle for the camera.
"Ooh, harder, baby," Carty said in a more seductive tone, making sure her voice was loud for the camera.
"That's my girl," Bonnie beamed.
Bonnie's next smack on Carty's butt was quick and gentle. A love tap Carty enjoyed.
Smiling, Carty looked back at Bonnie. "Mmm, keep going, sexy..."
Bonnie crouched down toward Carty's smooth bubble butt. "With pleasure..."
Bracing for more ass worship, Carty looked toward the hallway. She was surprised at how aroused she was getting in such a creepy place... Bonnie's kisses along her ass were actually feeling really nice. Hell, this was Bonnie's best "performance" since the Hiers farm in Alabama, Carty realized.
"God, you're perfect," Bonnie said.
Carty grinned. She knew that wasn't Bonnie the actress talking, but Bonnie the girlfriend. Not that it was hard to differentiate since Bonnie was a shitty actress.
Carty enjoyed the touch of Bonnie's soft hands running along her lower back and perky butt. The gentle kisses. Maybe we need to keep this episode for ourselves.
A soft, hushed singing drifted toward Carty's ears, piercing through her pleasure. The song's words were murky and unclear, the voice similarly vague. The singer could've been a boy or a girl. But whoever it was didn't seem to be want to be heard. Not yet at least...
Alarmed, Carty looked on at the hallway. The singing appeared to be coming from near the staircase. "What the Hell..." she muttered.
A set of teeth sunk into Carty's juicy ass, startling Carty. The bite was a vampire's wet dream, but Carty knew it wasn't no vampire. "Shit, Bonnie!" Carty fumed as she confronted her girlfriend.
Bonnie leaned back, confused. "What?"
"Did you hear that!"
The haunting singing continued, pulling Carty's attention back toward the hallway.
"I don't hear shit." Bonnie responded.
Carty pointed her toward the stairs. "It's coming from in there!"
Alert, both women listened out for the singing. Even as the words stayed jumbled, the voice had gotten louder. The singer would've never made it on American Idol, but it had a pretty meekness to it. An innocent child’s charm. The voice sounded too deep for a girl... but such vulnerability seemed more fitting for a melancholy teenage female singing herself to sleep.
Bonnie finally heard it. All the confidence drained from her face. For once, she looked rattled by the pair's paranormal excursions. "Shit..."
Carty glared at her. "I told you this was a bad idea!"
The singing kept on repeating the same tune. The same melody. The same scrambled words. The whole production a loop of insanity, albeit, a pretty loop.
"We shouldn't have ever come here!" Carty went on.
Lost in thought, Bonnie turned and looked over at the camcorder. The camera stared right back at her, taunting her with its mere presence. The show must go on...
"Let's fucking go!" Carty pleaded to Bonnie. With uneasy eyes, she looked over at the downstairs hallway.
The singing stayed on a steady path of instability. The words never clear, the mysterious voice wobbling between lovely and stilted.
"Shit..." Carty muttered. She turned and saw Bonnie get off the couch. "Bonnie!"
Bonnie threw on her clothes.
Ready to get the fuck outta there, Carty stood up and did the same. She saw Bonnie grab the camera.
"Are we going?" Carty asked with impatience. She pulled her tight shirt over her head. Both women were now dressed. Easily the fastest either of them had ever put their clothes back on.
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss for reassurance. "I'm just gonna go look."
Carty pushed Bonnie back. "Are you crazy!"
"Carty, it's just for the site," Bonnie said. "We're just gonna look real quick and see what it is."
"Oh God," Carty said. Terrified, she turned away. She could still hear the singing. That fucking voice.
Bonnie retrieved the flashlight from her pocket. "Just follow me, alright," she told Carty.
Carty took an angry step toward her. "No-"
"Then what do you want us to do!" Bonnie interrupted. "The door's that way, Carty."
The repetitious singing went on in its hypnotic loop. Now the voice was even louder, begging for an audience.
Groaning, the scared Carty looked off toward the fireplace.
Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's shoulder. "Think of the show, babe," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "Think of us."
Carty confronted her. "I am!" Carty yelled. "But this is crazy, Bonnie." Her trembling hand pointed toward the fireplace. "Whoever's here made the Goddamn fire!"
Forcing a smile, Bonnie turned on the flashlight and put it up under her face in a playful manner. "Then let's just hope it's a ghost."
Bonnie showed equal parts bravery and stupidity as she took off for the downstairs hallway. Toward the singer's lair..
"Shit, Bonnie!" Carty yelled after her. Left alone in frustration, Carty looked down and saw the mic lying on the ground. Desperate, she snatched it up.
Link To Part 2
Link To eBook
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2020.06.08 19:08 unknownhorrorwriter2 Tight clothes voyeur

The Crane house was just ordinary, abandoned trash. Boring even. The house was a two-story farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Miles of woods surrounded it. Needless to say, there weren't any neighbors for miles either. The house's mailbox stood tall, wearing its abundance of rust for a paint job. Rather than a paved driveway, a long stretch of faded dirt ran through the house's tall grass and weeds, all the way up to the decrepit front porch.
The clear country sky illuminated the home in a vivid light. The house a beacon that only drew local paranormal enthusiasts and juvenile delinquents looking for cheap thrills in the small town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Even if you didn't believe in ghosts, the Crane house certainly did look the part.
The once-pretty country home looked to have gone uninhabited for decades. Crooked shutters guarded the large cracked windows. Busted wooden steps led up to the house's creaky front porch. The home's bricks all faded with age.
An archaic lantern hung on the porch, its glass case long shattered. The rocking chairs were at least functional if you could look past the layers of thick cobwebs wrapped all around them.
Given the house's many deficiencies and its hopeless place in the open market, the hot Georgia night brought a huge surprise when a pristine and shiny new convertible zoomed down the long dirt driveway.
Appearing with the sudden quickness of a mirage, the car's tires scattered dust everywhere. The convertible's top was down, the occupants inside blasting loud and obnoxious pop music.
The car came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from the porch. As the rag top started coming back down, the music and lights were shut off. After the doors swung open, jovial laughter echoed through the night.
Out stepped two beautiful young women. Bonnie Campbell and Carty Elizabeth, both of them in their late-20s and both of them ultra-attractive. A gay couple just as clever as they were sensual. These weren't the nerdy ghost enthusiasts, the Stanwyck High dropouts, or any of the other typical yokel explorers. This was a couple straight out of a Beverly Hills photo shoot.
Bonnie was a tall and streetwise Latina. Fit enough to be a supermodel, but too anti-establishment for that kinda shit. Everything about her was rebellious. From her hairstyle all the way to her attire. But instead of being scary or intimidating, the aggressive swagger was hot thanks in part to her pretty face.... a fact Bonnie was well aware of.
On the other hand, Carty was less confrontational in both her personality and style. While Bonnie gladly wore the "Butch" persona, Carty was the feminine "girly-girl" of the pair. But like Bonnie, Carty didn't take much shit either. After all, these ladies were entrepreneurs. Bonnie was holding a wireless mic and Carty a camcorder for a reason. They knew how to exploit what God gave them.
The couple stopped and looked on at the derelict house, both of them awestruck for different reasons. Bonnie with excitement, Carty with more than a little unease.
"Fuck, it's gorgeous," Bonnie said. "Absolutely perfect..."
Carty gave her a weird look. "Gorgeous?"
"You know what I mean." Bonnie grabbed a hold of Carty's hand and led her up to the front porch. "Come on. Let's explore."
With big frightened eyes, Carty looked on at the imposing farmhouse as they got closer and closer to the porch's battered wooden steps. It was a country home from Hell, she thought. A cross between a Cracker Barrel and Amityville.
Like a playful older sibling, Bonnie leaned in toward Carty. "Creepy..." she teased Carty in her best horror-host voice.
Carty pushed Bonnie away from her, annoyed. "Fuck you!"
"Aww, you scared, hon?" Bonnie replied.
"Who wouldn't be?" Carty said. She stole a glance back at their car.
"I've seen worse." Bonnie noticed Carty hadn't even turned on the camcorder yet. Outraged, Bonnie stopped and snatched Carty's arm. "Carty, what the Hell are you doing!"
Carty yanked her arm away from Bonnie's grasp. "What!"
Bonnie waved at the camcorder. "The camera, girl!"
Groaning, Carty turned it on.
"Establishing shots, hello," Bonnie reiterated.
"Here's your damn establishing shot," Carty responded. Agitated, she pointed the camera at Bonnie. "Scene one, enter the bitch Bonnie."
Bonnie cracked up.
Still pissy, Carty lowered the camera. "It's your idea to come here in the first place."
"Man, this ain't even that scary!" Bonnie protested. "That old motel in Decatur was way freakier."
Carty went silent and looked on at the house. Technically, Bonnie was right. This place was no different than your average abandoned shack... but something about it felt different. Maybe they’d gone too far off the beaten path of local haunts. After all, there wasn't a whole lot about the Crane house on-line.
"Shit, the graveyard in Bainbridge," Bonnie went on. "I still have those ant bites on my ass."
Carty chuckled. "Well," she began as she stole a glance at Bonnie's shapely booty. "It still looks pretty nice."
Bonnie admired her own ass. "I think they made it bigger."
"Still not as big as mine," Carty quipped.
"Mmm, but I'm getting there," Bonnie replied. She slapped Carty's bubble butt.
Giggling, Carty pointed the camera at the house. "How'd you find this place anyway?" She looked on at the rocking chairs, both of them mummified in cobwebs.
"You know, just the interwebs," Bonnie said.
"Reddit?"
"Pretty much," Bonnie replied with a smile. She faced Carty and ran her hand along Carty's arm. "Let's go."
Still uneasy, Carty looked at her.
Sensing Carty's unease, Bonnie leaned in closer. For once, Bonnie pushed the camcorder away, giving them a sense of privacy.
The couple shared a sweet kiss. One not for the cameras but for themselves. Its potency certainly did the trick for Carty. She felt all of Bonnie's love for her in that one pleasant embrace.
They smiled at one another. Playing teenage lovers in this magic moment.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked mischievously.
Grinning, Carty looked over at the farmhouse. Either the house wasn't that scary to begin with or the drug that was Bonnie's kiss really had calmed my nerves, Carty thought. "Sure," Carty said.
Bonnie pulled Carty in closer to her as they approached the porch's first step. "I got what I could for the legend."
Carty aimed the camera at the house, getting the "establishing shots." "Any of it true?" she asked Bonnie.
Stopping them in front of the porch stairs, Bonnie turned and grinned at Carty. "True enough."
"Okay," Carty said. Using the camera, she motioned Bonnie toward the porch. "You want the honors?"
In a confident stride, Bonnie stepped up in front of the camera. "Absolutely." She glanced back, making sure the house could be seen behind her for a foreboding backdrop.
Carty pointed the camera right at Bonnie. A steady grip. "Awesome," Carty congratulated herself.
Facing Carty, Bonnie fixed her shirt. Now it showed off her boobs even more than she realized was possible. She straightened her hair quickly for good measure. Her and Carty knew they had to look good on camera. Even when they were trespassing onto creepy private property.
"You ready?" Carty asked Bonnie.
For a final test, Bonnie raised the mic and gave it one firm hit. Ready to go. "Yeah, roll it," Bonnie said.
Eager, Carty flashed her a thumbs up.
Bonnie paused for a moment, letting the camera capture her in all her candid glory: pretty face, a stern yet commanding expression, and some really big breasts. In the staunch darkness and with the terrifying house lurking behind her, Bonnie had the aura of a Playboy-sponsored horror show host. A more sexualized Elvira. Just what Carty knew Bonnie was going for.
"Welcome back, voyeurs," Bonnie said in a ghoulishly campy voice. She squeezed her big boobs together in sexy, obnoxious fashion. "Tonight, your two favorite sexy starlets are taking their well-endowed talents to the sleepy little town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Home of the infamous Crane house."
Struggling to contain her laughter, Carty took a few steps back, capturing a wider shot of the house.
God, Bonnie was really hamming it up tonight, Carty thought. Bonnie's silliness could turn any of these eerie locations into both a literal and figurative playhouse for us.
Bonnie looked right into the camera, being as serious as her "acting" would allow. "Thirty years ago, at this very house, sexy, carefree housewife Bette Crane flipped out on her stud farmer husband." With the dedication of a terrible actress gunning for an Oscar, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. What should've been porn-level lighting actually gave Bonnie an otherworldly quality in the country night. "Bette took a frying pan, the very thing she'd used to make Farmer Studbucket's scrambled eggs for him that morning and then turned it into a vicious weapon!"
"Oh God..." Carty muttered through a smirk.
"Bette Crane savagely beat her husband with that frying pan until his face was mushier and more splattered than the greasiest eggs she'd ever cooked," Bonnie continued. "But the housewife wasn't through. After beating her husband to death, Bette took the biggest butcher knife she could find."
Holding the camcorder with the steadiness of a veteran Hollywood filmmaker, Carty stopped right in front of Bonnie for a closer shot of the host.
"And she walked over to her husband's bludgeoned body," Bonnie went on. "And plunged the knife straight into her forehead!" Toning down the theatrics, Bonnie locked eyes with the camera. One on one with her audience. "Ever since the murder, people believe the Crane house is haunted by evil spirits."
Bonnie pointed toward the farmhouse, as if she were emulating a horror tour guide rather than a horror host. "Stanwyck residents have reported many ghost sightings and paranormal incidents over the years," Bonnie said. "Objects seen flying around, weird noises being heard, even what is believed to be the ghost of Bette Crane still walking around with her bloody frying pan." Bonnie paused for dramatic effect. "So now," she began. Still keeping her serious demeanor, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. "We've arrived not to investigate the Crane house." Bonnie's stray hand moved down toward her breasts. "But for the house to investigate us."
Faster than a Mardi Gras veteran, Bonnie stuck out her tongue and flashed the camera with those glorious breasts. "This is Paranormal Fornication, bitches!" she shouted with glee.
Carty burst out laughing as she lowered the camera.
Bonnie lowered her shirt. "You got it?" she asked.
Still laughing, Carty lowered the camera. "Yeah, for sure."
Bonnie stepped toward Carty. "How was I?" she asked, fully expecting Carty's enthusiastic response.
Carty wrapped her arms around Bonnie. "Magnificent, babe!"
Flattered, Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's back. "Mmm, thank you, boo," Bonnie said.
The couple locked lips once more. A gentle kiss that was much more tender than any of their on-screen ones.
"Alright," Bonnie started. She led them toward the stairs. In director mode, she motioned around the porch. "Try to get a few shots of us going in."
At her command, Carty aimed the camcorder at the house. "Roger that, Bon."
Looking through the lens, Carty thought their walk up to the front door was being filmed like the climactic scene to The Blair Witch Project. A slow trek to a foreboding entrance. It looked great on camera. Maybe we can shoot a real horror film someday.
Bonnie slapped Carty's juicy ass, snapping Carty out of her post-pornographic aspirations.
"Ooh, baby!" Carty exclaimed with a startled smile.
"Just keep filming, babe," Bonnie said.
"I know," Carty said as they made their way up the rickety steps. If it weren't for their model physiques, Carty questioned whether these creaking stairs could even hold them.
Breaking away from Carty, Bonnie strolled up onto the front porch, reveling in this conglomeration of country decay.
"Bonnie!" Carty said with unease. Even just a few feet away, Carty thought the distance between them may as well have been a hundred feet considering the eerie circumstances.
Unconcerned, Bonnie gazed around at the house's offerings. The rocking chairs. The busted windows. Even the harsh graffiti scribbled on the aged wood. This house had it all. "God, just look at it!" Bonnie said. The wooden floor kept creaking and giving in but she didn't care one bit. "What a fucking spot!"
"Yeah..." the nervous Carty said as she stopped next to Bonnie. While filming, Carty kept clinging to the camera. Both as a source of light and as a potential weapon. "Fucking weird..."
Reaching out, Bonnie touched a rocking chair and made contact with all the sticky cobwebs. Bonnie drew her hand back, but the icky texture seemed to give her a thrill rather than sicken her. She watched the chair rock back-and-forth in a slow rhythm. The chair's loud creaking formed a hypnotic tune.
Concerned, Carty snatched Bonnie's arm and pulled her away from it. "What are you doing!" Carty yelled.
Chuckling, Bonnie faced her. "What? I just wanted to see-"
Carty stepped back. "Oh my God, you touched it!"
Trying to calm Carty, Bonnie held her hands up in a facetious manner. "Hey, look, nothing got on me."
"Whatever!" Carty backed away and stumbled into a dangling cobweb. Crying out, she rushed back toward Bonnie. "Fuck!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's shoulder. "Babe, just chill-"
"No!" Carty yelled back at her.
Bonnie motioned toward the rocking chair, highlighting its continuous melody of creaks. "Look, we should be filming the shit!"
At its height of rocking, the chair went completely still. The spiders stopping with it.
"Holy shit!" Bonnie exclaimed.
Nervous, Carty focused her camera on the chairs. "Okay, that was creepy."
"Shit, let's get this party started!" Bonnie said. She stepped toward the front door.
Carty looked at her real quick. "Bonnie!"
Before Carty could stop her, Bonnie snagged the rusty doorknob. She flashed Carty a smile. "Be sure to get this."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked.
Carty gave her an apprehensive nod. "Yeah."
"Okay," Bonnie said. "Into the Crane house we go." She started to turn the loose doorknob when an incessant noise startled her and Carty.
"Shit!" Carty yelled as the couple whirled around.
They saw both rocking chairs now swinging in unison. Beneath the weight of age and the cobwebs, these rocking chairs were going harder and faster than seemed possible. Their consistent creaks a countrified chorus.
All the while, Carty kept filming the eerie event. "Oh my God..." she said in fear.
"Shit, this is amazing!" Bonnie exclaimed. She staggered up toward the chairs.
Carty snatched her shoulder, the tight grip ensuring Bonnie wasn't straying too far. "No, don't leave me!"
The rocking chairs came to a sudden stop. Either a slight breeze had gone away or the spiders had used their collective force once more... or the Crane house's spirits had moved on.
Somewhat disappointed, Bonnie pointed at the chairs. "See, it's nothing," she said to soothe Carty. She caressed Carty's shoulder. "We're gonna be fine."
"I don't know," Carty said. She lowered the camera. "I've got a weird feeling about this place."
Bonnie gave her a playful smile. "You get a weird feeling about everywhere."
"Yeah, but not like this..."
"Well, I'm here," Bonnie replied. She leaned in closer toward Carty's lips. "And I'll protect you."
Reassured as always by Bonnie, a grin cracked through Carty's nerves. "You better."
"You know I will." Bonnie gave Carty a soft kiss on the lips.
Carty liked it.
But right before Carty could expect more, Bonnie nodded at the camera. "You got all that shit, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Carty said.
Back to business, Bonnie looked back at the door. "Awesome."
"God, we're not still going in there, are we?" Carty said.
Bonnie faced her. "Why not?"
Upset, Carty motioned toward the chairs. "Not after all that shit!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's wrist in a gentle grip. "Carty, please. Can we just go inside?"
The silent Carty just looked at Bonnie. Bonnie's pretty face and persuasive brown eyes were such an irresistible combination when Bonnie really wanted to do something. Especially when it came to Bonnie's passion for the paranormal.
"This is what we do," Bonnie went on. "Our scary shit." With a sly and seductive touch, she pulled Carty in closer toward her. "Look, I'll make it up to you, baby. I promise. But let's do this first, okay."
How can I say no, Carty thought. Bonnie was rather tough anyway... certainly, braver than me. She was so cute this excited. She always was. "Okay," Carty gave in.
Bonnie leaned in toward Carty's face. "I promise I'll make it up in there, baby," she said in a seductive whisper. Sweetening the deal, Bonnie guided Carty's hand all against her breasts. "I promise."
Carty didn't have a chance. She felt on one of those double-Ds, immense pleasure coursing through Carty's veins. She cracked a smirk. "Goddammit, Bonnie..."
Chuckling, Bonnie pulled her toward the door. "Come on."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie as Bonnie grabbed the knob once more. "Take two," Carty joked.
Turning, Bonnie smiled for the camera. "Paranormal Fornication, motherfuckers."
With dramatic emphasis, Bonnie turned the old doorknob and let the door swing into the house with a grueling creak.
The open doorway now lied before Carty and Bonnie. The dark farmhouse was beckoning them to enter. Paranormal Fornication must go on! it seemed to scream.
The couple journeyed through the farmhouse's narrow downstairs hallway. The camcorder and Bonnie's small flashlight like torches in uncharted terrain. Behind them, the front door was still wide open, Carty refusing to let Bonnie close it. Carty didn't want that sinking feeling of hearing that door slam shut. It was too definitive… Locked in not just for the night but forever.
Holding her mic and the flashlight, Bonnie led the way, Carty right behind her. Carty did her best to keep up, but Bonnie seemed to glide on that torn carpet. "Slow down," Carty grumbled.
"I am," Bonnie retorted. Her eyes were drawn to a doorway on the left at the very end of the hall.
Through the unflinching camera lens, Carty captured the usual array of spooky clichés inside. There were the broken counters and bookshelves. The torn carpets. The literal holes in the walls that reoccurred in patterns on the faded paint. A wooden staircase in the very back that was a poor farmer's attempt to be regal. Even a small door under the staircase that looked to be designed to be a small child's hiding place. The small door aged yet functional.
But it wasn't these scary attributes that bothered Carty. It was how the house somehow appeared... clean. There weren't any spiderwebs or rodents. No dirt, cigarette butts, beer bottles, or any of the other types of debris the duo saw in all their other explorations. The inside of the Crane home was in decent condition. As if someone had been in there and tried to straighten the place up as much as they could. And to Carty's horror, she thought maybe someone had.
"Hello?" Bonnie asked aloud, her voice echoing down the hallway.
Carty glared at her. "Bonnie, shut up!"
Ignoring Carty, Bonnie went closer and closer to the doorway. "Is there anybody home?" she said, her voice seemingly louder.
Carty could only groan in dismay.
But there was no reply. No answers from the Crane house.
Still following Bonnie, Carty looked toward the stairway. Darkness awaited whoever dared walk up those steps. Or whoever could make it up those steps. Several of them were dilapidated, even moreso than the porch steps. The stairway's crooked railing wouldn't offer much support either.
Uneasy, Carty saw the small door under the staircase was open just a crack. No one appeared to be inside it nor were there any lights on inside. It had to be a closet and a small one at that, Carty figured. Not a bad spot for hide and seek...
Bonnie snatched Carty's arm, scaring the shit out of her.
"Jesus!" Carty yelled at Bonnie.
Shushing Carty, Bonnie stopped them just a foot away from the doorway. "Do you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"What?"
Bonnie clenched tighter to Carty's shoulder. "Just listen," Bonnie said. She waved her microphone toward the doorway. "It's coming from there."
Carty looked toward the doorway.
And there it was. A soft crackle and pop. It sounded soothing. It sounded like Christmas. And then Carty realized it felt like Christmas as well. The dank house felt a little toasty.
"Did you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"Yeah."
Another pop echoed toward the couple.
They looked on at the doorway and saw a faint orange glow radiating from inside the room.
Bonnie pointed at the light, excited. "Look at it!"
Carty stared at the doorway, her fear the exact opposite of Bonnie's enthusiasm. The crackling continued as a soundtrack to the faint glow. Stunned, Carty realized it was a burning fireplace. "Bonnie-" Carty began.
Bonnie grabbed Carty's hand. "Come on!"
Carty was no match for Bonnie's powerful pull. "But wait-" Carty tried to say.
"Just keep filming!"
Bonnie led Carty into the mysterious room.
Through Bonnie's small light and the weak flickers of the fireplace, Carty could make out they were in a spacious room.
Bonnie stopped in the middle of the room, fascinated. "Are you getting this?" asked Bonnie, her eyes gazing all around the living room.
Staying as close to Bonnie as possible, Carty scanned the room with her camera.
It was definitely the farmhouse's living room, but not one from the twenty-first century. There was no T.V. and seemingly no electricity. No family photos or portraits. No decorations at all. And not much furniture aside from a couple of wooden shelves.
"When'd that murder happen again?" Carty asked.
Still shining her flashlight around the room, Bonnie didn't even look at Carty. "I don't know, like maybe thirty years ago?"
Carty saw a tombstone radio standing near the fireplace. An open doorway was about ten feet away from the radio, this one leading into yet another dark room.
Leaning in closer for a better look, Carty could tell this room had a large wooden table. It must've been the kitchenOr what was left of it.
For all the lack of amenities in the living room, at least the antique radio was an impressive if outdated source of entertainment. The fireplace was similarly grandiose.
But thirty years ago, Carty wondered. Didn't the eighties at least have MTV? What were these bitches doing?
"It seems older," Carty said. She pointed the camera toward a raggedy couch that stood by the fireplace and radio. "Looks older."
"Yeah, well it was like 1982, 1983," Bonnie said. She thought she saw something on a corner wall across the room. Bonnie shined her light toward it and squinted her eyes, trying to see what was there.
"1983?" Carty asked. Her amusement shifted toward fear after she focused on the fireplace. So much wood was piled up in there... wood that had been consumed over a longer period of time. "Shit..."
Bonnie could tell the corner wall had large letters drawn on them. "What the Hell is that?" Bonnie wondered aloud.
"What?" Carty asked.
Intrigued, Bonnie stepped closer toward the letters.
Clinging to the camera for her security, Carty followed Bonnie to the spot. "Bonnie, wait!"
Bonnie stopped and stared at the wall, stunned yet awestruck by her new "discovery." "Oh fuck..."
"What is it!" Carty said as she stopped next to her.
Spraypainted letters splattered across the wall. Vile graffiti. The words had been rotting there a long time, practically implanted into the farmhouse's walls at this point. And the words all shared the same color: blood red paint.
Nasty phrases and slurs made up the collection: Bitch! The Crane Cunt! Bette The Psycho Bitch! Murderer! Cocksucker Crane!
Uneasy, Carty filmed the sight in all its vicious glory. She moved the camera around, even seeing how the graffiti carried over onto the other walls. The endless profanities and insults were all a big billboard brought to you by Stanwyck's resident assholes as a commemorative FUCK YOU to Bette Crane.
Carty stared at the entire scene in horror. This was further indication that this secluded farmhouse truly was home to something horrific. Something so traumatic and disturbing that to this day, the citizens of Stanwyck still felt the need to make this vengeance-fueled pilgrimage.
But to Bonnie, the graffiti was further proof that the couple had come to the right spot.
"Shit!" Carty said. She looked over at Bonnie. "We can't stay here."
With the excited eagerness of a kid about to catch a foul ball in the stands, Bonnie reached out toward "Bette The Psycho Bitch."
"Bonnie!" Carty yelled in outrage. She grabbed Bonnie's arm, stopping her.
Bonnie faced her, annoyed. "Carty, what the fuck!"
"What the fuck are you doing!"
Scoffing, Bonnie waved the mic toward the wall. "See for yourself!"
"No!" Carty said. "Someone's been here, Bonnie. And they might still be here."
"It's just a fire-"
"Just a fucking fire!" Ready to leave, a pissed-off Carty headed straight for the hallway.
"Carty!" Bonnie snagged Carty's arm, making Carty face her. "Look at me! This house is empty!" Using the mic, she motioned toward the fireplace. "Whoever did this shit's probably gone anyway."
"Probably!" Carty replied, incredulous.
Desperate to comfort Carty, Bonnie caressed her shoulders. "Hey, whoever it is is more scared of us than we are of them," Bonnie went on. She ran her finger against Carty's smooth cheek. "They're gone, Carty. And they ain't coming back."
"I don't know," Carty said. Still uneasy, Carty looked toward the fireplace.
"Look, Carty, this is what we do. Even when shit gets weird and scary." Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's arm. "We can't stop now."
Carty faced her. "But the fire. This isn't-"
Adamant, Bonnie stepped away from Carty. "They probably left when they heard us pull up! Just think about it, Carty."
"I don't know..."
Proving her point, Bonnie shined her flashlight all around the living room. "Hello!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, bitches!"
"Bonnie!"
"Come out, motherfucker!" Bonnie went on.
No answer was heard. Just the consistent crackle of the crisp fire.
The lack of a response was helping Carty ease up. Much to Bonnie's delight.
"We don't bite!" Bonnie said. She gave Carty a flirtatious smile. "Well. Maybe I do."
Carty chuckled and shook her head.
The whole house seemed silent except for the fire. And the couple's soft laughter.
"See," Bonnie said as she grabbed a hold of Carty's hand. "It's nothing."
"But why here?" Carty asked. "Why can't we just go somewhere else?"
"Look, just think about it, alright," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "This is gonna be so big, Carty." She waved the flashlight around the living room. "I mean just look at this place! A creepy fucking Texas Chainsaw house, and we discover the fireplace, the graffiti! The damn rocking chairs."
Carty didn't argue. She knew she couldn't due to a combination of Bonnie making sense and being too stubborn to turn back now.
Bonnie caressed Carty's face. "Think of the hits, baby," Bonnie went on. "All the ads we'll get on the site."
Debating the idea, Carty looked off toward the bright fireplace.
"We'll make so much money, boo," Bonnie said. “We'll have enough to do the Lady Macbeth piece."
Carty faced Bonnie, allured by the prospect of doing their dream project. Just the sheer mention of it got Carty's attention.
Displaying a warm smile, Bonnie rubbed Carty's shoulder. "Like we always planned. We'll do real movies from now on, no more creeper sex shit."
"You promise this is the last one?" Carty asked, her voice begging for a yes.
"Yes!" the excited Bonnie said.
"Okay..." Carty relented.
"Thank you!"
"Let's do this."
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss. "I love you, baby," Bonnie said.
"I love you too."
"This is gonna be so perfect," Bonnie said. She stepped away from Carty and focused her attention on the corner wall graffiti. "Fucking crazy."
Carty followed Bonnie's gaze toward the gratuitous graffiti. All those vile words were more than just your average juvenile's bullshit. The phrases looked embroidered with emotion. Sculpted from pure disgust and hate.
Thinking about the creepy stairway, Carty looked back toward the hallway. She couldn't help but wonder if their squatter was hiding upstairs rather than in the woods. "This still feels weird," Carty commented.
Bonnie faced her. "Why, babe?"
Nervous, Carty hesitated on how to answer. "I don't know. It's like someone's watching."
Bonnie stepped right in front of Carty, not even attempting to make her sexual tease more nuanced. "Someone's always watching."
Carty grinned.
Thirty minutes later, Bonnie and Carty's film shoot was going hot and heavy. Steamy, sexy, scintillating. Words you usually wouldn't associate with a "haunted house." But then again, this was Paranormal Fornication.
Sprawled out on the couch, the naked duo engaged in passionate and exuberant sex.
Bonnie and Carty's lovemaking was certainly chock-full of genuine pleasure. Their emotions, the moaning, and the undeniable chemistry between the two were well on display. But their exploitative positions and cloying mannerisms proved that they knew how to put on a show.
The warm fire bathed the couple in a glorious light. Their clothes stacked up in neat piles right by the sofa.
Sitting on top of the tombstone radio, the camcorder filmed the couple's erotica with the detachment of an asexual filmmaker.
Leaning back on the sofa, Carty moaned in pleasure.
All the while, Bonnie continued going down on her partner. The pace was frenetic but Bonnie was gentle. She knew all the right spots. And Carty wasn't complaining.
Carty wrapped her hands around Bonnie's head. "Ooh, baby," Carty said. She tilted her head back and shut her eyes. Just let Bonnie do her thing, she thought. Stopping her now would be like stopping LeBron from going in hard with a highlight-reel dunk. Sometimes, you just gotta let greatness do its thing.
"You like that?" Bonnie said with dirty talk glee.
"Yes, baby!" Carty moaned. She opened her eyes just to steal a look over at the camera. A quick glance for their audience.
With rough quickness, Bonnie started to flip Carty over.
"What are you doing?" Carty whispered.
"I gotta get that ass, mamacita," Bonnie replied.
Glaring, Carty stopped Bonnie. "Just hold on!"
"Carty, the camera-"
"I don't give a shit about them!" Carty grumbled as she turned on her stomach. "Just be more gentle next time."
"Okay," Bonnie sighed. Back in porn mode, she caressed Carty's round booty. "That ass, mamacita!" she exclaimed.
Carty cringed at Bonnie's forced delivery. These glorified butt scenes were a little much, she thought. Maybe I should let out a fart to really shake things up.
"That booty though..." Bonnie continued. She gave Carty a quick (and literal) kiss on the ass.
"God..." Carty mumbled. This wasn't the Bonnie she liked.
Bonnie felt along Carty's butt, cradling it for all the camera to see. It was an impressive booty for sure. Fake as Hell, but that certainly didn't bother Bonnie nor the Paranormal Fornication faithful.
"I gotta see that ass in reverse, girl," Bonnie said in a most oversexualized manner. If this was the extent of her acting abilities, her Lady Macbeth performances must've been a fucking disaster.
"Ooh, you want it, baby," Carty responded, disinterested. She wiggled her ass with the enthusiasm of a jaded stripper on her last day at work.
Bonnie smacked Carty on the ass, making that booty jiggle for the camera.
"Ooh, harder, baby," Carty said in a more seductive tone, making sure her voice was loud for the camera.
"That's my girl," Bonnie beamed.
Bonnie's next smack on Carty's butt was quick and gentle. A love tap Carty enjoyed.
Smiling, Carty looked back at Bonnie. "Mmm, keep going, sexy..."
Bonnie crouched down toward Carty's smooth bubble butt. "With pleasure..."
Bracing for more ass worship, Carty looked toward the hallway. She was surprised at how aroused she was getting in such a creepy place... Bonnie's kisses along her ass were actually feeling really nice. Hell, this was Bonnie's best "performance" since the Hiers farm in Alabama, Carty realized.
"God, you're perfect," Bonnie said.
Carty grinned. She knew that wasn't Bonnie the actress talking, but Bonnie the girlfriend. Not that it was hard to differentiate since Bonnie was a shitty actress.
Carty enjoyed the touch of Bonnie's soft hands running along her lower back and perky butt. The gentle kisses. Maybe we need to keep this episode for ourselves.
A soft, hushed singing drifted toward Carty's ears, piercing through her pleasure. The song's words were murky and unclear, the voice similarly vague. The singer could've been a boy or a girl. But whoever it was didn't seem to be want to be heard. Not yet at least...
Alarmed, Carty looked on at the hallway. The singing appeared to be coming from near the staircase. "What the Hell..." she muttered.
A set of teeth sunk into Carty's juicy ass, startling Carty. The bite was a vampire's wet dream, but Carty knew it wasn't no vampire. "Shit, Bonnie!" Carty fumed as she confronted her girlfriend.
Bonnie leaned back, confused. "What?"
"Did you hear that!"
The haunting singing continued, pulling Carty's attention back toward the hallway.
"I don't hear shit." Bonnie responded.
Carty pointed her toward the stairs. "It's coming from in there!"
Alert, both women listened out for the singing. Even as the words stayed jumbled, the voice had gotten louder. The singer would've never made it on American Idol, but it had a pretty meekness to it. An innocent child’s charm. The voice sounded too deep for a girl... but such vulnerability seemed more fitting for a melancholy teenage female singing herself to sleep.
Bonnie finally heard it. All the confidence drained from her face. For once, she looked rattled by the pair's paranormal excursions. "Shit..."
Carty glared at her. "I told you this was a bad idea!"
The singing kept on repeating the same tune. The same melody. The same scrambled words. The whole production a loop of insanity, albeit, a pretty loop.
"We shouldn't have ever come here!" Carty went on.
Lost in thought, Bonnie turned and looked over at the camcorder. The camera stared right back at her, taunting her with its mere presence. The show must go on...
"Let's fucking go!" Carty pleaded to Bonnie. With uneasy eyes, she looked over at the downstairs hallway.
The singing stayed on a steady path of instability. The words never clear, the mysterious voice wobbling between lovely and stilted.
"Shit..." Carty muttered. She turned and saw Bonnie get off the couch. "Bonnie!"
Bonnie threw on her clothes.
Ready to get the fuck outta there, Carty stood up and did the same. She saw Bonnie grab the camera.
"Are we going?" Carty asked with impatience. She pulled her tight shirt over her head. Both women were now dressed. Easily the fastest either of them had ever put their clothes back on.
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss for reassurance. "I'm just gonna go look."
Carty pushed Bonnie back. "Are you crazy!"
"Carty, it's just for the site," Bonnie said. "We're just gonna look real quick and see what it is."
"Oh God," Carty said. Terrified, she turned away. She could still hear the singing. That fucking voice.
Bonnie retrieved the flashlight from her pocket. "Just follow me, alright," she told Carty.
Carty took an angry step toward her. "No-"
"Then what do you want us to do!" Bonnie interrupted. "The door's that way, Carty."
The repetitious singing went on in its hypnotic loop. Now the voice was even louder, begging for an audience.
Groaning, the scared Carty looked off toward the fireplace.
Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's shoulder. "Think of the show, babe," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "Think of us."
Carty confronted her. "I am!" Carty yelled. "But this is crazy, Bonnie." Her trembling hand pointed toward the fireplace. "Whoever's here made the Goddamn fire!"
Forcing a smile, Bonnie turned on the flashlight and put it up under her face in a playful manner. "Then let's just hope it's a ghost."
Bonnie showed equal parts bravery and stupidity as she took off for the downstairs hallway. Toward the singer's lair..
"Shit, Bonnie!" Carty yelled after her. Left alone in frustration, Carty looked down and saw the mic lying on the ground. Desperate, she snatched it up.
Link To Part 2
Link To eBook
submitted by unknownhorrorwriter2 to JustNotRight [link] [comments]


2020.06.08 17:07 unknownhorrorwriter2 Voyeur clothes tight

The Crane house was just ordinary, abandoned trash. Boring even. The house was a two-story farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Miles of woods surrounded it. Needless to say, there weren't any neighbors for miles either. The house's mailbox stood tall, wearing its abundance of rust for a paint job. Rather than a paved driveway, a long stretch of faded dirt ran through the house's tall grass and weeds, all the way up to the decrepit front porch.
The clear country sky illuminated the home in a vivid light. The house a beacon that only drew local paranormal enthusiasts and juvenile delinquents looking for cheap thrills in the small town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Even if you didn't believe in ghosts, the Crane house certainly did look the part.
The once-pretty country home looked to have gone uninhabited for decades. Crooked shutters guarded the large cracked windows. Busted wooden steps led up to the house's creaky front porch. The home's bricks all faded with age.
An archaic lantern hung on the porch, its glass case long shattered. The rocking chairs were at least functional if you could look past the layers of thick cobwebs wrapped all around them.
Given the house's many deficiencies and its hopeless place in the open market, the hot Georgia night brought a huge surprise when a pristine and shiny new convertible zoomed down the long dirt driveway.
Appearing with the sudden quickness of a mirage, the car's tires scattered dust everywhere. The convertible's top was down, the occupants inside blasting loud and obnoxious pop music.
The car came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from the porch. As the rag top started coming back down, the music and lights were shut off. After the doors swung open, jovial laughter echoed through the night.
Out stepped two beautiful young women. Bonnie Campbell and Carty Elizabeth, both of them in their late-20s and both of them ultra-attractive. A gay couple just as clever as they were sensual. These weren't the nerdy ghost enthusiasts, the Stanwyck High dropouts, or any of the other typical yokel explorers. This was a couple straight out of a Beverly Hills photo shoot.
Bonnie was a tall and streetwise Latina. Fit enough to be a supermodel, but too anti-establishment for that kinda shit. Everything about her was rebellious. From her hairstyle all the way to her attire. But instead of being scary or intimidating, the aggressive swagger was hot thanks in part to her pretty face.... a fact Bonnie was well aware of.
On the other hand, Carty was less confrontational in both her personality and style. While Bonnie gladly wore the "Butch" persona, Carty was the feminine "girly-girl" of the pair. But like Bonnie, Carty didn't take much shit either. After all, these ladies were entrepreneurs. Bonnie was holding a wireless mic and Carty a camcorder for a reason. They knew how to exploit what God gave them.
The couple stopped and looked on at the derelict house, both of them awestruck for different reasons. Bonnie with excitement, Carty with more than a little unease.
"Fuck, it's gorgeous," Bonnie said. "Absolutely perfect..."
Carty gave her a weird look. "Gorgeous?"
"You know what I mean." Bonnie grabbed a hold of Carty's hand and led her up to the front porch. "Come on. Let's explore."
With big frightened eyes, Carty looked on at the imposing farmhouse as they got closer and closer to the porch's battered wooden steps. It was a country home from Hell, she thought. A cross between a Cracker Barrel and Amityville.
Like a playful older sibling, Bonnie leaned in toward Carty. "Creepy..." she teased Carty in her best horror-host voice.
Carty pushed Bonnie away from her, annoyed. "Fuck you!"
"Aww, you scared, hon?" Bonnie replied.
"Who wouldn't be?" Carty said. She stole a glance back at their car.
"I've seen worse." Bonnie noticed Carty hadn't even turned on the camcorder yet. Outraged, Bonnie stopped and snatched Carty's arm. "Carty, what the Hell are you doing!"
Carty yanked her arm away from Bonnie's grasp. "What!"
Bonnie waved at the camcorder. "The camera, girl!"
Groaning, Carty turned it on.
"Establishing shots, hello," Bonnie reiterated.
"Here's your damn establishing shot," Carty responded. Agitated, she pointed the camera at Bonnie. "Scene one, enter the bitch Bonnie."
Bonnie cracked up.
Still pissy, Carty lowered the camera. "It's your idea to come here in the first place."
"Man, this ain't even that scary!" Bonnie protested. "That old motel in Decatur was way freakier."
Carty went silent and looked on at the house. Technically, Bonnie was right. This place was no different than your average abandoned shack... but something about it felt different. Maybe they’d gone too far off the beaten path of local haunts. After all, there wasn't a whole lot about the Crane house on-line.
"Shit, the graveyard in Bainbridge," Bonnie went on. "I still have those ant bites on my ass."
Carty chuckled. "Well," she began as she stole a glance at Bonnie's shapely booty. "It still looks pretty nice."
Bonnie admired her own ass. "I think they made it bigger."
"Still not as big as mine," Carty quipped.
"Mmm, but I'm getting there," Bonnie replied. She slapped Carty's bubble butt.
Giggling, Carty pointed the camera at the house. "How'd you find this place anyway?" She looked on at the rocking chairs, both of them mummified in cobwebs.
"You know, just the interwebs," Bonnie said.
"Reddit?"
"Pretty much," Bonnie replied with a smile. She faced Carty and ran her hand along Carty's arm. "Let's go."
Still uneasy, Carty looked at her.
Sensing Carty's unease, Bonnie leaned in closer. For once, Bonnie pushed the camcorder away, giving them a sense of privacy.
The couple shared a sweet kiss. One not for the cameras but for themselves. Its potency certainly did the trick for Carty. She felt all of Bonnie's love for her in that one pleasant embrace.
They smiled at one another. Playing teenage lovers in this magic moment.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked mischievously.
Grinning, Carty looked over at the farmhouse. Either the house wasn't that scary to begin with or the drug that was Bonnie's kiss really had calmed my nerves, Carty thought. "Sure," Carty said.
Bonnie pulled Carty in closer to her as they approached the porch's first step. "I got what I could for the legend."
Carty aimed the camera at the house, getting the "establishing shots." "Any of it true?" she asked Bonnie.
Stopping them in front of the porch stairs, Bonnie turned and grinned at Carty. "True enough."
"Okay," Carty said. Using the camera, she motioned Bonnie toward the porch. "You want the honors?"
In a confident stride, Bonnie stepped up in front of the camera. "Absolutely." She glanced back, making sure the house could be seen behind her for a foreboding backdrop.
Carty pointed the camera right at Bonnie. A steady grip. "Awesome," Carty congratulated herself.
Facing Carty, Bonnie fixed her shirt. Now it showed off her boobs even more than she realized was possible. She straightened her hair quickly for good measure. Her and Carty knew they had to look good on camera. Even when they were trespassing onto creepy private property.
"You ready?" Carty asked Bonnie.
For a final test, Bonnie raised the mic and gave it one firm hit. Ready to go. "Yeah, roll it," Bonnie said.
Eager, Carty flashed her a thumbs up.
Bonnie paused for a moment, letting the camera capture her in all her candid glory: pretty face, a stern yet commanding expression, and some really big breasts. In the staunch darkness and with the terrifying house lurking behind her, Bonnie had the aura of a Playboy-sponsored horror show host. A more sexualized Elvira. Just what Carty knew Bonnie was going for.
"Welcome back, voyeurs," Bonnie said in a ghoulishly campy voice. She squeezed her big boobs together in sexy, obnoxious fashion. "Tonight, your two favorite sexy starlets are taking their well-endowed talents to the sleepy little town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Home of the infamous Crane house."
Struggling to contain her laughter, Carty took a few steps back, capturing a wider shot of the house.
God, Bonnie was really hamming it up tonight, Carty thought. Bonnie's silliness could turn any of these eerie locations into both a literal and figurative playhouse for us.
Bonnie looked right into the camera, being as serious as her "acting" would allow. "Thirty years ago, at this very house, sexy, carefree housewife Bette Crane flipped out on her stud farmer husband." With the dedication of a terrible actress gunning for an Oscar, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. What should've been porn-level lighting actually gave Bonnie an otherworldly quality in the country night. "Bette took a frying pan, the very thing she'd used to make Farmer Studbucket's scrambled eggs for him that morning and then turned it into a vicious weapon!"
"Oh God..." Carty muttered through a smirk.
"Bette Crane savagely beat her husband with that frying pan until his face was mushier and more splattered than the greasiest eggs she'd ever cooked," Bonnie continued. "But the housewife wasn't through. After beating her husband to death, Bette took the biggest butcher knife she could find."
Holding the camcorder with the steadiness of a veteran Hollywood filmmaker, Carty stopped right in front of Bonnie for a closer shot of the host.
"And she walked over to her husband's bludgeoned body," Bonnie went on. "And plunged the knife straight into her forehead!" Toning down the theatrics, Bonnie locked eyes with the camera. One on one with her audience. "Ever since the murder, people believe the Crane house is haunted by evil spirits."
Bonnie pointed toward the farmhouse, as if she were emulating a horror tour guide rather than a horror host. "Stanwyck residents have reported many ghost sightings and paranormal incidents over the years," Bonnie said. "Objects seen flying around, weird noises being heard, even what is believed to be the ghost of Bette Crane still walking around with her bloody frying pan." Bonnie paused for dramatic effect. "So now," she began. Still keeping her serious demeanor, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. "We've arrived not to investigate the Crane house." Bonnie's stray hand moved down toward her breasts. "But for the house to investigate us."
Faster than a Mardi Gras veteran, Bonnie stuck out her tongue and flashed the camera with those glorious breasts. "This is Paranormal Fornication, bitches!" she shouted with glee.
Carty burst out laughing as she lowered the camera.
Bonnie lowered her shirt. "You got it?" she asked.
Still laughing, Carty lowered the camera. "Yeah, for sure."
Bonnie stepped toward Carty. "How was I?" she asked, fully expecting Carty's enthusiastic response.
Carty wrapped her arms around Bonnie. "Magnificent, babe!"
Flattered, Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's back. "Mmm, thank you, boo," Bonnie said.
The couple locked lips once more. A gentle kiss that was much more tender than any of their on-screen ones.
"Alright," Bonnie started. She led them toward the stairs. In director mode, she motioned around the porch. "Try to get a few shots of us going in."
At her command, Carty aimed the camcorder at the house. "Roger that, Bon."
Looking through the lens, Carty thought their walk up to the front door was being filmed like the climactic scene to The Blair Witch Project. A slow trek to a foreboding entrance. It looked great on camera. Maybe we can shoot a real horror film someday.
Bonnie slapped Carty's juicy ass, snapping Carty out of her post-pornographic aspirations.
"Ooh, baby!" Carty exclaimed with a startled smile.
"Just keep filming, babe," Bonnie said.
"I know," Carty said as they made their way up the rickety steps. If it weren't for their model physiques, Carty questioned whether these creaking stairs could even hold them.
Breaking away from Carty, Bonnie strolled up onto the front porch, reveling in this conglomeration of country decay.
"Bonnie!" Carty said with unease. Even just a few feet away, Carty thought the distance between them may as well have been a hundred feet considering the eerie circumstances.
Unconcerned, Bonnie gazed around at the house's offerings. The rocking chairs. The busted windows. Even the harsh graffiti scribbled on the aged wood. This house had it all. "God, just look at it!" Bonnie said. The wooden floor kept creaking and giving in but she didn't care one bit. "What a fucking spot!"
"Yeah..." the nervous Carty said as she stopped next to Bonnie. While filming, Carty kept clinging to the camera. Both as a source of light and as a potential weapon. "Fucking weird..."
Reaching out, Bonnie touched a rocking chair and made contact with all the sticky cobwebs. Bonnie drew her hand back, but the icky texture seemed to give her a thrill rather than sicken her. She watched the chair rock back-and-forth in a slow rhythm. The chair's loud creaking formed a hypnotic tune.
Concerned, Carty snatched Bonnie's arm and pulled her away from it. "What are you doing!" Carty yelled.
Chuckling, Bonnie faced her. "What? I just wanted to see-"
Carty stepped back. "Oh my God, you touched it!"
Trying to calm Carty, Bonnie held her hands up in a facetious manner. "Hey, look, nothing got on me."
"Whatever!" Carty backed away and stumbled into a dangling cobweb. Crying out, she rushed back toward Bonnie. "Fuck!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's shoulder. "Babe, just chill-"
"No!" Carty yelled back at her.
Bonnie motioned toward the rocking chair, highlighting its continuous melody of creaks. "Look, we should be filming the shit!"
At its height of rocking, the chair went completely still. The spiders stopping with it.
"Holy shit!" Bonnie exclaimed.
Nervous, Carty focused her camera on the chairs. "Okay, that was creepy."
"Shit, let's get this party started!" Bonnie said. She stepped toward the front door.
Carty looked at her real quick. "Bonnie!"
Before Carty could stop her, Bonnie snagged the rusty doorknob. She flashed Carty a smile. "Be sure to get this."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked.
Carty gave her an apprehensive nod. "Yeah."
"Okay," Bonnie said. "Into the Crane house we go." She started to turn the loose doorknob when an incessant noise startled her and Carty.
"Shit!" Carty yelled as the couple whirled around.
They saw both rocking chairs now swinging in unison. Beneath the weight of age and the cobwebs, these rocking chairs were going harder and faster than seemed possible. Their consistent creaks a countrified chorus.
All the while, Carty kept filming the eerie event. "Oh my God..." she said in fear.
"Shit, this is amazing!" Bonnie exclaimed. She staggered up toward the chairs.
Carty snatched her shoulder, the tight grip ensuring Bonnie wasn't straying too far. "No, don't leave me!"
The rocking chairs came to a sudden stop. Either a slight breeze had gone away or the spiders had used their collective force once more... or the Crane house's spirits had moved on.
Somewhat disappointed, Bonnie pointed at the chairs. "See, it's nothing," she said to soothe Carty. She caressed Carty's shoulder. "We're gonna be fine."
"I don't know," Carty said. She lowered the camera. "I've got a weird feeling about this place."
Bonnie gave her a playful smile. "You get a weird feeling about everywhere."
"Yeah, but not like this..."
"Well, I'm here," Bonnie replied. She leaned in closer toward Carty's lips. "And I'll protect you."
Reassured as always by Bonnie, a grin cracked through Carty's nerves. "You better."
"You know I will." Bonnie gave Carty a soft kiss on the lips.
Carty liked it.
But right before Carty could expect more, Bonnie nodded at the camera. "You got all that shit, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Carty said.
Back to business, Bonnie looked back at the door. "Awesome."
"God, we're not still going in there, are we?" Carty said.
Bonnie faced her. "Why not?"
Upset, Carty motioned toward the chairs. "Not after all that shit!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's wrist in a gentle grip. "Carty, please. Can we just go inside?"
The silent Carty just looked at Bonnie. Bonnie's pretty face and persuasive brown eyes were such an irresistible combination when Bonnie really wanted to do something. Especially when it came to Bonnie's passion for the paranormal.
"This is what we do," Bonnie went on. "Our scary shit." With a sly and seductive touch, she pulled Carty in closer toward her. "Look, I'll make it up to you, baby. I promise. But let's do this first, okay."
How can I say no, Carty thought. Bonnie was rather tough anyway... certainly, braver than me. She was so cute this excited. She always was. "Okay," Carty gave in.
Bonnie leaned in toward Carty's face. "I promise I'll make it up in there, baby," she said in a seductive whisper. Sweetening the deal, Bonnie guided Carty's hand all against her breasts. "I promise."
Carty didn't have a chance. She felt on one of those double-Ds, immense pleasure coursing through Carty's veins. She cracked a smirk. "Goddammit, Bonnie..."
Chuckling, Bonnie pulled her toward the door. "Come on."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie as Bonnie grabbed the knob once more. "Take two," Carty joked.
Turning, Bonnie smiled for the camera. "Paranormal Fornication, motherfuckers."
With dramatic emphasis, Bonnie turned the old doorknob and let the door swing into the house with a grueling creak.
The open doorway now lied before Carty and Bonnie. The dark farmhouse was beckoning them to enter. Paranormal Fornication must go on! it seemed to scream.
The couple journeyed through the farmhouse's narrow downstairs hallway. The camcorder and Bonnie's small flashlight like torches in uncharted terrain. Behind them, the front door was still wide open, Carty refusing to let Bonnie close it. Carty didn't want that sinking feeling of hearing that door slam shut. It was too definitive… Locked in not just for the night but forever.
Holding her mic and the flashlight, Bonnie led the way, Carty right behind her. Carty did her best to keep up, but Bonnie seemed to glide on that torn carpet. "Slow down," Carty grumbled.
"I am," Bonnie retorted. Her eyes were drawn to a doorway on the left at the very end of the hall.
Through the unflinching camera lens, Carty captured the usual array of spooky clichés inside. There were the broken counters and bookshelves. The torn carpets. The literal holes in the walls that reoccurred in patterns on the faded paint. A wooden staircase in the very back that was a poor farmer's attempt to be regal. Even a small door under the staircase that looked to be designed to be a small child's hiding place. The small door aged yet functional.
But it wasn't these scary attributes that bothered Carty. It was how the house somehow appeared... clean. There weren't any spiderwebs or rodents. No dirt, cigarette butts, beer bottles, or any of the other types of debris the duo saw in all their other explorations. The inside of the Crane home was in decent condition. As if someone had been in there and tried to straighten the place up as much as they could. And to Carty's horror, she thought maybe someone had.
"Hello?" Bonnie asked aloud, her voice echoing down the hallway.
Carty glared at her. "Bonnie, shut up!"
Ignoring Carty, Bonnie went closer and closer to the doorway. "Is there anybody home?" she said, her voice seemingly louder.
Carty could only groan in dismay.
But there was no reply. No answers from the Crane house.
Still following Bonnie, Carty looked toward the stairway. Darkness awaited whoever dared walk up those steps. Or whoever could make it up those steps. Several of them were dilapidated, even moreso than the porch steps. The stairway's crooked railing wouldn't offer much support either.
Uneasy, Carty saw the small door under the staircase was open just a crack. No one appeared to be inside it nor were there any lights on inside. It had to be a closet and a small one at that, Carty figured. Not a bad spot for hide and seek...
Bonnie snatched Carty's arm, scaring the shit out of her.
"Jesus!" Carty yelled at Bonnie.
Shushing Carty, Bonnie stopped them just a foot away from the doorway. "Do you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"What?"
Bonnie clenched tighter to Carty's shoulder. "Just listen," Bonnie said. She waved her microphone toward the doorway. "It's coming from there."
Carty looked toward the doorway.
And there it was. A soft crackle and pop. It sounded soothing. It sounded like Christmas. And then Carty realized it felt like Christmas as well. The dank house felt a little toasty.
"Did you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"Yeah."
Another pop echoed toward the couple.
They looked on at the doorway and saw a faint orange glow radiating from inside the room.
Bonnie pointed at the light, excited. "Look at it!"
Carty stared at the doorway, her fear the exact opposite of Bonnie's enthusiasm. The crackling continued as a soundtrack to the faint glow. Stunned, Carty realized it was a burning fireplace. "Bonnie-" Carty began.
Bonnie grabbed Carty's hand. "Come on!"
Carty was no match for Bonnie's powerful pull. "But wait-" Carty tried to say.
"Just keep filming!"
Bonnie led Carty into the mysterious room.
Through Bonnie's small light and the weak flickers of the fireplace, Carty could make out they were in a spacious room.
Bonnie stopped in the middle of the room, fascinated. "Are you getting this?" asked Bonnie, her eyes gazing all around the living room.
Staying as close to Bonnie as possible, Carty scanned the room with her camera.
It was definitely the farmhouse's living room, but not one from the twenty-first century. There was no T.V. and seemingly no electricity. No family photos or portraits. No decorations at all. And not much furniture aside from a couple of wooden shelves.
"When'd that murder happen again?" Carty asked.
Still shining her flashlight around the room, Bonnie didn't even look at Carty. "I don't know, like maybe thirty years ago?"
Carty saw a tombstone radio standing near the fireplace. An open doorway was about ten feet away from the radio, this one leading into yet another dark room.
Leaning in closer for a better look, Carty could tell this room had a large wooden table. It must've been the kitchenOr what was left of it.
For all the lack of amenities in the living room, at least the antique radio was an impressive if outdated source of entertainment. The fireplace was similarly grandiose.
But thirty years ago, Carty wondered. Didn't the eighties at least have MTV? What were these bitches doing?
"It seems older," Carty said. She pointed the camera toward a raggedy couch that stood by the fireplace and radio. "Looks older."
"Yeah, well it was like 1982, 1983," Bonnie said. She thought she saw something on a corner wall across the room. Bonnie shined her light toward it and squinted her eyes, trying to see what was there.
"1983?" Carty asked. Her amusement shifted toward fear after she focused on the fireplace. So much wood was piled up in there... wood that had been consumed over a longer period of time. "Shit..."
Bonnie could tell the corner wall had large letters drawn on them. "What the Hell is that?" Bonnie wondered aloud.
"What?" Carty asked.
Intrigued, Bonnie stepped closer toward the letters.
Clinging to the camera for her security, Carty followed Bonnie to the spot. "Bonnie, wait!"
Bonnie stopped and stared at the wall, stunned yet awestruck by her new "discovery." "Oh fuck..."
"What is it!" Carty said as she stopped next to her.
Spraypainted letters splattered across the wall. Vile graffiti. The words had been rotting there a long time, practically implanted into the farmhouse's walls at this point. And the words all shared the same color: blood red paint.
Nasty phrases and slurs made up the collection: Bitch! The Crane Cunt! Bette The Psycho Bitch! Murderer! Cocksucker Crane!
Uneasy, Carty filmed the sight in all its vicious glory. She moved the camera around, even seeing how the graffiti carried over onto the other walls. The endless profanities and insults were all a big billboard brought to you by Stanwyck's resident assholes as a commemorative FUCK YOU to Bette Crane.
Carty stared at the entire scene in horror. This was further indication that this secluded farmhouse truly was home to something horrific. Something so traumatic and disturbing that to this day, the citizens of Stanwyck still felt the need to make this vengeance-fueled pilgrimage.
But to Bonnie, the graffiti was further proof that the couple had come to the right spot.
"Shit!" Carty said. She looked over at Bonnie. "We can't stay here."
With the excited eagerness of a kid about to catch a foul ball in the stands, Bonnie reached out toward "Bette The Psycho Bitch."
"Bonnie!" Carty yelled in outrage. She grabbed Bonnie's arm, stopping her.
Bonnie faced her, annoyed. "Carty, what the fuck!"
"What the fuck are you doing!"
Scoffing, Bonnie waved the mic toward the wall. "See for yourself!"
"No!" Carty said. "Someone's been here, Bonnie. And they might still be here."
"It's just a fire-"
"Just a fucking fire!" Ready to leave, a pissed-off Carty headed straight for the hallway.
"Carty!" Bonnie snagged Carty's arm, making Carty face her. "Look at me! This house is empty!" Using the mic, she motioned toward the fireplace. "Whoever did this shit's probably gone anyway."
"Probably!" Carty replied, incredulous.
Desperate to comfort Carty, Bonnie caressed her shoulders. "Hey, whoever it is is more scared of us than we are of them," Bonnie went on. She ran her finger against Carty's smooth cheek. "They're gone, Carty. And they ain't coming back."
"I don't know," Carty said. Still uneasy, Carty looked toward the fireplace.
"Look, Carty, this is what we do. Even when shit gets weird and scary." Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's arm. "We can't stop now."
Carty faced her. "But the fire. This isn't-"
Adamant, Bonnie stepped away from Carty. "They probably left when they heard us pull up! Just think about it, Carty."
"I don't know..."
Proving her point, Bonnie shined her flashlight all around the living room. "Hello!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, bitches!"
"Bonnie!"
"Come out, motherfucker!" Bonnie went on.
No answer was heard. Just the consistent crackle of the crisp fire.
The lack of a response was helping Carty ease up. Much to Bonnie's delight.
"We don't bite!" Bonnie said. She gave Carty a flirtatious smile. "Well. Maybe I do."
Carty chuckled and shook her head.
The whole house seemed silent except for the fire. And the couple's soft laughter.
"See," Bonnie said as she grabbed a hold of Carty's hand. "It's nothing."
"But why here?" Carty asked. "Why can't we just go somewhere else?"
"Look, just think about it, alright," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "This is gonna be so big, Carty." She waved the flashlight around the living room. "I mean just look at this place! A creepy fucking Texas Chainsaw house, and we discover the fireplace, the graffiti! The damn rocking chairs."
Carty didn't argue. She knew she couldn't due to a combination of Bonnie making sense and being too stubborn to turn back now.
Bonnie caressed Carty's face. "Think of the hits, baby," Bonnie went on. "All the ads we'll get on the site."
Debating the idea, Carty looked off toward the bright fireplace.
"We'll make so much money, boo," Bonnie said. “We'll have enough to do the Lady Macbeth piece."
Carty faced Bonnie, allured by the prospect of doing their dream project. Just the sheer mention of it got Carty's attention.
Displaying a warm smile, Bonnie rubbed Carty's shoulder. "Like we always planned. We'll do real movies from now on, no more creeper sex shit."
"You promise this is the last one?" Carty asked, her voice begging for a yes.
"Yes!" the excited Bonnie said.
"Okay..." Carty relented.
"Thank you!"
"Let's do this."
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss. "I love you, baby," Bonnie said.
"I love you too."
"This is gonna be so perfect," Bonnie said. She stepped away from Carty and focused her attention on the corner wall graffiti. "Fucking crazy."
Carty followed Bonnie's gaze toward the gratuitous graffiti. All those vile words were more than just your average juvenile's bullshit. The phrases looked embroidered with emotion. Sculpted from pure disgust and hate.
Thinking about the creepy stairway, Carty looked back toward the hallway. She couldn't help but wonder if their squatter was hiding upstairs rather than in the woods. "This still feels weird," Carty commented.
Bonnie faced her. "Why, babe?"
Nervous, Carty hesitated on how to answer. "I don't know. It's like someone's watching."
Bonnie stepped right in front of Carty, not even attempting to make her sexual tease more nuanced. "Someone's always watching."
Carty grinned.
Thirty minutes later, Bonnie and Carty's film shoot was going hot and heavy. Steamy, sexy, scintillating. Words you usually wouldn't associate with a "haunted house." But then again, this was Paranormal Fornication.
Sprawled out on the couch, the naked duo engaged in passionate and exuberant sex.
Bonnie and Carty's lovemaking was certainly chock-full of genuine pleasure. Their emotions, the moaning, and the undeniable chemistry between the two were well on display. But their exploitative positions and cloying mannerisms proved that they knew how to put on a show.
The warm fire bathed the couple in a glorious light. Their clothes stacked up in neat piles right by the sofa.
Sitting on top of the tombstone radio, the camcorder filmed the couple's erotica with the detachment of an asexual filmmaker.
Leaning back on the sofa, Carty moaned in pleasure.
All the while, Bonnie continued going down on her partner. The pace was frenetic but Bonnie was gentle. She knew all the right spots. And Carty wasn't complaining.
Carty wrapped her hands around Bonnie's head. "Ooh, baby," Carty said. She tilted her head back and shut her eyes. Just let Bonnie do her thing, she thought. Stopping her now would be like stopping LeBron from going in hard with a highlight-reel dunk. Sometimes, you just gotta let greatness do its thing.
"You like that?" Bonnie said with dirty talk glee.
"Yes, baby!" Carty moaned. She opened her eyes just to steal a look over at the camera. A quick glance for their audience.
With rough quickness, Bonnie started to flip Carty over.
"What are you doing?" Carty whispered.
"I gotta get that ass, mamacita," Bonnie replied.
Glaring, Carty stopped Bonnie. "Just hold on!"
"Carty, the camera-"
"I don't give a shit about them!" Carty grumbled as she turned on her stomach. "Just be more gentle next time."
"Okay," Bonnie sighed. Back in porn mode, she caressed Carty's round booty. "That ass, mamacita!" she exclaimed.
Carty cringed at Bonnie's forced delivery. These glorified butt scenes were a little much, she thought. Maybe I should let out a fart to really shake things up.
"That booty though..." Bonnie continued. She gave Carty a quick (and literal) kiss on the ass.
"God..." Carty mumbled. This wasn't the Bonnie she liked.
Bonnie felt along Carty's butt, cradling it for all the camera to see. It was an impressive booty for sure. Fake as Hell, but that certainly didn't bother Bonnie nor the Paranormal Fornication faithful.
"I gotta see that ass in reverse, girl," Bonnie said in a most oversexualized manner. If this was the extent of her acting abilities, her Lady Macbeth performances must've been a fucking disaster.
"Ooh, you want it, baby," Carty responded, disinterested. She wiggled her ass with the enthusiasm of a jaded stripper on her last day at work.
Bonnie smacked Carty on the ass, making that booty jiggle for the camera.
"Ooh, harder, baby," Carty said in a more seductive tone, making sure her voice was loud for the camera.
"That's my girl," Bonnie beamed.
Bonnie's next smack on Carty's butt was quick and gentle. A love tap Carty enjoyed.
Smiling, Carty looked back at Bonnie. "Mmm, keep going, sexy..."
Bonnie crouched down toward Carty's smooth bubble butt. "With pleasure..."
Bracing for more ass worship, Carty looked toward the hallway. She was surprised at how aroused she was getting in such a creepy place... Bonnie's kisses along her ass were actually feeling really nice. Hell, this was Bonnie's best "performance" since the Hiers farm in Alabama, Carty realized.
"God, you're perfect," Bonnie said.
Carty grinned. She knew that wasn't Bonnie the actress talking, but Bonnie the girlfriend. Not that it was hard to differentiate since Bonnie was a shitty actress.
Carty enjoyed the touch of Bonnie's soft hands running along her lower back and perky butt. The gentle kisses. Maybe we need to keep this episode for ourselves.
A soft, hushed singing drifted toward Carty's ears, piercing through her pleasure. The song's words were murky and unclear, the voice similarly vague. The singer could've been a boy or a girl. But whoever it was didn't seem to be want to be heard. Not yet at least...
Alarmed, Carty looked on at the hallway. The singing appeared to be coming from near the staircase. "What the Hell..." she muttered.
A set of teeth sunk into Carty's juicy ass, startling Carty. The bite was a vampire's wet dream, but Carty knew it wasn't no vampire. "Shit, Bonnie!" Carty fumed as she confronted her girlfriend.
Bonnie leaned back, confused. "What?"
"Did you hear that!"
The haunting singing continued, pulling Carty's attention back toward the hallway.
"I don't hear shit." Bonnie responded.
Carty pointed her toward the stairs. "It's coming from in there!"
Alert, both women listened out for the singing. Even as the words stayed jumbled, the voice had gotten louder. The singer would've never made it on American Idol, but it had a pretty meekness to it. An innocent child’s charm. The voice sounded too deep for a girl... but such vulnerability seemed more fitting for a melancholy teenage female singing herself to sleep.
Bonnie finally heard it. All the confidence drained from her face. For once, she looked rattled by the pair's paranormal excursions. "Shit..."
Carty glared at her. "I told you this was a bad idea!"
The singing kept on repeating the same tune. The same melody. The same scrambled words. The whole production a loop of insanity, albeit, a pretty loop.
"We shouldn't have ever come here!" Carty went on.
Lost in thought, Bonnie turned and looked over at the camcorder. The camera stared right back at her, taunting her with its mere presence. The show must go on...
"Let's fucking go!" Carty pleaded to Bonnie. With uneasy eyes, she looked over at the downstairs hallway.
The singing stayed on a steady path of instability. The words never clear, the mysterious voice wobbling between lovely and stilted.
"Shit..." Carty muttered. She turned and saw Bonnie get off the couch. "Bonnie!"
Bonnie threw on her clothes.
Ready to get the fuck outta there, Carty stood up and did the same. She saw Bonnie grab the camera.
"Are we going?" Carty asked with impatience. She pulled her tight shirt over her head. Both women were now dressed. Easily the fastest either of them had ever put their clothes back on.
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss for reassurance. "I'm just gonna go look."
Carty pushed Bonnie back. "Are you crazy!"
"Carty, it's just for the site," Bonnie said. "We're just gonna look real quick and see what it is."
"Oh God," Carty said. Terrified, she turned away. She could still hear the singing. That fucking voice.
Bonnie retrieved the flashlight from her pocket. "Just follow me, alright," she told Carty.
Carty took an angry step toward her. "No-"
"Then what do you want us to do!" Bonnie interrupted. "The door's that way, Carty."
The repetitious singing went on in its hypnotic loop. Now the voice was even louder, begging for an audience.
Groaning, the scared Carty looked off toward the fireplace.
Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's shoulder. "Think of the show, babe," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "Think of us."
Carty confronted her. "I am!" Carty yelled. "But this is crazy, Bonnie." Her trembling hand pointed toward the fireplace. "Whoever's here made the Goddamn fire!"
Forcing a smile, Bonnie turned on the flashlight and put it up under her face in a playful manner. "Then let's just hope it's a ghost."
Bonnie showed equal parts bravery and stupidity as she took off for the downstairs hallway. Toward the singer's lair..
"Shit, Bonnie!" Carty yelled after her. Left alone in frustration, Carty looked down and saw the mic lying on the ground. Desperate, she snatched it up.
Link To Part 2
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2020.06.02 18:28 gazm88 Teenage memories

I was transfixed, literally. It was impossible for me to move as I looked out of my bedroom window that summer afternoon, down into my neighbor’s yard and saw Bobby and Valerie DeJong fucking.
Their son, Chet, had been my best friend through high school and I knew the family well, but this was the first time in my 18 years of existence on the planet that I’d witnessed a couple in the flesh, screwing each other for all they were worth. It was shocking, mesmerizing and exciting as I stood a couple of feet back from my window, watching them and stroking myself.
They used a patio lounger and Valerie spent a lot of time on her knees, apparently urging her husband as he slammed into her from behind. Their black skin made them look like silhouettes against the sandy paving of their yard, Valerie’s breasts hanging down and swinging as Bobby fucked her. And his cock… it was huge. It looked to be almost a foot long (I know now that was unlikely, but that’s what it looked like) and straight as a rule. It was so long it looked like he couldn’t fit all of it inside her – at least three inches stayed outside Valerie’s pussy.
I had just looked out of the window casually when I’d spotted them. Now over the initial surprise, I was on the verge of cumming as I watched them. Bobby turned Valerie over and kneeled on the lounger, directing his huge tool at her groin. Once inside he started his rhythm again, making Valerie’s eyes close in pleasure as he pumped faster and faster. I came before he did, spurting youthfully across my carpet, but my cock was still rock hard as I watched Bobby’s body stiffen and obviously cum inside Valerie. Unlike the porn movies I’d seen, he didn’t pull out and shoot cum over her, just stayed inside and finished his orgasm.
When they were done the lay naked together on the lounger, his cock still looking enormous as it deflated slowly. I watched for a while before backing away from the window and stroking myself again.
**
Next time I saw Valerie was a few days later, when I called round to see what Chet was up to. We’d both finished high school a couple of weeks before. Chet was headed for a football scholarship at Texas, me to University of Illinois. I hadn’t seen my friend since the weekend and knocked on the DeJong’s front door.
Valerie answered, dressed in some tight jeans and a pink crewneck top. I stumbled over my first words, not able to get the image of her naked out of my mind, but managed to ask for Chet.
“He’s over at his cousins, on his way back I believe. Should be here in a half-hour or so.” Valerie smiled at me and I started to feel a little more comfortable, assuming she knew nothing of my voyeurism. “Would you like to come in and wait for him? I’m just prepping some food for tonight. You’re welcome to wait.”
It seemed natural for me to accept, after all, it’s what I would’ve done many times before that day. I knew that my perception of Valerie had changed, but she didn’t.
We lived in an affluent suburb and back then fewer moms worked, so it was very normal for Valerie to take time to prepare the family dinner, just as my mother did, often baking as well. I followed her into the kitchen and took a seat at the table. She offered me lemonade but then remembered that I preferred soda, so poured me a Coke. My family socialized with the DeJong’s a little, mostly at neighborhood cookouts and the like. We got on well with them but this was twenty years ago and some didn’t… the color of their skin still somewhat unusual in the suburbs. If they ever felt any resentment, none of the family showed it.
We chatted about the coming college days for a few minutes. Rightfully so, she was very proud of Chet’s scholarship but she also showed genuine interest in where I was going and what I expected life to be like in the college world. I’d heard many times that she’d studied Chemistry in Florida, but parents seemed to have a habit of forgetting what they’d told people and tell them again. I guess I’m like that now!
I had ample opportunity to study Valerie, as I’d never seen her before. She had been Chet’s mom for all the years we’d lived next to them, but now she was the lady I’d seen fucking in her yard.
She always had a ready smile and a kind disposition, but for the first time I noticed that she had beautifully smooth skin, very dark and providing a stark contrast for her white teeth that made them seem almost incandescent. She had a good figure, maybe a few extra ponds around her hips, but wonderfully round and distinct breasts that bobbled just enough with her movements to suggest they were heavy when released from her bra.
In the yard Valerie’s hair had been combed back and in a ponytail but today it was hanging around her face, wavy from styling I thought, but very sensual. I’d never thought about her age much before, but she must have been at least forty-three, and looking good for it. My standard for beauty back then was young movie stars and other pin-ups, but it now came to me that my friend’s mother was very beautiful.
“You’ll have fun.” Valerie concluded our college discussion just as the phone rang. “Excuse me.” Valerie spoke with a soft, accent-less voice.
“It was Chet.” Valerie breezed back into the kitchen. “They got tickets for the baseball game tonight, he’s staying over at my sister’s. Sorry.”
“No problem.” I took the last drink of my Coke. “It was nice to talk with you. Thanks for the Coke.” I stood to leave.
“No, wait.” Valerie placed a light touch on my forearm, stopping me in my tracks. “Hold up. Stay a little while. I’d like to talk to you some more.” She seemed a little more awkward than normal but was smiling at me.
I had nowhere to go and wasn’t in the habit of turning down requests from adults so I sat back down at the table. Valerie immediately poured me another drink. She shuffled around the sink, putting things away without saying anything and then she came and sat at the table with me. Our silence had become a little strained suddenly. It felt like Valerie wanted to say something to me and as I had no idea what that might’ve been, I had no clue how to start the conversation. I mostly thought she wanted to talk about Chet. She’d asked me about his girlfriends once or twice, just in a maternal sort of way, not prying or uncomfortable.
Valerie sat across from me with her hands on the table, her fingers intertwining in a way that looked slightly nervous. I felt my own nerves start to build. What could she want?
“I…” She made a false start and her eyes fell to her hands. “I think you saw us the other day. Bobby and I.” She finished her words looking into my eyes.
I thought about pleading innocent, that I didn’t know what she thought I saw, but the look in her eyes suggested there was no room for denial - she knew. I nodded.
“I’m sorry.” She seemed genuinely repentant. “Our yard is so private. The trees mean no one can see in, except from your bedroom, that’s the only angle. I guess we just got carried away.”
There was a faint smile on Valerie’s lips as she spoke, but her tone was quiet. I didn’t feel there was anything I could say that would either make her feel better or excuse my watching them.
“I saw you at the window. Afterwards.” She leaned forward, now a little conciliatory. “I guessed you’d been there for a while. I guessed you’d seen… everything?”
Rather than just nod again, I managed, “I did.”
“I’m so sorry. That wasn’t fair on you.” Valerie reached over and took my hand in hers. Her words sounded sincere.
I tried to reassure her. “It’s okay. It’s no big deal.”
“Are you sure? Do you want to talk about it? I don’t want you to feel bad about it.” Finally her somber tone broke a little, “Bobby and I are married after all.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s okay really. I didn’t think anything of it. I’m sorry I watched for so long… I just couldn’t help it.”
“You hadn’t seen anyone making love before?”
I wanted to answer honestly, but, being the age I was, didn’t want to expose myself as inexperienced in the ways of the world. “Yes, I mean, well, I have, but not… live like that. It was so real, if you know what I mean. I’m sorry you saw me.”
Valerie smiled softly as I spoke. I realized she was still holding my hand, like she was soothing me. I wanted to reassure her I was not psychologically harmed by the experience so blurted out, “It wasn’t a horrible experience, believe me.”
Somewhere, in that moment, the dynamic between us changed. I didn’t realize until later, but the air in the room started to change from the cool of uncomfortable discovery to the heat of a sexual discussion.
“Really? You enjoyed watching us?” I swear Valerie almost smirked.
I didn’t want to admit straight up that I’d “enjoyed” the scene, but wanted to convey that I was far from shocked or hurt by it. “It was… interesting. You know, it was beautiful in some ways. Kind of nice to see people who love each other making love like that.”
“Did it… did it excite you?” Valerie held my gaze and her grasp on my hand tightened a little.
I nodded my admission, hoping the next logical question, in my mind at least, didn’t come.
“That’s nice. I’m glad it wasn’t a bad experience for you.” I half-hoped at this point the discussion would be over, but also noticed that I was becoming excited by the topic, especially in the presence of the woman I’d watched having sex just a few days earlier. “Tell me, what did you find exciting?”
I thought for a few seconds, still unsure how much I wanted to divulge. “I… you looked very beautiful. You looked so good and comfortable together. It was all exciting.”
“Did anything surprise you?”
Hesitatingly, I admitted that one image was clearer than all the others in my mind. “I was surprised… how big he is. I had no idea.”
Now Valerie gave a short laugh. “Yes, he is big. You know all those stories about black men… Sometimes he’s too big, you know? You probably never think like that, but a man can be too big, when a woman can’t take all of him and the rest of his body never meets hers. It’s just a small thing…” we both giggled at the pun, “but occasionally it can be annoying.”
I didn’t have anything to add to her statements, so stayed quiet and let het carry on. “Men don’t need to be big to pleasure a woman, that’s a myth. Well, they need to be big enough, but not huge. Bobby can get huge, but sometimes he doesn’t get as hard as a smaller man would. You understand that?”
“Sure.” I tried to sound casual, but now I was having some size troubles of my own. My cock was straining in my pants.
“You don’t mind if I ask…” Valerie paused, “but what size are you?”
Now, that question caught me off guard. Without thinking too much I took my hand away from Valerie’s and used both hands to indicate a size of about six inches. “About that.”
“You see,” Valerie smiled widely now, “that’s just about perfect.”
Silence fell between us for a few moments there, both of us wondering what had just transpired and evaluating what our next words should be, where we went from here. Forget the whole thing or… “Is that what size it is right now?”
The moment wasn’t lost on me. We’d stepped way over the line of friendship between neighbor and friend’s mother. I thought about resisting, but I was eighteen… my will was weak and after all, I should always tell the truth, right?
“Yes.” I admitted.
“It’s very exciting, talking about sex like this? You think?” Valerie easily held my eyes, making our discussion easier, like there was nothing wrong with it. “Show me? Would you?”
She stood up and moved to the side of the table. The bulge in my pants was mostly hidden under the table, but if I moved there was no way I could hide anything from her. “Don’t be shy.” Valerie urged.
I slowly slid my chair out from the table. Valerie said nothing as the lump in my pants became obvious. I started to undo the belt from my jeans and pull down my zipper. I was aware that she was fully focused on my groin as I fumbled with my underwear and tried to release my cock from the tangle it had created. Finally I managed to expose the red, bulging head.
“Stand up.” Valerie commanded. “I can’t see very well down there. Pull the pants off.”
I stood up on shaky legs and quickly pushed my jeans and underwear down to my knees. My cock bobbed up when I stood – hard and proud, almost vertical in front of my T-shirt.
“You see,” Valerie didn’t take her eyes off me, “that’s a nice size. Looks wonderful.” I looked down and saw my cock twitch. I couldn’t remember ever feeling harder. Valerie stooped a little, looking closer. “Would you mind if I touched it?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, like she knew what the answer of any eighteen year-old would be. She reached out a hand and let her fingers explore my length with the lightest of touches, fingertips only. I watched as her hand moved over every inch of me, up and down the shaft, over the head and around the rim. Her touch was divine and I twitched as she let her gossamer touch wander all over my erection.
“You are so hard.” She didn’t look up. “I’ve not felt a cock this hard in years. Were you this hard when you were watching?”
“Yes.” I had to say something, despite the paralysis she was causing, as she couldn’t hear me nod.
“You look so good, feel so good. Your cock is beautiful.”
Despite the redness of my bulging head I saw my cock as virtually white against the blackness of her skin. Valerie took a slightly tighter hold and stroked me slowly. I started to worry about cumming, already feeling the unmistakable feelings of orgasm start to bubble up. I wanted to warn Valerie what she was doing, but she was way ahead of me.
“Feels like you need some release.” She looked up at me for the first time since she started looking at my cock. “Don’t worry. Do you want me to help you?”
“Oh God, yes. Please.” I was feeling the rise quicker now, much more forceful that I’d felt from my hand or the couple of girlfriends I’d been with.
It’s okay.” She reassured, stroking me again and turning to watch. “Just let it happen.”
I had no other option by then, there was no way I could hold back. Valerie continued her slow strokes as my orgasm built with its increasingly unstoppable force. I felt my cock twitch several times as her light touch encouraged me. When I felt her other hand start to caress my balls the rush of orgasm took me completely.
I closed my eyes as the red hot waves washed over and through my body. I felt my cock start to twitch wildly in her hand, my cum not far away. She continued to caress me as I spurted, a small one fist, then a long line of cum that splashed down on the table… then another, and another. The next didn’t make it as far and some of my white cum landed on Valerie’s black skin, stark and erotic. My cock stayed twitching for almost a minute, dry now but the power of the climax obvious.
When I’d finished Valerie squeezed the last of my cum from my shaft and it seeped out of the end of my cock. Then she unexpectedly leaded down and licked it away from me. Though I couldn’t see her mouth, I was sure she’d swallowed it.
Valerie stood up and turned to me, smiling. “Looks like you needed that.” She turned away and retrieved a cloth to wipe the table. “I hope you didn’t mind, I guess we’ve both seen something intimate of each other. It was very erotic to see you, and feel you cum like that.” I sat down in my chair, my cock still hard and proud.
“It felt good.” I managed, trying to work out what had transpired in the last few minutes.
“Better than doing it yourself while watching the neighbors I bet.” There was a laugh in her tone as she threw the cloth to the sink and sat on the edge of the table.
I sat there wondering what to say next. I couldn’t conceive that this was going any further and wondered how I should wrap things up, literally and figuratively. Surely there was no way Valerie wanted something more? Could we go back to just being neighbors? How did that work? I had no experience in this area.
“You’re still hard.” She observed, pointing at my erection. “You young boys. Insatiable. I’d forgotten how that goes.” I watched as she brought her hand up to her breast, a deliberate, sensual move. “You think you have something more for me?”
As I nodded I felt my cock twitch again. It, at least, knew what was going on here.
“Why don’t you come here and undress me?”
It was an invitation I was never going to turn down. I stood, realized that my pants were still around my legs, and kicked them off. Not wanting anything to get in my way, I pulled off my T-shirt in a flash and stood naked in front of Valerie. She smiled, not in a mom way though.
I fumbled a little with the sides of her shirt before I started to pull it over her head. Valerie raised her arms to help me and I reached up and pulled it away. Her pink bra was full to overflowing as I looked down and took in the wonderful sight.
“Nothing to hide from you here I guess.” Valerie reached behind herself and unclipped her bra. “You’ve seen these.”
I had, but not close-up, so when Valerie pulled away the bra I was stunned at the beauty of her full figure. “You like?” She used her hands to push her breasts up for me. I nodded, marveling at the hard nipples I saw, realizing Valerie was getting naked with me, still thinking about the sex I’d witnessed. “You can touch them.”
I took the invitation as a small reprimand that I wasn’t moving fast enough as it was fairly obvious that I could touch them. I reached up and took both of Valerie’s breasts in my hands. They felt heavy and stayed round as I pushed them in and up. Valerie sighed as I found the buds of her nipples and squeezed them. They felt harder than I’d expected and much bigger. “Suck on them.” She commanded.
I stooped my head to her breast and took her nipple in my mouth. I sucked gently at first, felt Valerie react with pleasure and sucked harder. I rolled my tongue around her and played with her, then repeated my actions on her other nipple while squeezing the one my mouth had just left with my fingers. I felt Valerie’s hand on the back of my head, caressing me and encouraging my pleasuring of her.
While she let me continue to suck on her Valerie’s other hand reached down between us and searched for my cock. She found me still rock hard and made a small moan of approval as her fingers wrapped around me again. Immediately she started to stroke me with her palm and thumb while her fingers reached down as far as they could, touching my balls. I returned the action by bringing my hand to the front of her jeans, gently finding my way between her legs, feeling her heat and pressing hard against her pussy.
“Let’s get these off.” Valerie declared, already unfastening her jeans. I backed off as she pulled down the zipper and pushed them down over her hips. It was impossible not to notice that she wasn’t wearing panties. I tried to get a good look at her pussy when she’d shaken the jeans off her feet but with her dark skin and black pubic hair it was impossible to see. “Come. Let’s go over here.” Valerie took my arm and led me into the lounge, straight to the sofa.
“You want to get a closer look at what you saw from your window?” Valerie seemed to be reading my mind as she sat on the sofa and lay back, opening her legs so I could see her wide open pussy.
I kneeled down on the floor and got close to Valerie’s reclined form. I couldn’t take my eyes from her pussy and now I was able to see the lines of her pussy lips and the tangle of pubes above her slit. As I watched she reached down and used one hand to ease her lips apart and reveal her pink interior. I could see the slick sheen of her excitement and marveled at the stark contrast of her pink against her dark skin.
“You like?” She asked.
“Very much. You’re beautiful.” I meant it, I had never seen a woman with such a beautiful body, and now so available to me.
“Touch me.” Valerie commanded, again encouraging me to go further than just gaze at her.
My fingertips explored all of her folds, tracing over her pussy lips and gently through the cleft of her opening that was slick with her juice. Using my thumb and forefinger I opened her slightly, delighting in the way her skin gave way to my touch. Valerie liked that too, taking her hand away from her groin and moaning at my touch. She moaned again when I let my finger slowly slip into her.
As I worked my finger in and out of Valerie my face was no more than a foot away from her, getting the best view possible. I’d never tasted a pussy before and this seemed like the perfect time so I slowly eased my face down to her, extended my tongue and lapped at her pussy lips tentatively.
“Oh, that’s nice.” Valerie encouraged as I licked up and down her slit. I used my fingers to open her as wide as I could and get the tip of my tongue inside. Valerie tasted good and I continued to experiment, licking slow and then flicking my tongue over her clit like I’d seen on porn movies.
When she felt the rapid movements of my tongue on her clit Valerie brought her hand to my head and whispered, “Not too quick. Just lick me there. The harder the better.”
I took her words to heart and made some long slow licking strokes across her clit. My fingers continued to hold her pussy open as I worked, now really enjoying that I was able to pleasure Valerie and make her moan. “Good.” She managed to breathe between moans.
Her climax took me by surprise. First I knew what was happening was when both of her hands clamped onto my head and push me harder into her pussy, encouraging me to keep licking her and make it harder. Valerie’s moans increased in volume and intensity as I licked her, my nose now hard against her pubic area, smelling her sexy musk. Valerie continued to push my head into her and force her pussy up towards me, her body now all tense as the climax approached.
She gave a final loud gasp that I assumed signaled her orgasm had arrived. I kept on licking hard and felt her pussy shudder and then her muscles contracted several times. Valerie’s hands eventually loosened off my head and let me up to look at her. She inclined her head so she could see me and opened her arms in a gesture that I should climb on the sofa and hug her.
I came up, lay my head on her shoulder and felt her arms wrap around me. My cock pressed into her thigh and I felt her kiss me gently on the top of the head. “You did good Baby. Real good. You made me cum so hard.”
Lying there, comfortably in her arms, I wondered if we were done. We had both cum and I wasn’t sure I was invited to experience the ultimate with her. Much as I wanted to sink my cock into Valerie’s lovely pussy, I wasn’t sure what our next move was. I felt Valerie’s breathing start to calm and brought my hand up to cup her breast. Her nipple was still hard and she squirmed to my touch.
“You’re still hard.” Valerie reached down between our bodies and let her hand rest against my cock. “You feel good. I think you’d feel even better inside me.” She kissed me on the head again. “Would you do that for me?”
I didn’t even nod, simply raised my body away from her and slid down a little. Valerie’s hand slipped away from my cock, but came back to it as I positioned myself closer to her. I had one foot on the floor as I angled towards her and the other leg kneeling on the sofa. I looked at her face for a final confirmation but saw nothing but raw desire. It was as though Valerie needed me inside her, which was an incredible turn on for me.
My cock came to touch her pussy lips, guided by Valerie’s hand. She pulled slightly on my shaft, urging me to thrust inside. I pushed gently, parted her lips and slipped inside. Looking down between us, I watched as my stark white cock disappeared into her warm, dark folds. Valerie gasped a little as I slid in and I simply felt the warmth of her pussy walls as I reached the full length of my penetrating her.
Valerie cooed, “Oh, you feel so good. You got it all in there.”
I could feel that I was all the way in and it was a great feeling. Basking in the warmth of her pussy, I pulled out a little and slipped in again. Valerie shifted her position slightly to allow me to make easier and longer strokes.
As much as I liked seeing the pleasure on Valerie’s face as I pushed in and out of her and the way her big boobs rocked with our motion, I was fascinated by the sight of my cock disappearing into her. I was now pulling out as far as I dared and then plunging fast into her, enjoying every slick stroke and the way her pussy gripped me. Valerie wasn’t just lying without moving either, she was arching her back and thrusting her pelvis to meet my strokes as our rhythm built.
“Does that feel good Baby?” She asked in a breathy voice. “Is this what you wanted to feel when you watched me? Is this what you thought it would be like?”
“Better.” I managed to answer between thrusts.
Valerie’s hands were all over my back now, moving gently with me as I rocked into her. The first burnings of orgasm started when I caught her eyes and she looked at me with an intensity I’d never seen in anyone before. “You gonna cum Baby?” She asked. “You gonna cum for Valerie?”
I nodded, but the gesture was probably lost in my movements as I started to pursue the strokes that would bring my climax closer. I started to get faster as I chased the feeling down, desperate to cum now, needing to and wanting to please Valerie. I felt a bead of sweat drip from my forehead, down between her breasts as I pounded away. Valerie’s hands pulled tighter on my hips, pulling me in as our bodies slammed together.
The climax came relentlessly, almost teasing me as I thought I was there and then it felt like just a couple of strokes away, then right there again. Finally I knew I was cumming and with one final full thrust into Valerie my orgasm breached its confines and burst through me. I felt my chest and leg muscles twitch as my nervous system transmitted the euphoria all through me and then I wasn’t able to thrust - frozen for a moment.
Just as I started to shoot cum into Valery I was able to thrust again and look up to see Valerie’s face, watching as I came inside her.
When I was done I slumped on top of my best friend’s mom, exhausted from the sex we’d shared and still feeling little post-orgasmic shocks running through me. Valerie wrapped her arms around me, hugged tight and then brushed some hair away from my forehead. “Was that good for you Baby?” Her voice soothed as I caught my breath. “Did you like the way Valerie makes love? Was that better than watching?”
“It was good.” I managed between breaths. “Very good. Did you…”
“Hush Baby,” she caressed my cheek with her hand, “you made me feel so good. It was nice to feel a man that can get all the way into me. I’ve needed that for a long time.”
She seemed to shift on the sofa and look towards the kitchen. “The bad news is that you have to go now. Bobby will be home in half an hour, and we wouldn’t want him to find us like this. Would we?”
Of course we wouldn’t, so I quickly got up and started to pull on my clothes. Valerie found a towel and wrapped it around her boobs, explaining that she would have a quick shower. When I was dressed she walked me to the front door and kissed me before opening it. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon.” She smiled. “It was nice of you to show me your cock, and let me have it inside me.” I couldn’t have put it better.
Valerie and Bobby lived next door to my parents for another ten years or so. Whenever I saw Valerie I had an instant reaction in my pants, but not once did she ever give me the slightest sign that our secret afternoon was something she even remembered. Valerie was inscrutable like that and I guess our lives were a bit safer for it. As much as I loved the event, and all of the wonderful memories I relived for years, I would never want my parents, or Bobby, or Chet to suspect anything.
I looked out of my bedroom window many times over the years after that day but didn’t once see my next door neighbors having sex.
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2020.05.27 09:22 MilkbottleF Tight clothes voyeur

Collected in Extremidies: Stories (Four Walls Eight Windows, 1998). See also "By the Mirror of my Youth", published in Karen Haber and Robert Silverberg's Universe 2 (Bantam, 1992), and "DMZ", in Amazing Stories: The Anthology, edited by Kim Mohan (Tor, 1995):
Illusions in Relief

Little boy at the basement window, his gray tongue slack on the glass, small ugly face one big shiver of delight as Joseph, seeing him, rose, shivering himself, to readjust the makeshift paper curtain. Firm ripping noise of the duct tape no cover for the boy's sad grunt, his mother's snarl, curse and beseechment all in a word. Joseph's hand ached as he picked up the X-acto knife, silently slit one black-cheeked harlequin from the old magazine page on the table before him, added the harlequin to the larger distortion behind him: his latest work. It had brought the boy and his mother; a fat white man with no hair and many boils; an old couple, ailment not casually apparent, who with the grim humor of wolves had stationed themselves just at the end of his driveway: we'll get you, sooner or later. They probably would, too.
Joseph dissected another harlequin, carefully poised its torso, doppelganger, beside the first--no. No, not there, steady fingers tremored just a little by someone's voice, not the boy's or his mother but definitely one of the new ones, very close to the window.
"Please," just above his head, intimate and sick, "I want to talk to you, I only want to talk to you," as he placed the harlequin, studied it or tried to, "please talk to me, talk to me, talk to me" a groan, near-orgasmic entreaty, he imagined a mouth rubbing wide against the glass, drier than the boy's lips, scaly with a kind of saucy poison, the words it made unimportant beside the tone, the timbre and reek of that voice and his hand was on the knife, he had cut and placed another piece without realizing: the first harlequin's head was now that of a lion, bald and nearly earless, eyes old with the limitless deceits of those promised to show it mercy; the second harlequin's torso issued, limp and smug, from the lion's bony mouth. The voice had stopped. Joseph set the knife down; he was very tired.
Upstairs, closed blinds, the unfresh smell of a house shut tight too long; if only he could open a window, one fucking window, was that too much to ask. Reaching for a beer he noticed with dull dismay that the refrigerator was almost empty, he would be forced to go shopping again. He hated shopping: they followed him around the grocery store, blocked his desperate cart with their empty ones. Hey, aren't you? I just want. Please, for my boy, my sister, my dad.
Can't shop, can't get gas, people following him home, inexplicably convinced of the help he could not give. Letters and notes and pictures, the pictures were the worst, jammed in the mailbox before they stole it. People rolling on the grass, digging it up--if he looked out there right now he was sure to see them, somebody was always digging up the grass. There was even a guy who was counting it; he wrote the day's tally on the sidewalk and threw a fit if anyone walked on it. Chipping pieces off the front porch, creeping around the back yard with lighted candles, leaving love offerings: food, porno magazines, obscure religious tracts. Once he had kicked open the back door, scattering them a moment, and "I'm not Jesus," he had screamed, "I can't help you, why don't you mother-fuckers go home?" and that of course had only made it worse. No wonder the neighbors hated him.
Empty beer already. He opened another one, stood drinking in the cool air of the open refrigerator, wishing he could get drunk and go to bed. Simple pleasures. No rest for the fucking wicked, though, or even the merely cursed. God they were fierce out there tonight, if he didn't get right back to work he was going to start seeing things and oh boy how he hated that. Oh boy oh boy. Snakes' heads in the shower, a face flying large around the kitchen, the severed limbs of bloodless fetuses lying scattered in the basement steps--keep your fucking brain tumors, your cancers and crotch rot and lost kids and lost minds, I'm losing mine too but there was no stopping, no, and he knew it, welcomed it too; he would not have stopped for the world, would not in fact have healed them if he could; ugly, selfish, true. He had never in his life done work like this and it was worth everything, all the waste and sorrow they shit on him, every holy dollop, every crusty squirt. Everything. And the pair of too-large eyes blinking solemn semaphore, just inches from his own, assured him with matchless conviction that this in fact was simply so.
He woke in his chair with a headache and wet pants: spilled beer, almost a canful, and he reached in angry terror for the collage, had he spilled on it, fucked it up?
No. "God," he said, a soft statement of fact. It was even titled: "Working by the Light of Burning Human Bodies." He turned on the gooseneck lamp to examine it more closely. "Jesus God," he said.
Nothing was waiting for him in the shower. He watched the Today show while he ate, the dregs of a box of Rice Krispies, all powder and grit. Somebody from a local talk show called. He didn't even bother to sneer at the message; his machine was full of them. Back downstairs to look, again, at the collage. Shivering, he turned it on the stack so it faced away from him.
It was always like this when a piece was finished: a kind of listlessness, a feeling of waiting for the next thing. Of course for sheer drastic grotesquerie he could always try a trip to the grocery store, in fact would have to and to hell with the cover of darkness, it never did him any good anyway.
It was always nerve-wracking, that first crack of the front door. Keys out and ready, face composed into a mask less indifference than sheer brick wall: go.
Heads, turning, and hands already out--more of them today, maybe thirty. Ignore them all. Somebody was rubbing at his calf, someone else grabbing for the sleeve of his jacket. He wrenched his arm away, kicked out his leg, small polka of revulsion, get off me and maybe he even said it out loud because somebody sighed, somebody else said please and oh Jesus it was the magic word, pleasepleaseplease like a swarm of insects. He slammed the car door without even wondering if hands were there. Screw them. Something else he couldn't cure.
He spent the ride home worrying about the money he had spent. Very soon he would have to choose between food and the gas bill, and after that, what? The house? Stop it, he told himself, maybe it won't come to that, maybe it'll stop and they'll go away. Yeah, and maybe one day they'll break in and eat you, oh boy, and he had to laugh at that.
He knew with a dry certainty that he could have sold the collages. Anybody crazy enough to camp out in his back yard for weeks on end would surely be crazy enough to pay large sums of money for what they thought was a cure. He would sooner bum them, every one. Bad enough that this inexorable craziness had rushed into his home, his very life, worse yet that his reactions to the visions their sickness sent had gone beyond merely shaping to dominate his work; he would not commit the final act. A voyeur, yes; without trying but it was still the truth. But he was not a whore. They sent things to him, he made art from them, a closed loop and that was that, final.
Halfway down the street, almost home when he saw with despairing clarity that the crowd had doubled at least; word was out, then, that the hermit had emerged. Now he would have to fight his way in, with groceries yet. Rage made his head pound, he felt like running them over, all of them, human bowling pins, whee! Stop it, he said, you're crazier than they are, but the image would not leave him and he had to laugh. Welcome to nirvana.
As it was he could only manage two bags. Investigating the contents he was depressed to find S.O.S. pads, tomato sauce, pepper and paper towels, a hearty ragout, you bet. "Son of a bitch" and back he went, get the rest or die trying.
He was halfway up the porch again, grim elbows-out death march, when a woman in a red jogging suit fastened on him and would not, would not, let go. He was actually dragging her along and she was too lightweight, he was losing breath, slowing down when out of the bubble of faces sharp muddy-brown eyes, no rapture there, meeting his and all at once the woman let out a mighty howl and dropped from him, yelling, "He punched me in the tit!" and in the sudden grateful lightness Joseph gained the door and slammed inside, sagged to the floor with the bags and laughing in breathless bursts.
The cold of the basement, why was it always so damp, what the hell was he doing down here anyway. Half-asleep, and in the corner of his midnight bedroom some dog, graceful bas-relief ballet, paws hanging broken and the bones of its throat hideously warped, warping still under an incredible inner pressure until the head blew free like geysering water, hounding him, ha ha, all the way down the stairs, whispering half-heard prophecy until he threw an empty bottle at it just to shut it up.
The bottle shattered on the wall, glass sparkling across the sheaf of collages; he sat down, sighing, to work. Was working. Had been, how long, who knew. Assembled before him a picture of a scalpel, of a little girl, of a fat woman masturbating, of a bottle of 1890's patent medicine. Never Fails to Bring Relief. I've heard that about a lot of things, he thought, and started to cry, a dull monotonous sound, huhhuh-huh like air squeezed in bursts from his chest, heard above the noise his name. Someone saying his name.
[Joseph]
Who was out there tonight, looking brown-eyed at the house, at him, standing bareheaded and serene in the dark, a warm peculiar itching on a forearm, just above the ancient mottled wrist.
[Joseph let me in]
"Fuck you," he whispered, "fuck you to death," warm snot on his lips, too sick to wipe it away, too tired. Nothing is worth this, nothing. [Joseph]
The back door curtains, pinned shut for your protection, the porch light hadn't worked since he bought the house. Opening the door, no tears but still that endless chuffing sound, he stared out at the diehards, a part of him remarking Shit you look even crazier than they do, and an old man, brittle and fine as an antique weapon, scratching at his arm as he stepped up to the door like a step in a dance, raising one forearm and the sleeve of one forearm to display with silent assurance--surely this will interest you--an irregular coin-shaped patch, the skin a rich and deadly green.
"Joseph," the same voice in and out of his head, and he grabbed the old man by the other arm and dragged him in.
"Cures anything," the old man said, lifting his beer.
"Cheers," Joseph said. He was possessed of a marvelous lightness, a full and expansive drunkenness that was less a state than a symptom; he felt better than he had for months. "Who're you,"drinking, "Santa Claus?" and he laughed again; it seemed he had done nothing but laugh since the old man came in.
"Who gives a shit what my name is." The old man drank again, let out a thin scentless belch. "Watch this," and up with the sleeve again, poured a few drops of beer on the green spot. Joseph leaned forward to see the beer foam up like raw acid, sink back into the skin. The spot. The old man looked at his face and laughed.
"I knew you'd like it."
"I can't," leaning back, far back, "I can't do anything about that."
"Oh yes you can."
"I said I can't fix that."
"Who wants it fixed?"
Morning, Joseph waking to a half-stale cooking smell and bounding up, in terror that he had somehow left something on the stove, was the house burning, or--Ah. Memory. The old man sat at the kitchen table, eating the last of a piece of wheat toast.
"You sure got a shitload of food," he said.
"I buy in bulk." There was coffee. Joseph sat across from the old man, who promptly hauled up his sleeve: the green spot had easily doubled. "Just being in the house helps," he said to Joseph.
Joseph rubbed at his face. "Things are getting too weird even for me."
"Don't start," said the old man impatiently. He took a beer from the refrigerator. "We went through all this last night."
"I don't remember that. I don't even know why I let you in." He didn't either.
The old man stared at him over the rim of the can, slow slide of Adam's apple in the veiny tube of throat: not unhappy, or hysterical, or worshipful or greedy, not wanting.
"Everybody gets what they don't want," he said. "The trick is to find a way to want it. But that's not your problem, is it?" Joseph said nothing.
"Your problem is, and stop me if I'm wrong (but I'm not): you don't want to go where it wants to take you. Like me. But I got over that. All I want now," tapping his arm, "is for this to go on."
"And you want me to help you."
"I want you to work. You get where you're going the way you're meant to get there. If you don't jerk yourself off with a lot of shit about guilt. Save your own fucking soul, you know?"
"Jesus. Philosophy."
"Jesus is philosophy." The old man finished off the beer, hollow aluminum thump on the tabletop. "Let's go."
Joseph thought he would feel like an asshole, did as he sat down, supremely conscious of the old man, like a column, behind him. Turning green. "Fucking A," Joseph said, and started in again on the dog collage. Scalpel and little girl, fat woman, the patent medicine dripping, running, long voluptuous stream like a waterfall, infinite relief, infinite cure, peace is flowing like a river. His busy hands warm at the palms, cool the tips of his fingers. Sweat on his back. Yes. The little girl, daisy-faced and hair a river too, the fat woman's cum a river, the scalpel splitting skin to make the biggest river of all. It all wound into a road leading into darkest peace, a vortex not black but green, a deep wet green.
Joseph raised his head, smiling, took a long happy breath and saw the old man move, just a little to the left; he had taken off his shirt and was staring as happily at his arm, which was green to the shoulder.
"Just look!" the old man said, and waved his arm like a trophy, then bent to examine the collage. "Pretty good," he said. "Better than anything those other fucks ever sent you."
That night they had an amazing drunk, all the beer in the house, watching the greening of the old man. Joseph told him everything, everything that had happened since the first time, that original supplicant, his first vision or dream: "I thought I was going crazy," Joseph said.
"I bet you did." The old man drank. "I bet you were." "I called the police," shaking his head, tired amazement still at his own naivete. "They told me I'd have to press charges, you know, for trespass. Okay. Fine, for the first one or two. Or ten. But after that, shit." Slow sluice of Pabst Blue Ribbon. "They tried to make out it was my own fault, attractive nuisance, like I had too many Christmas lights or something. The traffic was incredible." and incredibly he laughed, and the old man laughed too. It was funny in a way. A weird way.
"Open another one of those for me," the old man said.
"You got it." Snap pop off comes the top, drink it on down and we'll never stop. He told the old man about the reporters, the tabloids and minicams, the failed attempts to make it stranger than it was which had to fail because there was no way, no way it could be: the shared hysteria of ten, twenty, fifty people, faces changing all the time, chasing their terrified messiah who wanted only to be left alone.
"Pictures," he told the old man bitterly. "Of babies. With no arms. Pictures of old people with big fucking tumors, close-ups of tumors. Dead wives or missing kids or who the hell knows what. They taped 'em to the window. Facing in. That was when I used to try to open the drapes." More beer. "Why, you know? Why do they think I can help them? It wasn't me made them crazy." And the visions, more certain with each one that he was going madder, working under their pernicious influence and waking to find grotesquerie, and beauty, beyond anything he had ever hoped to do: a power so harsh he was helpless before his own talent, magnified by their need, by the pain they carried like the seeds of some rich disease. Manna in reverse. The multitude feeding him.
"How can I say no to it?" wild, spilling his beer, head pointed to the ceiling, compass of grief revealed. "I don't want them to be hurt, but I can't help them anyway, and they keep giving me this stuff, how can I turn it down? How can I do that? I can't do that."
The old man opened another beer for them both, drank with lips green at the corners. "Come on," a gentle hand on Joseph's. "Back to work."
Waking in darkness. The old man, long swath of color in the metal folding chair. Joseph had to piss something terrible. On his way back from the bathroom he chanced a look outside: they were still there.
"Hey," second day, third? Who knew. He had done six new pieces. "Hey. What the hell's happening to you anyway?"
The old man's luminous smile; his teeth were as falsely white as ever. "Feels great," he said. "Riding the current usually does."
Eighteen, nineteen new pieces, they poured out of him like water. The old man was totally green now but insisted there was more to come, wait, just wait a little longer.
"Wait for what," said Joseph, but mildly. He felt better, oh God how much better he felt. He hadn't had a vision, a hallucination, since the old man came, except of course (of course) for the ones the old man carried, but those, oh those were different. Because they actually did something. For someone else, someone besides Joseph. Although they left him with an aftertaste, a restlessness that was perhaps a curve in the circle begun by the old man, instigated by the offering of his willful mutation, a cycle that nourished them and itself: more art equals more change equals more art, infinite cure, yes. Never Fails to Bring Relief.
The people outside did not leave but no new ones came. Joseph, pointing at the collages, told the old man. "Then these must all be for you."
"Not really," he said.
Palms to cheeks, a long yawn, Joseph rubbed his eyes to consider this last piece: the pristine alien beauty of wasps in promenade, long black streamers like cries of wonder from the skeleton children beneath, their skeleton mothers askip in their own inimitable waltz. He turned, to display it to the old man, hey look at this.
"Hey, look at this," he said, turning all the way in his chair. Nothing. "Hey," louder. He got up, still holding the collage, walked all around the basement. He realized he didn't even know the old man's name. He went upstairs, searched the house collage in hand, "Hey!"
The front door was unlocked.
He sat in the chair nearest the door to consider this. The collage was still in his hand. Someone knocked at the door and he opened it. It was a girl, young girl, with a mild case of acne and no right hand.
"Here," he said, and gave her the collage. As it left his hand and touched hers one of his fingers blossomed a bright and ineffable green.
The Neglected Garden
"I DON’T WANT TO GO," she said. "I'm not going."
Patient and calm, the way he wanted to be, he explained again; they had discussed it, she was moving out. He had already packed her things for her, five big cardboard boxes, labeled, he had done the best he could. Clothes on hangers and her big Klee print wrapped and tied carefully across with string, everything neatly stacked in the car, here, he said, here's the keys.
"I don't want the car," she said. Tears ran down her face but she made no crying sounds, her breathing did not change, in fact her expression did not change. She stood there staring at him with rolling tears and her hands empty, palms upwards, at her sides. He kissed her, a little impatiently, on her mouth.
"You have to go," he said. "Please, Anne, we've gone all through this. Let's not make it any harder than it already is," although in fact it wasn't all that hard, not for him anyway. "Please," and he leaned forward but did not kiss her again; her lips were unpleasantly wet.
She stared at him, saying nothing. He began to feel more than impatient, angry in fact, but no, he would say nothing too, he would give as good as he got. He put her car keys in her hand, literally closing her fingers around them, and picking up his own keys left the house. An hour or so, he would come back and she would be gone.
When he got back her car was still in the driveway, but she was nowhere in the house, not upstairs, not in the utility room; nowhere. Feeling a little silly, he looked in the closets, even considered looking under the bed; nothing. "Anne," calling her, louder and louder, "Anne, stop it, where are you," walking through the house and a movement, something in the backyard, caught his eye through the big kitchen windows. Letting the screen door slam, hard, walking fast and then seeing her, stopping as if on the perilous lip of a fire.
She was on the fence. The back fence, old now and leaning, half its braces gone. She sat at the spot where the rotted wood ended and the bare fencing began, legs straight out, head tipped just slightly to the right. Her arms were spread in a loose posture of crucifixion, and through the flesh of her wrists she had somehow pierced the rusty wire of the fence, threading it around the tendons, the blood rich and thick and bright like some strange new food and while he stood there staring and staring a fly settled down on the blood and walked around in it, back and forth.
He kept staring at the fly, it was suddenly so hot in the yard, it was as if he couldn't see, or could see only half of the scene before him, a kind of dazzle around the perimeters of his vision like the beginning of a fainting fit and back and forth went the fly, busy little black feet and he screamed, "Son of a bitch!" and moved to slap the fly away, and as his hand touched the wound she gave a very small sound, and he pulled his hand back and saw the blood on it.
He said something to her, something about my God Anne what the hell and she opened her eyes and looked at him in a slow considering kind of way, but with a certain blankness as if she viewed him now from a new perspective, and another fly landed and more hesitantly he brushed that one away, and still she did not speak at all.
"You have to go to the hospital," he told her. "You're bleeding, it's dangerous to bleed that way."
She ignored him by closing her eyes. Ants were walking over her bare feet. She didn't seem to feel them. "Anne," loudly, "I'm calling an ambulance, I'm calling the police, Anne."
The police were not helpful. He would have to press charges, they said, trespass charges against her to have her removed. They became more interested when he started to explain, in vague halting phrases, exactly how she was attached to his fence, and in sudden nervous fear he hung up, perhaps they would think he had done it to her himself, who knew what Anne might tell them, she was obviously crazy, to do that to herself she would have to be crazy. He looked out the kitchen window and saw her looking at the house, her eyes tracking as he moved slowly past the windows. He didn't know what to do. He sat in the living room and tried to think.
By the time the sun went down he still had no idea what course to take. He did not even want to go back outside but he did, stood looking down at her. "Do you want some water? Or some aspirin or something?" and in the same breath enraged by what he had just said, the extreme and dangerous stupidity of the whole situation, he shouted at her, called her a stupid fucking idiot and walked back inside, shaking, shaking in his legs and knees and inside his body, felt his heart pounding, it was hard to breathe. She had to be in pain. Was she so crazy she didn't even feel pain anymore? Maybe it was a temporary thing, temporary insanity, maybe a night spent outside would shock her out of it, a night sitting on the cold ground.
In the morning she was still there, although she had stopped bleeding. Ants walked up and down her legs. The blood at her wrists had clotted to jelly. The skin of her face was very white.
"Anne," he said, and shook his head. Her hair was damp, parts of it tangled in the fence, and the pulse in her throat beat so he could see it, a sluggish throb. He felt sorry for her, he hated her. He wanted her to just get up and go away. "Anne, please, you're not doing yourself any good, this is hurting you," and the look she gave him then was so pointed that he felt his skin flush, he refused to say anything, he turned and went back into the house.
Someone was knocking at his front door: the woman from next door, Barbara something, joined by the paperboy's mother whose name he could not remember. They were shrill, demanding to know what he was going to do about that poor woman out there and my God this and that and he shouted at them from the depths of his confusion and anger, told them to get the hell off his porch and he had already been in contact with the police if that would satisfy them, thank you very much, it's none of your business to start with. When they had gone he sat down, he felt very dizzy all of a sudden, he felt as if he had to sit down for a while, a good long while.
How, he didn't know, but he fell asleep, there in the chair, woke with his shirt collar sticking to his neck, sweat on his forehead and above his upper lip. He felt chilled. As he went into the kitchen to get something warm to drink his gaze went to the windows, it was irresistible, he had to look.
She was still there, slumped back against the fence, a curve in her arms and back that curiously suggested tension. She saw him; he knew it by the way her body moved, just a little, as his cautious figure came into view. He ducked away, then felt embarrassed somehow, as if he had been caught peeping in a window, then angry at himself and almost instantly at her.
Let her sit, he said to himself. We'll see who gets tired of this first.
It was almost ten days later that he called a doctor, a friend of his. Anne had not moved, he had barely gone near her, but even his cursory window inspections showed him things were changing, it was nothing he wanted to have to inspect. After much debate he called Richard, told him there was a medical situation at his house; his evasiveness puzzled Richard who said, "Look, if you have somebody sick there, you'd be better off getting her to a hospital. It is a her, isn't it?" Yes, he said. I just need you to come over here, he said, it's kind of a situation, you'll know what I mean when you see her.
Finally Richard arrived, and he directed him straight out to the backyard, stood watching from the window, drinking a glass of ice water. Richard was back in less than five minutes, his face red. He slammed the screen door hard behind him.
"I don't know what the hell's going on here," Richard said, "but I'll tell you one thing, that woman out there is in bad shape, I mean bad shape. She's got an infection that ? "
Well, he said, you're a doctor, right?
"I'm a gynecologist," and Richard was shouting now. "She belongs in a hospital. This is criminal, this is a criminal situation. That woman could die from this."
He drank a little of his ice water, a slow swallow, and Richard leaned forward and knocked the glass right out of his hand. "I said she could die from this, you asshole, and I'm also saying that if she does it's your fault."
"My fault? My fault, how can it be my fault when she's the one who ? " but Richard was already leaving, slamming back out the door, gone. The ice water lay in a glossy puddle on the chocolate-colored tile. He looked out the window. Her posture was unchanged.
It was a kind of dream, less nightmare than sensation of almost painful confusion, and he woke from it sweaty, scared a little, sat up to turn on the bedside lamp. It was almost three. He put on a pair of khaki jeans and walked barefoot into the backyard, the flashlight set on dim, a wavering oval of pale yellow light across the grass.
Perhaps she was asleep.
He leaned closer, not wanting to come too close but wanting to see, and flicked the light at her face.
Moths were walking across her forehead, pale as her skin, a luminous promenade. A small sound came from him as she opened her eyes. There was a moth beneath her right eyelid. It looked dead.
Her hair was braided into the fence, and the puffy circles of infection at her wrists had spread, a gentle bloat extending almost to her elbows. There was a slightly viscous shine to the original wounds. The old blood there had a rusty tinge. The grass seemed greener now, lapping at her bare feet and ankles. When he touched her with the light she seemed almost to feel it, for she turned her head, not away from the light as he expected but into it, as if it was warm and she was cold.
No doubt she was cold. If he touched her now -
He flicked the light to full power, a small brassy beam, played it up and down her body, nervously at first then with more confidence as she moved so little, so gently in its light. Her hair looked dark as a vine. There was dew on her clothing. He stood looking at her for it seemed to him a very long time, but when he returned to the house he saw it was barely quarter after three.
She kept on changing. The infection worsened and then apparently stabilized; at least it spread no farther. Her arms, a landscape of green and pale brown, leaves and the supple wood of the creeping growth about her breasts and waist, her clothing paler and more tattered, softly stained by the days of exposure. Flowers were starting to sprout behind her head, strange white flowers like some distorted stylized nimbus, Our Lady of the Back Forty. Her feet were a permanent green. It seemed her toenails were gone.
None of the neighbors would talk to him now. His attempts at explanations, bizarre even to his own ears, turned them colder still. Each day after work he would look through the kitchen windows, each day he would find some new change, minute perhaps but recognizable. It occurred to him that he was paying her more attention than ever now, and in a moment of higher anger he threw a tarp over her, big and blue and plastic, remnant of boating days. It smelled. He didn't care. She smelled too, didn't she? He covered her entirely, to the tips of her green toes, left her there. He was no more than twenty steps away when the rustling started, louder and louder, the whole tarp shaking as if by a growing wind; it was horrible to watch, horrible to listen to and angrier still he snatched it away, looked down at her closed eyes and the spiderweb in her ear. As he stood there her mouth opened very slowly, it seemed she would speak. He looked closer and saw a large white flower growing in her mouth, its stem wound around her tongue which moved, feebly, as she tried to talk.
He slapped her, once, very hard. It was disgusting to look at her, he wanted to smother her with the tarp, but he was afraid to try it again. He couldn't bear that sound again, that terrible rustling sound like the rattling of cockroaches, God if there was only some way to kill her fast he would do it, he would do it right now.
The white flower wiggled. Another slowly unfurled like a time-lapse photo, bigger than the first. Its petals were a richer white, heavy like satin. It brushed against her lower lip, and her mouth hung slightly open to accommodate its weight; it looked like she was pouting, a parody of a pout.
He threw the tarp away. He pulled down the blinds in the kitchen and refused to check on her after work. He tried to think, again, what to do, lay in bed at night hoping something would somehow do it for him. After a particularly heavy rain, during which he sat up all night, almost chuckling in the stern sound of the downpour, he rushed out first thing in the morning to see how she'd liked her little bath. He found her feet had completely disappeared into the grass, her hair gone into vines with leaves the size of fists, her open mouth a garden. She was lush with growth. He felt a sick and bitter disappointment, with childish spite wrenched one of the flowers from her mouth and ground it into the grass where her feet had been. Even as he stood there the grass crept a discernible distance forward.
Grass, all of it growing too high around her. Well when the grass gets too high you cut it, right, that's what you do, you cut it and he was laughing a little, it was simple. A simple idea and he started up the mower, it took a few tries but he started it. A left turn from the garage, walking past the driveway with a happy stride, pushing the mower before him, growling sound of the mower a comfort in his ears and all at once the ground trembled, was it the mower's vibration? It trembled again, harder this time, no earthquakes here, what the hell and it happened again, more strongly, over and over until the grass moved like water, choppy undulating waves that gained and climbed until he stumbled beneath their force and lost his footing entirely, fell down and saw with a shout of fear that the mower was still on, was growling at him now, the waves of grass aiming it towards him. He rolled away, a clumsy scramble to stand again, half-crawled to the safety of the still driveway. As soon as his feet left the grass the waves stopped. The mower's automatic cut-off shut it down. He was crying and couldn't help it.
"What do you want," screaming at her, tears on his lips, "what do you want," oh this is the last straw, this is enough. No more.
Back to the garage, looking for the weed killer, the Ortho stuff he'd used before, herbicide, and the term struck him and he laughed, a hard barking laugh. He had trouble attaching the sprayer, the screw wouldn't catch and he struggled with it, the hastily mixed solution, too strong, splashing on his skin, stinging where it splashed. Finally in his heat he threw the sprayer down, the hell with it, he would just pour it on her, pour it all over her.
Walking fast across the grass, before she could catch on, before she could start up, hurrying and the solution jiggling and bubbling in the bottle. "Are you thirsty?" too loudly, "are you thirsty, Anne, are you ? " and he threw it at her, bottle and all, as hard as he could. And stepped back, breathing dryly through his mouth, to watch.
At first nothing seemed to be happening; only her eyes, opening very wide, the eyes of someone surprised by great pain. Then on each spot where the solution had struck the foliage began not to wither but to blacken, not the color of death but an eerily sumptuous shade, and in one instant every flower in her mouth turned black, a fierce and luminous black and her eyes were black too, her lips, her hands black as slowly she separated herself from the fence, dragging half of it with her, rising to a shambling crouch and her tongue free and whipping like a snake as he turned, much too slowly, it was as if his disbelief impeded him, turning back to see in an instant's glance that black black tongue come crawling across the grass, and she behind it with a smile.
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2020.05.24 14:09 DamienBoyes Tight clothes voyeur

21:19:51 // 04-JUN-2042
Normally, Dodge avoided the entertainment district with the same zeal he avoided human contact in general. It was too shrill, too hectic, too fake. Nothing was unpleasant. Nothing was real. Which, Dodge supposed, was the key to providing mindless escapism.
The deafening music and epileptic lights radiating from every club, casino, and hotdog cart made Dodge want to run away screaming as though his hair were on fire. But he couldn’t. They had to find Joshua. Besides, if they didn’t he’d never get paid.
Before he dove into the crowd, he stopped under a massive revolving display advertising the revival of Cats, used his mobile to access his data locker, and instructed an agent to search for information on ‘Len Quid,’ ‘Blair,’ and ‘Joshua Warner.’ The agent reported back a few seconds later.
The ‘Blair’ search contained too many results to bother with, and there was no new information on Len. One of the bots would surely have discovered Len’s body when he didn’t come down for his evening drink, so if there was no news, someone must have moved it. Most likely the Burning Spear when they came to claim the wounded soldiers, but either way, the cover-up was in full effect.
The name Joshua Warner produced a few hits belonging to a seven year-old trumpet prodigy in Kentucky and an English football star, but nothing relevant. Sometimes, as useful as the link was, having the combined wealth of human knowledge at his fingertips wasn’t really as helpful as it should have been.
Against his better judgment, he checked the search watching for mentions of his name. References to ‘Montrose Douglas Dodgson’ appeared more than seventy-thousand times, nearly a third having originated within the past day.
He picked one at random: a report from a Patriot support ring hypothesizing Mr. Dodgson’s muscle augmentations had been performed in the Free Republic of Texas, and calling for an immediate retributive invasion. A knot coiled in his gut. He didn’t know why he bothered with news about himself. Like everything else, it only made him feel worse.
Dodge disengaged the mobile with a disgusted swipe just as a blue and while uniformed Patriot soldier collided with him, nearly knocking him over. The soldier stopped and scowled. Her faceplate glowed turquoise as the camera in her helmet scanned and compared Dodge’s face against a database of known, suspected, or profile-matching criminals and returned the results to her.
This was it. He was caught for sure.
Sweat blossomed on his forehead. He glanced around for an escape route, but it was too late. The Patriots were wearing exo suits that enhanced their strength and speed. If he tried to run they’d nab him for sure.
A long second passed as the the Patriot gave him a stern look, but instead of detaining him, she mumbled a warning to watch where he was going and fell back in beside her partner. The search must have come up empty. All that surgery had been worth every excruciating dollar. Still, he figured he’d better put some distance between them, dropped his head, and plunged into the crowd.
As much as he despised being around people, Dodge had always been fascinated by the crowd mentality. When walking in an empty street, people strode confidently, purposefully, conscious not to appear weak. Conversely, when surrounded by like-minded strollers, people let their guard down, surrendering themselves to the sanctuary of the crowd. This probably explained why so many pickpockets worked the area: people didn’t notice they had been robbed until they were alone and once again on guard against the evils of the world. Maybe that explained why Joshua liked it here; he could simply be part of the crowd instead of the reason it had gathered.
Dodge zipped past the casinos and barely glanced at a staged shoot-out as it erupted outside the ‘Casa Nostra.’ Interactive advertisements beckoned to him from storefronts, enticing him with secret bargains, medical miracles, and artificial pleasures. He didn’t have a rep score so the ads were all generalized, but it didn’t stop them from trying. Glittering fast-food franchises pumped their artificially enhanced smells into the air, creating an umbra of scent detectable from blocks away, easily traceable back to the source. His mouth watered at the smell of grilled meat and he realized he hadn’t eaten in a day.
He continued on past a solid block of neon-laced businesses providing access to virtual worlds, promising the ability to live out adventurous lives and erotic fantasies. They didn’t seem like the kinds of places Klaxon Overdrive would hang out.
The crowd thickened ahead of him. Annoyed, Dodge looked up and stopped dead in his tracks. Before him was a three-story club that appeared to have no front wall. The interior of the club was dark, lit only by the otherworldly glow of fluorescent clothing under black light. Patrons circulated on three floors, thrashing to the music, cradling shimmering, multi-hued drinks. They seemed oblivious to the people gazing up at them.
It took another moment of incredulous scrutiny—and the name of the club, ‘Voyeur,’ sliding past along the wall in six-foot high red block-capital letters—before Dodge realized that the outer wall was nothing but a huge depth-generating screen.
Frustrated with how easily he had been fooled, Dodge marched to the bouncer and paid the cover with his cashcard. There were a lot of clubs to search and the ‘Voyeur’ was as good a place to start as any.
As he walked through the doors, Dodge was hit by a startling blast of arctic air. He had been hot for so long he had almost forgotten what cool air felt like. He stopped for a moment and let the chill surround him, drying the beaded sweat from his forehead. Even if Joshua wasn’t here, the refreshment was worth the price of admission.
The inside of the club looked exactly as it had been advertised: full of colorful, drunken gyrating bodies. What couldn’t be seen from outside, however, was the interior of the curved front wall. It showed, in grotesque enormity, the faces of those watching from outside. The spectators’ features bulged, every pore and wrinkle magnified. It was like being inside a massive terrarium, with giants silently observing.
Dodge scanned the dancing faces, but no one seemed to be looking at him suspiciously. In fact, no one was looking at him at all. That was another reason why he hated crowds—even surrounded by people he felt like an outsider, like he didn’t belong.
He made a sweep through the first floor and was ascending the stairs to the second when he realized the earsplitting music was a remix of Heart on My Hand, one of Klaxon’s biggest hits. The tributes had already started. Musicians would be remixing and rerecording Klaxon’s work, flavoring his distinct instrumental style with their own to produce new twists on his songs. They’d all be uploaded and disseminated around the world for his eager fans to devour. Dodge wouldn’t have been surprised if the song playing had been finished just hours ago.
Joshua wasn’t on the second floor. Nor was he on the third, ‘VIP’ floor, which required a short argument punctuated with a bribe before he was granted access to find out. Dodge went back over the floors again, then just to be sure, asked a passing busboy if he had seen a man who looked vaguely like Klaxon Overdrive, wearing a black hooded jacket.
“I seen plenty of black jackets, but the only time I seen Klaxon Overdrive is every time I look at a screen,” he yelled, his bin of empty bottles and glasses shifting on his shoulder. “I’m already sick of seeing that guy’s face everywhere I look.”
Dodge nodded and turned away.
Sure Joshua wasn’t lurking anywhere inside, Dodge returned to the street. After the air-conditioned club, the humidity felt even stronger. A drop of sweat materialized on his temple and ran down his cheek. He took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder.
He tried ‘Tonic’ and ‘The Croc’ and ‘Infiltrator,’ all older clubs that wouldn’t begin drawing crowds until near midnight. They were all practically empty, populated only by bored bartenders and waitstaff chatting with each other. Dodge asked if anyone had seen a man who looked like Klaxon Overdrive. Not surprisingly, no one had.
He was running out of clubs to search. Hopefully Blair was having better luck. Though if she had found Joshua, she would have called … at least he thought she would. Dodge couldn’t figure her out. He could see Blair defying her bosses and snatching Klaxon away from them, but that didn’t explain why she had risked her life, and the life of Joshua—the man she was trying to protect—by helping him.
She wanted Joshua’s DNA back, that could explain it, but Dodge felt there had to be more to it. Len would have been able to see exactly what was going on. He was so adept at putting things together, he could have assembled a two thousand-piece puzzle of the starless night sky in the dark. But Len was gone. He had no one to rely on now but himself, and figuring people out was not his strong suit.
Dodge continued further west. Clubs this far out, on the edge of the entertainment district, where the glittering screens gave way to garbage-strewn alleys and cracked LED streetlights, had to cater to more specialized clientele. He stopped outside an abandoned-looking building, which, judging by the proliferation of latex, black eye makeup and computer-related body-mods on the patrons in line, was a techno-goth bar. He bypassed the line with a fifty-NAD swipe of his cashcard and slipped inside. As he descended the short flight of steps someone stranded in line yelled at him, threatening to find out who he was and hack his life into non-existence for jumping the queue. Dodge chuckled joylessly as he entered the club. As if a mere hacker could do anything to make his life any worse.
He stepped inside and ghoulish dark enveloped him like a closing fist. Heavy maroon curtains laced with fiber optic weaving lined the walls, devouring the already inadequate light. A grime-coated chrome fan spun lazily on the black ceiling. Scab-colored velour couches hunkered in the dark, with patrons lounging across them like wilted flowers over a casket. The words ‘Castle of Otranto’ hovered in the THC-hazed air above the dance floor, the nauseous green letters designed to look like they were dripping onto the people below.
People emerged from the smoky shadows, faces wan from the drug cocktails coursing through them, looking like the reanimated dead—which was probably the point. They staggered to the music, heads down, explosive hairstyles pulsating, luminous makeup heavy over closed eyes, with glowing ecigs clenched lightly between slender fingers. Those few in street clothes were obviously tourists, there only to ogle the freak-show.
It looked exactly like a place where Klaxon Overdrive would hang out: dark, heavily romanticized, and thick with necromantic overtones. They were even playing his song Inhuman Symphony remixed into a funeral-paced dirge, yearning vocals begging for destruction.
Surveying the crowd, Dodge noticed at least ten black hooded figures. Each resembled Klaxon Overdrive slightly, some with bone-straight black hair or a lithe physique or a gaunt face, but none of them were Joshua.
On his second pass through the club, Dodge glimpsed a slim figure wearing a jacket like Joshua’s wobble into a narrow hallway behind the bar. Dodge snaked after, skirting past the swaying dancers.
The hallway led to a small, well-lit storeroom tucked between the bar and the bathrooms. Empty metal shelves lined the walls. Dodge squinted into the comparatively intense light and saw a dozen ashen-faced patrons slumped on cheap plastic chairs arranged along the walls, passed out or well on their way. A garbage bin sat in the center of the room, congealed vomit splashed on the floor all around it. The figure Dodge had been pursuing clutched the rim, and was heaving her guts out.
It wasn’t Joshua. It was a girl, eyes red-rimmed and hollow with need, no older than fourteen. A white-faced doll—dressed in a matching ribbon-laced white shirt and black platform shoes—lay in vomit next to its owner’s bent knees.
She gazed up at him. Her spit-flecked lips extended in a pout ten years too old for her face as clutched his pant leg. Her grasp barely wrinkled the fabric.
“Hey sexy, you holding? Froot Loops? Q?”
Dodge recoiled. His leg slipped from her fingers.
“No … No, I—”
“How’s the academy?” a deep voice said from behind him.
Dodge spun. Two ‘tude boys—members of an online clan and dressed in emulation of their digital avatars—had followed him into the room. Small, back-mounted holo-projectors beamed red letters above their heads: Ranta and Don’ch, presumably their clan names.
Their outfits were ridiculous: royal blue velveteen jerkins, ruffled golden blouses, and Egyptian-styled facial hair. It made them look like posturing, historically confused, seventeenth century dandies. Anything but dangerous. But the unflinching look in their eyes and the way their muscles twitched under their antiquated clothing made it clear they weren’t playing around.
“Excuse me?” Dodge said, blinking his eyes, looking back and forth between Ranta and the girl on the floor.
Don’ch, towering over his verbal companion, jerked his braided goatee. His regiment of spiked platinum hair conveyed impending aggression.
“Don’t they learn you nerfs ‘bout undercover work, narc-o?” Ranta spat the last word and followed through with a head-fake lunge. As he spoke he jived his hands in a blur, movements that would have meant something had his hands been inside in a feelE airboard—probably directing a large sword or other exotic weapon to swing out in a decapitating blow.
Remaining otherwise still, Don’ch crossed his arms. His biceps writhed under the rich fabric.
Dodge raised his hands, dangling his jacket like a matador suddenly realizing that messing with an incensed bull was an incredibly stupid way to die. “Easy fellas, I don’t want any trouble.”
“I reckon not.” Ranta blurred forward. Surprisingly willowy fingers shoved Dodge backwards. The metal shelves caught him and clattered against the plaster wall. No one else in the room was paying attention.
Up close, Dodge could see Ranta’s pupils constricted to the point of invisibility, the iris an unbroken blue disk. Most likely due to omnipotence, the street drug that increased reaction time, enhanced strength, dulled pain, and amplified the perceptions of moral right and wrong.
He was in trouble. Sweat ran down his back like someone had rammed a garden hose in his shirt and turned on the faucet.
“We don’t like newbs in here. Check?” Ranta’s breath was hot and moist on Dodge’s cheek. It smelled softly of skunk. “We pro-tec ‘dese ro-tan from pervs like you, Alice.”
His pride wanted to fight but, as always, panic prevailed. Maybe Blair could have taken on two juiced-up stim-freaks, but he’d end up shattered in intensive care while doctors grew him another set of internal organs and re-knit his bones.
“Lesson time,” Ranta raised a tight fist, preparing to cave Dodge’s face in with his smooth knuckles, but his associate stepped forward and clasped his arm.
“Detach, Ran. This carb ain’t nothing. He’s horlan. Ain’t you, carb?”
Eyes wide, Dodge nodded madly, not knowing what he was agreeing with.
Ranta unlaced his fingers and wiped them across his lips.
“Scata,” Ranta said, grabbed two handfuls of Dodge’s sweat-dampened shirt and tossed him out into the hallway.
Face flushed, Dodge scrambled away, his soles slipping on the slick tiles. Laughter chased him down the hall.
He streaked through the club, up the steps, shoved his way through the line outside and raced down the street, embracing the clinging humidity as a sign of safety. Heart racing as stress chemicals dashed through his body, he tried to straighten his shirt, tucking the loose tails back into his pants, while getting as far away as possible.
This was exactly why he never left the house.
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2020.04.30 09:06 Max-Voynich Clothes voyeur tight

This story has just gone live on nosleep, you can read it here. If you'd rather stay here, keep reading!
----
That’s what it says: FUCK ME.
Black serifed font, embossed on a thick cream card. Premium stock.
FUCK ME.
No name, no address, no watermark. It lies on our carpet, uninvited, suggestive, like skin exposed as a dress slips off the shoulder.
Posted through our door at some point in the night, and left for us in the morning.
It makes no sense. It’s obscene.
“Are you having an affair?” my wife asks.
“No, are you?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think the card’s meant for me, honey.”
“Well it’s not meant for me.”
She pauses. I make a good point.
“I’ll throw it in the bin” I say, making my way to the kitchen.
I don't, of course. Slip it in my wallet instead, just in case.
In case of what? I’m not sure. In case, I guess, I need it.

BILLBOARD:
I’m driving to work the next morning and there it is. Proud, exposed above the freeway. Hundreds, thousands of cars driving right under it. A billboard, entirely white, except for two words.
Black, serifed font.
FUCK ME.
I tell my wife I saw it above the freeway, that it must be a joke, that whoever did it to us probably did it to everyone else in the neighborhood and then some, that they’ve hired a whole billboard, would you believe it, a whole billboard.
She doesn’t believe it. Says it sounds stupid, that she’s bored of the game now.
“There’s no game” I reply. “There’s no game, or, if there is - we’re not the only players.”
“We’re not players at all, honey.”
“Right, but if there was a game, we would be.”
“Sure. I guess”
“Right.”

ADVERT:
I’m watching TV. Can’t sleep, half-finished beer by my feet. The programs all become the same, all blurred into one, flicking through the channels, catching five minutes at a time.
Too tired to change it now, resigned to watching the ads.
A handsome man appears on screen, muscular, tanned, his white T-shirt is pulled tight and hugs him when he moves.
He leans forward, his teeth a picture-perfect whiter-than-white toothpaste smile and he says, into the camera:
“SMILERITE is my favourite toothpaste. Always has been, always will be.”
He licks his teeth, looks around as if checking if people can hear, and then turns back, looks me dead in the eye, and speaks again, slower:
“FUCK ME.”

BANK:
The teller looks around: no one else in the queue. Leans forward. A tattoo begins just on the exposed skin by her collar: ink-black, white froth of waves, the implication of a boat.
“And, Sir, after you’ve deposited the agreed upon amount, would you be so kind as to fuck me?”
“Sorry?”
“Sorry, Sir. I should have been much clearer: FUCK ME. I was wondering if you would like to fuck me.”
My throat grows tight, I stammer out a no, loosen my tie. Tell her I don’t know what she means, why she’s saying this, and as I do so her jaw shakes, she wipes her mouth, the back of her hand is red with blood.
Can someone just say that?
She’s bleeding from her mouth, I think. Standing there, perfect customer-service smile, but there’s blood leaking from between her teeth and pooling under her lip. Some of it dribbles onto the desk, and I think it sounds like a broken gutter.
Can someone just say something like that in everyday life and people just do nothing?

FOOTAGE FROM A MURDER:
A VHS comes through the door, titled FUCK ME.
I want to throw it away immediately but something takes over. I haven’t seen a VHS in years, and I can’t help but want to know more. I set it up in the attic, plug our VHS machine into a small television set, sit and watch the video whilst holding my breath.
It opens with both a man and a woman dressed in these strange clothes, black cloth sacks over their heads. The woman’s like a cheap parody of a princess, the fake material has a plastic sheen, the pink reminds me of old toys; little cars discarded on the side of the road.
The man’s wearing a striped shirt with a little anchor on it. Some sort of sailor.
The bags are pulled off their heads. They are young, attractive. The woman's forehead is dewed with sweat, and she glows. The man has a strong jaw, stubble, darts his tongue out to wet his lips. I guess mid-twenties, maybe a little older.
A figure in a mask walks in, corrects their posture, then, slowly, kisses each of them on the forehead.
They smile: cherubic, blissed out.
“Any last words?”
His voice is run through some sort of machine, some sort of distortion applied and it sounds deep, makes me think of old internet videos, of people who want to stay hidden.
They both say it, in unison, smiling perfect smiles, teeth white and straight, pretty squares set in pink gums.
“FUCK ME.”
Two short noises, and the acoustics of the small room muffle them.
They both jerk backwards.
Two small red holes in their foreheads. Blood splatters the wall behind. They collapse. Dead.
The figure comes back into frame, strange mask, stoop, and pulls the bodies out of shot. He takes a small bow, and, from somewhere in the background, there is a round of applause.

SONG:
A new song comes on the radio. FUCK ME, is the chorus, those two words over tight cymbals, distorted bass. It doesn’t play often, but gets people talking.
We host a dinner party with old friends: wine, our best cutlery, steamed vegetables and rare meat. I bring up the song, ask if they’ve heard it. They nod.
“It’s about me.”
They laugh.
“Right, sure. It’s about you. It’s trying to be edgy, that’s all. They’re seeing what they can get away with.”
My wife speaks up:
“I don’t like it. It’s too obvious - it beats you over the head. Like, we get it? I don’t know, maybe I’m getting old. There’s no subtlety-”
I interrupt.
“It’s not edgy, it’s about me. The song is about me. They want me to fuck them, I don’t know, to kill them, to buy whatever they’re selling and then kill them-”
They shake their heads.
In unison: “right.”
I watch the music video in bed, the singers: a young woman, dressed like a princess, a young man, dressed like a sailor. The costumes are purposely tacky, ill-fitting. I guess they’re mid-twenties. They have this glazed look in their eye, like they’ve just seen a car crash or an act of violence and it won’t stop playing on the walls of their skulls.
I’m watching the video on repeat now, when it clicks. My stomach turns, contracts into itself, the space between my tongue and my gums dries.
I try to rewatch the VHS, having to rewire the whole thing again, sitting in my boxers, belly hanging over the waistband.
I click play.
It’s gone.
The video’s gone.
And in its place, occasionally rippling with the streaks of static present on old videos, two words:
FUCK ME.

HOUSE:
Sometimes I think I can hear noises outside our house. Like people are walking in our garden, running their hands along our walls. I find it hard to sleep, imagining these people, whoever they are, touching my house, their fingers on the woodgrain of our shed, feet dirty with our mud.
I think I can see them. When I look from my bedroom window, or the kitchen window at night, I can see them. Standing naked. Wearing masks, bodies exposed. Exposed in that way that’s so earnest it verges on scientific, just limbs and throats and stomachs, sagging or uneven or pulled tight over bones.
I think they are looking for me.
I don’t tell my wife. I don’t think she’d believe me.
Some have tattoos: a snake, a tiger, an ocean.
As I watch them watch me one of them bends over, heaves, vomits something black and viscous onto the street outside. Wipes their mouth with the back of their hand.
Continues staring.
Mouths the words with their lips stained black: FUCK ME.
The liquid’s gone by morning.

BOAT:
I drive to the ocean, to take a break, tell work I’m sick.
Take a long walk along the coast, breathing in the seaspray, the salt that hangs in the air. I can taste it on my skin, like I’m being lightly seasoned.
I see a boat, moored to the pier I’m walking down, drifting, tugging the rope that keeps it there, with the windows smashed. The other boats are still, empty. I decide to investigate, drawing a little closer, trying to see what’s going on. A figure, slouched in the front seat, the floor slick with blood.
I shout to ask if they’re okay.
Nothing.
“What happened here? Should I call for help?”
Nothing.
The boat bobs aimlessly, as if lost for words.
I step on board.
My heart’s beating faster now. I don’t know what I’m getting myself into, who they are, whether they’re hurt or even, god forbid, dead, or-
They cough.
Flecks of blood on the windscreen.
Face caved in, swollen, broken in places I didn’t know it could break: all red and purple and blue. One eye puffed out, one eye forced closed. Dentures sitting in clear water in a glass on the dashboard.
They’re trying to say something. I lean in, putting a hand on their shoulder, trying to reassure them, saying that I’ll call the police as soon as I can, that I’ll get an ambulance - shit - two ambulances if they need it, and then I see what their mouth is trying to do.
Lips straining inward.
The flaccid sound of an f.
ffff
I know what comes next.
“Don’t say it.”
They keep going, the sound of air escaping making blood bubble from between their lips.
ffffff
“Shut up.”
My voice is growing louder. I notice the ballpoint hammer on the floor by their feet, I imagine taking it to them. I don’t want to hear those two words.
They keep going, the blood getting thicker, bubbles bigger, colour changing. Black liquid now running down their chin, and they’re still trying to say it.
I leave.
Let them say it, who cares. I think about calling the police, calling an ambulance. Decide against it.
I’m still on the boat when I see it. The other boat moored to the pier, populated by a dozen or so naked people, all wearing the same masks, watching in impassive silence. Like a painting, I think, the way their skin stands out against the sea. I want to shout at them but it catches in my throat.
The tallest one raises a glass to me, and nods, like he’s recognised an old friend.
I vomit into the froth, the sea moves quickly, and I don’t stop to see what colour it is.
The drive back takes longer than expected: someone has hung themselves from the bridge across the motorway, naked, put a bag over their head. Graffiti’d by the rope: FUCK ME.
I don’t see this, I hear it, on the radio. They dance around what it actually says for a while, trying to avoid using those words, imply them, don’t say them.
An ad for SMILERITE plays, tells me that I should smile right whatever the occasion, that I never know who might see it. I think of the face under the hood; swollen, tongue hanging out, a perfect smile hidden.

CLIMAX:
A call wakes me up in the middle of the night. The voice is modulated, deep. Gives me an address. Tells me to bring my card.
“What card?”
No response.
“Who is this?”
They hang up.
I’m left in cold sweats. I don’t sleep any more that night, stay staring at the ceiling until the sun rises and casts limp shadows across our room.
I try and distract myself during the day. I try to watch TV, but the ads leer at me, I consider taking a drive but I can’t stop thinking about the boat, about the body and about the way it made me retch. I have no choice.
Night falls. The moon hangs pink in the sky, like some cosmic peep show. I think about what’s changing on the other side, what wants us to only see flashes of itself.
I try to find my wife to tell her where I’m going but she’s nowhere to be found. I drive to the address. It’s an old, gothic mansion: so huge I can’t see the back of it, as if it continues on forever into the dark. I stay in my car, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel.
I can’t wait any longer. I have to go in. I have to see for myself.
The walk takes a minute or two, and the thin path is lit on both sides by tall wooden torches, open flames. They spit slightly, little embers floating skywards. I brace myself.
The woman at the door is naked, save for a black cloth sack over her head, with a small hole cut for her mouth. She smiles as I approach. I can see the sweat on her chest glisten, the white of her teeth as she smiles. She makes a gesture like unbuttoning a shirt, and I understand.
Of course.
I strip naked, taking a moment to look at my body before entering. I step up, ask if I need a sack. She shakes her head.
“Not you.”
The hall smells of bodies, of sweat, of incense and wine and smoke, of fruit and hay and coal. I make my way through. The whole hall is packed with people wearing the same mask, completely naked. They nod as I walk past, momentarily distracted from their conversations. They’re drinking wine, white teeth stained red.
Every single person wears the same thing, like some perverse uniform: exposed body, black cloth sack.
Everyone but me.
I keep walking down the vast hallway, under chandeliers, past body after body, all shapes and sizes, I am aroused and sickened and curious and I have to keep going.
Doorways are open either side of me, allowing me to see in, making me a voyeur, a witness to these small madnesses: a old-fashioned cinema, filled entirely with naked bodies with sack-cloth heads, watching TV static being projected onto a wall; a room full of people sat cross-legged around a cow holding hands and singing; a room that’s only filled with a giant and dead tree and in its branches are dozens of people crouched like strange birds, eating these red red apples; a room where they seem to be sitting an exam, rows after rows of tables, but the floor is covered in a sea of rats; hand-woven slipknots; men and women singing and fucking and fighting and swearing and weeping-
I come to the end of the hallway.
The next room, the room ahead of me, the room that has two gilded doors that creak open as I push them, is the biggest yet.
It is vast, tables upon tables filled with people, these naked bodies, these strange black sacks. There are rows of seats behind, several levels - thousands upon thousands of people who stay still as I enter. I think of a colosseum, of men and women condemned to die on the sand, of the vast and sweeping rows of seats.
I can feel the impulse work its way up my spine.
I make my way to the stage.
I know what I’m going to do, what I have to do.
I think, for a moment, I recognise a body, the curve of my wife’s hips, the small of her back.
Too late now.
As I arrive on stage there is a brief, polite round of applause.
I stand, naked, before them all. The only face visible in the whole room. I feel as if I am at sea, as if the earth beneath me is rocking from side to side.
I step forward: tap the microphone.
The noise echoes around the room, a muted boom.
Clear my throat.
Take a breath.
Lean in.
Two words, loud and clear.

“FUCK ME.”
submitted by Max-Voynich to Max_Voynich [link] [comments]


2020.04.30 09:04 Max-Voynich Tight clothes voyeur

That’s what it says: FUCK ME.
Black serifed font, embossed on a thick cream card. Premium stock.
FUCK ME.
No name, no address, no watermark. It lies on our carpet, uninvited, suggestive, like skin exposed as a dress slips off the shoulder.
Posted through our door at some point in the night, and left for us in the morning.
It makes no sense. It’s obscene.
“Are you having an affair?” my wife asks.
“No, are you?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think the card’s meant for me, honey.”
“Well it’s not meant for me.”
She pauses. I make a good point.
“I’ll throw it in the bin” I say, making my way to the kitchen.
I don't, of course. Slip it in my wallet instead, just in case.
In case of what? I’m not sure. In case, I guess, I need it.

BILLBOARD:
I’m driving to work the next morning and there it is. Proud, exposed above the freeway. Hundreds, thousands of cars driving right under it. A billboard, entirely white, except for two words.
Black, serifed font.
FUCK ME.
I tell my wife I saw it above the freeway, that it must be a joke, that whoever did it to us probably did it to everyone else in the neighborhood and then some, that they’ve hired a whole billboard, would you believe it, a whole billboard.
She doesn’t believe it. Says it sounds stupid, that she’s bored of the game now.
“There’s no game” I reply. “There’s no game, or, if there is - we’re not the only players.”
“We’re not players at all, honey.”
“Right, but if there was a game, we would be.”
“Sure. I guess”
“Right.”

ADVERT:
I’m watching TV. Can’t sleep, half-finished beer by my feet. The programs all become the same, all blurred into one, flicking through the channels, catching five minutes at a time.
Too tired to change it now, resigned to watching the ads.
A handsome man appears on screen, muscular, tanned, his white T-shirt is pulled tight and hugs him when he moves.
He leans forward, his teeth a picture-perfect whiter-than-white toothpaste smile and he says, into the camera:
“SMILERITE is my favourite toothpaste. Always has been, always will be.”
He licks his teeth, looks around as if checking if people can hear, and then turns back, looks me dead in the eye, and speaks again, slower:
“FUCK ME.”

BANK:
The teller looks around: no one else in the queue. Leans forward. A tattoo begins just on the exposed skin by her collar: ink-black, white froth of waves, the implication of a boat.
“And, Sir, after you’ve deposited the agreed upon amount, would you be so kind as to fuck me?”
“Sorry?”
“Sorry, Sir. I should have been much clearer: FUCK ME. I was wondering if you would like to fuck me.”
My throat grows tight, I stammer out a no, loosen my tie. Tell her I don’t know what she means, why she’s saying this, and as I do so her jaw shakes, she wipes her mouth, the back of her hand is red with blood.
Can someone just say that?
She’s bleeding from her mouth, I think. Standing there, perfect customer-service smile, but there’s blood leaking from between her teeth and pooling under her lip. Some of it dribbles onto the desk, and I think it sounds like a broken gutter.
Can someone just say something like that in everyday life and people just do nothing?

FOOTAGE FROM A MURDER:
A VHS comes through the door, titled FUCK ME.
I want to throw it away immediately but something takes over. I haven’t seen a VHS in years, and I can’t help but want to know more. I set it up in the attic, plug our VHS machine into a small television set, sit and watch the video whilst holding my breath.
It opens with both a man and a woman dressed in these strange clothes, black cloth sacks over their heads. The woman’s like a cheap parody of a princess, the fake material has a plastic sheen, the pink reminds me of old toys; little cars discarded on the side of the road.
The man’s wearing a striped shirt with a little anchor on it. Some sort of sailor.
The bags are pulled off their heads. They are young, attractive. The woman's forehead is dewed with sweat, and she glows. The man has a strong jaw, stubble, darts his tongue out to wet his lips. I guess mid-twenties, maybe a little older.
A figure in a mask walks in, corrects their posture, then, slowly, kisses each of them on the forehead.
They smile: cherubic, blissed out.
“Any last words?”
His voice is run through some sort of machine, some sort of distortion applied and it sounds deep, makes me think of old internet videos, of people who want to stay hidden.
They both say it, in unison, smiling perfect smiles, teeth white and straight, pretty squares set in pink gums.
“FUCK ME.”
Two short noises, and the acoustics of the small room muffle them.
They both jerk backwards.
Two small red holes in their foreheads. Blood splatters the wall behind. They collapse. Dead.
The figure comes back into frame, strange mask, stoop, and pulls the bodies out of shot. He takes a small bow, and, from somewhere in the background, there is a round of applause.

SONG:
A new song comes on the radio. FUCK ME, is the chorus, those two words over tight cymbals, distorted bass. It doesn’t play often, but gets people talking.
We host a dinner party with old friends: wine, our best cutlery, steamed vegetables and rare meat. I bring up the song, ask if they’ve heard it. They nod.
“It’s about me.”
They laugh.
“Right, sure. It’s about you. It’s trying to be edgy, that’s all. They’re seeing what they can get away with.”
My wife speaks up:
“I don’t like it. It’s too obvious - it beats you over the head. Like, we get it? I don’t know, maybe I’m getting old. There’s no subtlety-”
I interrupt.
“It’s not edgy, it’s about me. The song is about me. They want me to fuck them, I don’t know, to kill them, to buy whatever they’re selling and then kill them-”
They shake their heads.
In unison: “right.”
I watch the music video in bed, the singers: a young woman, dressed like a princess, a young man, dressed like a sailor. The costumes are purposely tacky, ill-fitting. I guess they’re mid-twenties. They have this glazed look in their eye, like they’ve just seen a car crash or an act of violence and it won’t stop playing on the walls of their skulls.
I’m watching the video on repeat now, when it clicks. My stomach turns, contracts into itself, the space between my tongue and my gums dries.
I try to rewatch the VHS, having to rewire the whole thing again, sitting in my boxers, belly hanging over the waistband.
I click play.
It’s gone.
The video’s gone.
And in its place, occasionally rippling with the streaks of static present on old videos, two words:
FUCK ME.

HOUSE:
Sometimes I think I can hear noises outside our house. Like people are walking in our garden, running their hands along our walls. I find it hard to sleep, imagining these people, whoever they are, touching my house, their fingers on the woodgrain of our shed, feet dirty with our mud.
I think I can see them. When I look from my bedroom window, or the kitchen window at night, I can see them. Standing naked. Wearing masks, bodies exposed. Exposed in that way that’s so earnest it verges on scientific, just limbs and throats and stomachs, sagging or uneven or pulled tight over bones.
I think they are looking for me.
I don’t tell my wife. I don’t think she’d believe me.
Some have tattoos: a snake, a tiger, an ocean.
As I watch them watch me one of them bends over, heaves, vomits something black and viscous onto the street outside. Wipes their mouth with the back of their hand.
Continues staring.
Mouths the words with their lips stained black: FUCK ME.
The liquid’s gone by morning.

BOAT:
I drive to the ocean, to take a break, tell work I’m sick.
Take a long walk along the coast, breathing in the seaspray, the salt that hangs in the air. I can taste it on my skin, like I’m being lightly seasoned.
I see a boat, moored to the pier I’m walking down, drifting, tugging the rope that keeps it there, with the windows smashed. The other boats are still, empty. I decide to investigate, drawing a little closer, trying to see what’s going on. A figure, slouched in the front seat, the floor slick with blood.
I shout to ask if they’re okay.
Nothing.
“What happened here? Should I call for help?”
Nothing.
The boat bobs aimlessly, as if lost for words.
I step on board.
My heart’s beating faster now. I don’t know what I’m getting myself into, who they are, whether they’re hurt or even, god forbid, dead, or-
They cough.
Flecks of blood on the windscreen.
Face caved in, swollen, broken in places I didn’t know it could break: all red and purple and blue. One eye puffed out, one eye forced closed. Dentures sitting in clear water in a glass on the dashboard.
They’re trying to say something. I lean in, putting a hand on their shoulder, trying to reassure them, saying that I’ll call the police as soon as I can, that I’ll get an ambulance - shit - two ambulances if they need it, and then I see what their mouth is trying to do.
Lips straining inward.
The flaccid sound of an f.
ffff
I know what comes next.
“Don’t say it.”
They keep going, the sound of air escaping making blood bubble from between their lips.
ffffff
“Shut up.”
My voice is growing louder. I notice the ballpoint hammer on the floor by their feet, I imagine taking it to them. I don’t want to hear those two words.
They keep going, the blood getting thicker, bubbles bigger, colour changing. Black liquid now running down their chin, and they’re still trying to say it.
I leave.
Let them say it, who cares. I think about calling the police, calling an ambulance. Decide against it.
I’m still on the boat when I see it. The other boat moored to the pier, populated by a dozen or so naked people, all wearing the same masks, watching in impassive silence. Like a painting, I think, the way their skin stands out against the sea. I want to shout at them but it catches in my throat.
The tallest one raises a glass to me, and nods, like he’s recognised an old friend.
I vomit into the froth, the sea moves quickly, and I don’t stop to see what colour it is.
The drive back takes longer than expected: someone has hung themselves from the bridge across the motorway, naked, put a bag over their head. Graffiti’d by the rope: FUCK ME.
I don’t see this, I hear it, on the radio. They dance around what it actually says for a while, trying to avoid using those words, imply them, don’t say them.
An ad for SMILERITE plays, tells me that I should smile right whatever the occasion, that I never know who might see it. I think of the face under the hood; swollen, tongue hanging out, a perfect smile hidden.

CLIMAX:
A call wakes me up in the middle of the night. The voice is modulated, deep. Gives me an address. Tells me to bring my card.
“What card?”
No response.
“Who is this?”
They hang up.
I’m left in cold sweats. I don’t sleep any more that night, stay staring at the ceiling until the sun rises and casts limp shadows across our room.
I try and distract myself during the day. I try to watch TV, but the ads leer at me, I consider taking a drive but I can’t stop thinking about the boat, about the body and about the way it made me retch. I have no choice.
Night falls. The moon hangs pink in the sky, like some cosmic peep show. I think about what’s changing on the other side, what wants us to only see flashes of itself.
I try to find my wife to tell her where I’m going but she’s nowhere to be found. I drive to the address. It’s an old, gothic mansion: so huge I can’t see the back of it, as if it continues on forever into the dark. I stay in my car, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel.
I can’t wait any longer. I have to go in. I have to see for myself.
The walk takes a minute or two, and the thin path is lit on both sides by tall wooden torches, open flames. They spit slightly, little embers floating skywards. I brace myself.
The woman at the door is naked, save for a black cloth sack over her head, with a small hole cut for her mouth. She smiles as I approach. I can see the sweat on her chest glisten, the white of her teeth as she smiles. She makes a gesture like unbuttoning a shirt, and I understand.
Of course.
I strip naked, taking a moment to look at my body before entering. I step up, ask if I need a sack. She shakes her head.
“Not you.”
The hall smells of bodies, of sweat, of incense and wine and smoke, of fruit and hay and coal. I make my way through. The whole hall is packed with people wearing the same mask, completely naked. They nod as I walk past, momentarily distracted from their conversations. They’re drinking wine, white teeth stained red.
Every single person wears the same thing, like some perverse uniform: exposed body, black cloth sack.
Everyone but me.
I keep walking down the vast hallway, under chandeliers, past body after body, all shapes and sizes, I am aroused and sickened and curious and I have to keep going.
Doorways are open either side of me, allowing me to see in, making me a voyeur, a witness to these small madnesses: a old-fashioned cinema, filled entirely with naked bodies with sack-cloth heads, watching TV static being projected onto a wall; a room full of people sat cross-legged around a cow holding hands and singing; a room that’s only filled with a giant and dead tree and in its branches are dozens of people crouched like strange birds, eating these red red apples; a room where they seem to be sitting an exam, rows after rows of tables, but the floor is covered in a sea of rats; hand-woven slipknots; men and women singing and fucking and fighting and swearing and weeping-
I come to the end of the hallway.
The next room, the room ahead of me, the room that has two gilded doors that creak open as I push them, is the biggest yet.
It is vast, tables upon tables filled with people, these naked bodies, these strange black sacks. There are rows of seats behind, several levels - thousands upon thousands of people who stay still as I enter. I think of a colosseum, of men and women condemned to die on the sand, of the vast and sweeping rows of seats.
I can feel the impulse work its way up my spine.
I make my way to the stage.
I know what I’m going to do, what I have to do.
I think, for a moment, I recognise a body, the curve of my wife’s hips, the small of her back.
Too late now.
As I arrive on stage there is a brief, polite round of applause.
I stand, naked, before them all. The only face visible in the whole room. I feel as if I am at sea, as if the earth beneath me is rocking from side to side.
I step forward: tap the microphone.
The noise echoes around the room, a muted boom.
Clear my throat.
Take a breath.
Lean in.
Two words, loud and clear.

“FUCK ME.”

submitted by Max-Voynich to nosleep [link] [comments]


2020.02.12 19:16 MagicPuffIsCool Tight clothes voyeur

## Fetishes are endless
Anthology | Bestiality | Dandere | Deredere | Deviant | Fully Colored | Furry | Futanari | Gender Bender | Guro | Harem | Incest | Kuudere | Lolicon | Long Story | Netorare | Non-con | Partly Colored | Reverse Harem | Ryona | Short Story | Shotacon | Transgender | Tsundere | Uncensored | Vanilla | Yandere | Yaoi | Yuri | Amusement Park | Attic | Automobile | Balcony | Basement | Bath | Beach | Bedroom | Cabin | Castle | Cave | Church | Classroom | Deck | Dining Room | Doctors | Dojo | Doorway | Dream | Dressing Room | Dungeon | Elevator | Festival | Gym | Haunted Building | Hospital | Hotel | Hot Springs | Kitchen | Laboratory | Library | Living Room | Locker Room | Mansion | Office | Other | Outdoor | Outer Space | Park | Pool | Prison | Public | Restaurant | Restroom | Roof | Sauna | School | School Nurses Office | Shower | Shrine | Storage Room | Store | Street | Teachers Lounge | Theater | Tight Space | Toilet | Train | Transit | Virtual Reality | Warehouse | Wilderness | Androphobia | Apron | Assertive Girl | Bikini | Bloomers | Breast Expansion | Business Suit | Chastity Device | Chinese Dress | Christmas | Collar | Corset | Cosplay ( Female ) | Cosplay ( Male ) | Crossdressing ( Female ) | Crossdressing ( Male ) | Eye Patch | Food | Giantess | Glasses | Gothic Lolita | Gyaru | Gynophobia | High Heels | Hot Pants | Impregnation | Kemonomimi | Kimono | Knee High Socks | Lab Coat | Latex | Leotard | Lingerie | Maid Outfit | Mother And Daughter | None | Nonhuman Girl | Olfactophilia | Pregnant | Rich Girl | School Swimsuit | Shy Girl | Sisters | Sleeping Girl | Sporty | Stockings | Strapon | Student Uniform | Swimsuit | Tanned | Tattoo | Time Stop | Twins ( Coed ) | Twins ( Female ) | Twins ( Male ) | Uniform | Wedding Dress | Alien | Android | Angel | Athlete | Bride | Bunnygirl | Cheerleader | Delinquent | Demon | Doctor | Dominatrix | Escort | Foreigner | Ghost | Housewife | Idol | Magical Girl | Maid | Mamono | Massagist | Miko | Mythical Being | Neet | Nekomimi | Newlywed | Ninja | Normal | Nun | Nurse | Office Lady | Other | Police | Priest | Princess | Queen | School Nurse | Scientist | Sorcerer | Student | Succubus | Teacher | Tomboy | Tutor | Waitress | Warrior | Witch | Acquaintance | Anothers Daughter | Anothers Girlfriend | Anothers Mother | Anothers Sister | Anothers Wife | Aunt | Babysitter | Childhood Friend | Classmate | Cousin | Customer | Daughter | Daughter-in-law | Employee | Employer | Enemy | Fiance | Friend | Friends Daughter | Friends Girlfriend | Friends Mother | Friends Sister | Friends Wife | Girlfriend | Landlord | Manager | Master | Mother | Mother-in-law | Neighbor | Niece | None | Older Sister | Patient | Pet | Physician | Relative | Relatives Friend | Relatives Girlfriend | Relatives Wife | Servant | Server | Sister-in-law | Slave | Stepdaughter | Stepmother | Stepsister | Stranger | Student | Teacher | Tutee | Tutor | Twin | Underclassman | Upperclassman | Wife | Workmate | Younger Sister | Adult | Animal | Animal Ears | Bald | Beard | Dark Skin | Elderly | Exaggerated Penis | Fat | Furry | Goatee | Hairy | Half Animal | Horns | Large Penis | Long Hair | Middle Age | Monster | Muscular | Mustache | None | Short | Short Hair | Skinny | Small Penis | Tail | Tall | Tanned | Tan Line | Teenager | Wings | Young | Adult | Animal Ears | Bald | Big Butt | Chubby | Dark Skin | Elderly | Elf Ears | Exaggerated Breasts | Fat | Furry | Hairy | Hair Bun | Half Animal | Halo | Hime Cut | Horns | Large Breasts | Long Hair | Middle Age | Monster Girl | Muscular | None | Pigtails | Ponytail | Short | Short Hair | Skinny | Small Breasts | Tail | Tall | Tanned | Tan Line | Teenager | Twintails | Wings | Young | Foursome ( 1 Female ) | Foursome ( 1 Male ) | Foursome ( Mixed ) | Foursome ( Only Female ) | Foursome ( Only Male ) | One On One | One On One ( 2 Females ) | One On One ( 2 Males ) | Orgy ( 1 Female ) | Orgy ( 1 Male ) | Orgy ( Mainly Female ) | Orgy ( Mainly Male ) | Orgy ( Mixed ) | Orgy ( Only Female ) | Orgy ( Only Male ) | Solo ( Female ) | Solo ( Male ) | Threesome ( 1 Female ) | Threesome ( 1 Male ) | Threesome ( Only Female ) | Threesome ( Only Male ) | Adultery | Ahegao | Anal ( Female ) | Anal ( Male ) | Aphrodisiac | Armpit Sex | Asphyxiation | Blackmail | Blowjob | Bondage | Breast Feeding | Breast Sucking | Bukkake | Cheating ( Female ) | Cheating ( Male ) | Chikan | Clothed Sex | Consensual | Cunnilingus | Defloration | Discipline | Dominance | Double Penetration | Drunk | Enema | Exhibitionism | Facesitting | Fingering ( Female ) | Fingering ( Male ) | Fisting | Footjob | Grinding | Groping | Handjob | Humiliation | Hypnosis | Intercrural | Interracial Sex | Interspecies Sex | Lactation | Lotion | Masochism | Masturbation | Mind Break | Nonhuman | Orgy | Paizuri | Phone Sex | Props | Rape | Reverse Rape | Rimjob | Sadism | Scat | Sex Toys | Spanking | Squirt | Submission | Sumata | Swingers | Tentacles | Voyeurism | Watersports | X-ray Blowjob | X-ray Sex | 69 | Acrobat | Arch | Bodyguard | Butterfly | Cowgirl | Dancer | Deck Chair | Deep Stick | Doggy | Drill | Ex Sex | Jockey | Lap Dance | Leg Glider | Lotus | Mastery | Missionary | None | Other | Pile Driver | Prison Guard | Reverse Piggyback | Rodeo | Spoons | Standing | Teaspoons | Unusual | Victory
submitted by MagicPuffIsCool to copypasta [link] [comments]