Friday the 13th

    I watched them party from afar. I was alone. Why?

    Because I was the Friday the 13th Part 2 Jason at the Jason party.

    It was a friend of a friend's idea. On Friday the 13th, throw a costume party where everyone dresses up like Jason. Now this friend of a friend's apartment had hockey masks galore. For some, the costume was nothing more than the mask. For others, it was much more involved, with moldering jackets and tattered pants and film-ready masks. These were distressed, yellowing goalie masks with triangular markings on the forehead and cheeks, big-buckled, belt-quality leather holding the mask in place. Some of the girls donned grey sweaters and greying wigs to play Jason's mother. Some of the other girls treated this as an 80s party, dressing up as the generic big-haired body-count fodder.

    And all the single ladies loved the other Jasons. They clamoured to be crushed in the embrace of the Kane Hodder Jasons from Parts 7 and 8. Their fingers traced the scar tissue of the Jason who went to Hell. They loved to run their hands across the barrel-chest of Jason circa Part 6. They loved Part 4's stealthiness. They loved Part 3's knuckle-dragging traipse. They loved the Jason X Jason, willing to forgive him for the movie. They even loved the trim, strapping Part 5 killer and how he fills out a work suit, and he's not even Jason. These women were suckers for the hockey mask, as it had turned them all into common rink rats.

    But I had chosen to be different. I sat there with this burlap sack over my head, watching it all through the singular, ragged eye-hole over my left eye. All the partygoers lacked depth and dimension. I was alone on the couch, twiddling my pick-axe, feeling so small. I wanted to dissolve into the walls and disappear. The partygoers danced and wrestled playfully as “Man Behind the Mask” played yet again. Two girls were grinding Jason X, and I could no longer watch. I slipped away, totally unnoticed, into shadow.

    I found what looked, at least to me, like a door to the bathroom. It opened instead onto stairs and the chill of the naked night. I dragged my pick-axe up the stairs and found myself on the roof, looking out onto the city. Light from tiki torches played gently on water from a swimming pool. A single figure cut through the water.

    She covered the length of the pool and back and then emerged from the water. Rivulets cascaded down her body, and her hair hung down in a mop. As she took the three steps up the ladder and out of the pool, she whipped back her hair. She wore a hockey mask and, incongruously, a bikini top and bottom to match. She saw me seeing her. She picked up her serrated machete from the poolside tiles and used it to wave me over. I shambled over to her.

    “I love your costume,” she said.

    “I love yours, too,” I replied. Each of her breast plates was a plastic hockey mask. The same went for her bikini bottoms, a hockey mask hugging her mons.

    “Really?” she said. “Personally, I think the hockey mask is a bit overdone. But thank you. Come, sit.”

    She guided me to plastic pool chairs and we sat down.

    “You know,” she said, “the Friday the 13th films are like sex.”

    “Excuse me?” I said.

    “Think about it for a minute. Don't you remember your first one?”

    “I do,” I said. “Jason Takes Manhattan.”

    Her eyes were a lovely hazel green, and I could see a smile form in them. “The first one,” she said, “is like your first time. You're young. You're a bit afraid. You imagine all kinds of ways it could be. You think of what could be good, bad, horrible. You think of what might make you uncomfortable. You survive it, and it's okay, though it may leave little scars. And even if it's not bad, it still might not be very good.”

    “I can see that,” I said.

    “Of course you can,” she said. “Your first time was Part 8. But then, with subsequent viewings, as in subsequent sexual encounters, you gain experience. You start to learn about what you like. Each movie is like a new partner, each with its own set of positions. Part 1 is the missionary. Jason X is akin to butt-play, maybe even pegging. After a while, you get to know what you like. You start to realize that it's not such a big deal. It can actually get to be quite enjoyable. With more and more viewings, you start to feel comfortable. Eventually, you'll move on to harder movies—I Spit on Your Grave and A Serbian Film. You have to spice things up now and then, after all. But you have confidence with these partners, because of the times you had with Friday the 13th. And no matter how much experience you get, you'll always remember your first.”

    “I suppose that's true,” I said.

    “And eventually,” she continued, “you'll find your way back to Friday the 13th. It's like coming back to an old fling, an old summer love. You know each other, and there are no surprises. You've learned to love their flaws, but you can always see new wrinkles. You come to find a beauty in their shortcomings—a beauty in how they've aged. You feel comfortable with them. You see your old fears and how they've been allayed. You measure yourself by this old lover. You feel young again in their glow.”

    “That's beautiful,” I said.

    “Thank you,” she said. “And for me, I always come back to Part 2. That was my first, and still it's my favorite. It gives you Jason before he's too far gone, before he became a commodity. You could still find tenderness and vulnerability in him.”

    “I can see that,” I said.

    “He's also the sexiest,” she continued. “He's smaller, certainly not the behemoth he'd become. He's also a bit simian. There's something of the primate in him as he moves. He's more lithe and more flexible. He's also the most phallic.”

    “How's that?” I asked.

    “He's literally a one-eyed monster,” she said, “with that singular eye-hole in this hood. There's a vulnerable beauty there, a nakedness just waiting to be uncovered. That's why I love Part 2 so dearly. I want to just reach out and touch Jason from Part 2 and embrace him. He's still salvageable. But I may be the only one who sees that. So I here I am in these hockey masks.”

    “I see it, too,” I said.

    I couldn't tell if she heard me. “But still,” she said, “I can only watch the movie so much. I think it could only really spice things up if I could touch him for real.”

    Her hand moved over mine.

    “You don't mind if I touch you, do you?”

    She kneaded my palm for several seconds, and then she touched my face under the hood. I let my pick axe clatter to the floor and touched her mask. Beads of water clung to the plastic, and I let my fingertips absorb them. I drew her mask toward my hood. Our foreheads met, and I rubbed my nose against the plastic nose of her mask. I could feel the little droplets of water sinking through the fabric of my hood. I could feel her breath, too, and soon our mouths aligned underneath our masks, exchanging hot gasps. I could taste honeysuckle on her breath. I caressed her bare shoulder.

    She spilled out of the chair and took to her knees. She squared herself in front of my lap, reaching up to grip the straps on my bib overalls. She pulled herself up and sent hot breath down the collar of my plaid shirt. She unbuckled her hockey-mask bikini top, letting it clatter to the ground. Her breasts stood small and pert, the nipples pierced and prominent. She took me by the sleeves and placed my hands on her breasts, letting me palm them and then knead them. My eye locked onto her eyes.

    She shimmied free of my grip and sat up into a squat. She unfastened one strap of my overalls, and then the other. She pulled down the bib, and I sat back, baring my boxer shorts. Her hand ventured into my boxers and withdrew my erection. Her hazel-green eyes alighted on the very tip, momentarily strabysmic. I could see her mouth forming a little O under the mouth-holes in her mask.

    “Of course,” she said, “you're uncut. You've got every last detail covered.”

    She took my member in her hand. Very slowly, she wrapped her fingers around the tip and tugged downward. Gradually, she worked the foreskin back. She gave firm, decisive yanks, and then she sped up abruptly. She paused with her fist clenched around the base, wielding my cock like it was a machete. She leaned in, letting little columns of hot breath down onto my member. My mouth chewed at my hood. She started to jerk me off again. I let out susurrating gasps. I was on the verge of sending come arcing up into the night, and then she stopped.

    I was vaguely aware that she was standing up, and I was still getting my sight back when I heard her hockey mask bikini bottoms clatter to the rooftop. She stepped forward and eased her trim midriff and plump mons atop my erection. She hovered there for a while and then eased down, socketing my glans in her lovely vulva. She moved up and down, her torso circling all the while, letting me travel deeper into her wild habitat. I pulled up mounds of flesh from her pert buttocks. With each squeeze, I stirred her around. She churned wildly, pussy squelchy, a saponaceous foam forming on her labia, and soon she liquefied, her juices trickling down. I answered in kind, letting loose a screaming hot torrent straight up into her abdomen. Gouts of come spouted up into her inner recesses. She kneaded her breasts as my seed coursed into her.

    Finally, there was no more seed left to give, and still my member spasmed as if it had to give more. I reached for her mask, caressing the fading, flaking markings on her cheeks, fingering the coolness of the bolts and the straps.

    “May I see your face?” I asked. “You can see mine.”

    “No,” she said. “You are perfectly Part 2 as you are.”

    I stammered and I gasped, kneading her shoulder. She stood up, grabbing her bikini bottoms.

    “Where are you going?”

    “Back to the party,” she said, slipping on the bottoms.

    “Can I come with you?”

    “You'd better not.”

    “What's your name? Your number?”

    “No,” she said, leaning into the bra-cups formed by the hockey masks. “There can be no sequel. We're going to leave.”

    “We?”

    “My boyfriend and I. My boyfriend Jason.”

    “Which one is he?” I asked.

    “He's Jason X.”

    “Oh,” I said. “I see.”

    She touched my face again through the hood. Her hand wrapped around the strap of my overalls, the one overtop my heart.

    “Never change your costume,” she said. “You are the best one.”

    She padded off in her Friday the 13th bikini, disappearing down the stairs. I stared at the pool water for a long time. Then I grabbed my pick-axe and dragged it along the tiles at the edge of the pool, taking the three steps down the ladder, wanting to become one with the water.

§§§

Image Credits: Hypnotica Studios Infinite from Toms River, New Jersey, USA, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

The Baroness

Ω

    “I’ll see you at Comicon, won’t I?”

    I looked up from my computer terminal to see Maureen, one of the new temps, leaning over my desk.

    “Um, no, actually,” I fumbled. “I hadn’t planned it.”

    “Oh,” Maureen said. “That surprises me.”

    “W-why is that?” I asked, still stammering. Modest though her vestments were, Maureen’s blouse and skirt could not cloak her fireplug physique. She had an incisive prettiness, with jet-black hair that cascaded all about her shoulders. Her glasses framed her dark eyes alluringly, and now she was adjusting them as she spoke again.

   “I thought if anyone around here were going it would be you.”

    “What gave you that impression?” I asked.

    But I knew the answer. I wear glasses and ill-fitting clothes. One of the bros in accounts payable once told me that I look like I work at Radio Shack.

    “I just figured,” Maureen said, “you might be into comics.”

    “I was,” I said, “but that was when I was a kid.”

    “But not anymore?”

    “No,” I said.

   Maureen stood up straight, relinquishing her hands from the edge of my desk.

   “That’s too bad,” she said. “Every year I try to do a Comicon, but I’ve never gone alone. Do you know anyone else that would be interested in going?”

    “I’m not uninterested,” I said. “I’ll go with you if you’d like.”

   “Would you?” Maureen said. “That’d be sweet. I just get so self-conscious by myself.”

    “If I went to a Comicon alone,” I said, “I’d be self-conscious too.”

    Maureen smiled but did not laugh.

Ω 

    We agreed to meet in front of the convention center. When I got off the bus, I was immediately cast into a crowd comprised of two subsections of people: thirty-somethings who dressed like teenagers and cosplayers who, with a few exceptions, looked like depressive versions of their favorite licensed characters. I couldn’t find Maureen, though.

    “Dimitiri!”

    It was Maureen’s voice, and I wheeled around to find where it was coming from.

    “Over here!”

I turned and matched the voice to the person, but all at once I couldn’t put a name to the face. I was at a loss for words. Clip-clopping toward me in black thigh-highs was an archetypal vamp, statuesque body packed into a red cat-suit. She wore a plastic breastplate, bosom moulded into twin, missile-like humps. That breastplate bore a licensed insignia, the same one that was emblazoned on her gun-belt. Her raven hair swept behind her as she approached.

    With respect to the cosplayers, she was one of the exceptions to the depressive rule.

   “Dimitri,” she said, throwing her arms around me. “I’m so glad you came!”

    “W-who…?” I said. There was that stammer again. As I hugged her, I noticed that heads were turning to look.

    Maureen pulled back. “You don’t know? Didn’t you ever play with GI Joes?”

    “For a time,” I said. “When I was little. But that was a long time ago.”

    “You don’t have any idea who I am?”

    “It's on the tip of my tongue—”

    “I’m the Baroness! From Cobra? GI Joe's archenemy?”

    “Yes,” I said. “I sort of remember.”

    “Come,” Maureen said. “Let’s go in.”

    As we walked in, Maureen’s heels clacking like claves, a lot of pimply thirty-somethings and depressive superheroes were staring at us.

    It was more of the same inside. As soon as we stepped into the lobby, fanboys swarmed Maureen. They wanted pictures of her and pictures with her. For some, she’d aim her dual handguns at the camera, tilting her expressionless face. Alternatively, she’d point one gun at the ceiling and tuck the thumb of her other hand under her bandolier. The fanboys loved all of it. Their faces brightened. They smiled so avidly. It was if they were meeting a celebrity. Lines formed, in fact, even after we’d started up and down the aisles. Maureen’s lines seemed longer than those that had formed for some of the washed-up actors stationed at the various booths.

  From time to time, the swarm got too chaotic. Maureen would shoot me a glance, raising an eyebrow. I’d start off and she’d follow, telling her admirers she had to move on.

   “Thanks, D,” she said. “You’re a lifesaver. You see why I can’t go to these things alone.”

    On our way out, we ran into a pair of red-bearded, heavyset men who were especially giddy. They couldn’t stop praising the detail Maureen had put into the costume. While the one squared up a perfect selfie with Maureen, the other took me by the forearm.

    “You’re very lucky,” he said.

    “Why is that?”

  “To be dating such a proficient cosplayer,” he said. “To be dating the Baroness, no less.”

    My brow knitted up. “We’re not dating,” I said.

   Upon hearing that, the fanboy’s body somehow managed to sag even more. He seemed disappointed, even as he snuggled up to Maureen for a picture.

   “Did that guy just ask if you were my boyfriend?” Maureen asked.

    “Yeah,” I said.

  “Ha!” Maureen said, letting out a gusty laugh. “I think it’s time to leave.”

    In the lobby on the way out, Maureen received applause. She took a bow. As she did so, it struck me that she actually transcended all the real-life celebrities. She had these fanboys lining up to meet a fantasy.

  “Well,” I said as we stepped outside. “This has been an adventure.”

  “Indeed,” Maureen said. “But we haven’t done a mission debriefing. Yours is the same bus as mine. Let’s take it. C’mon.”

   The bus was just pulling up to the stop. Maureen hurried over in long, metronomic strides, and I scrambled to keep up.

    There weren’t many people on the bus, but the ones who were there gave Maureen a wide-eyed once-over. We sat down at the back.

   “Phew,” Maureen said. “Today was crazy. I thought the photos would never stop. But it’s always that way with the Baroness.”

    “Oh yeah?”

   “Yeah. I do a few characters. When I started, I mostly did Psylocke. I’ve done the Baroness in black and in red. I do Catwoman sometimes. For that, I use the same suit as the classic Baroness in black, I just ditch the glasses and put on a hood with cat ears. But the Baroness is always what gets them, especially in the red. I don’t know what it is. I guess it’s the sexiness. Maybe it’s the glasses. All I know is that I have an easier time finding my way around as the Baroness. People have an easier time finding me. What do you think it is, Dimitri?”

      “I couldn’t say,” I said.

   “You said you played with GI Joes. Did you have a Baroness?”

      “No,” I said.

    Maureen murmured, turning to look out at the sidewalk hurtling by the window of the bus.

    “You’d think,” she said, “that a person would tire after a day like that. But I’m strangely invigorated. That’s always the way it is at these things. It’s just what cosplay does for me. It lets me really get to explore the energy of the character. It lets feel the energy that other people channel into the character, and it lets me feed off it. For a fleeting moment here and there, it’s like I can feel what it is to be that character, even though she's fictional. It’s like an out-of-body experience. You’re outside of your conventional self. And it’s completely uplifting. It’s energizing.”

    Maureen pulled in closer to me, lowering her voice. “You know,” she said, “the last guy I was with, Peter, he used to always come to these conventions with me. He’d dress up as Destro—that’s the Baroness’s boyfriend in Cobra, as you may recall. Anyway, his costume was never as good, but he could feel that energy, too. He’d feed off my energy. And when we would get home—oh, this is so perverted—we would have the wildest sex imaginable. Like, nothing else in our relationship would compare. Makeup sex, birthday sex, you name it, it all paled against Comicon sex. It was this wildly erotic thing. I think maybe that’s why so many people do cosplay in the first place. Don’t you think?”

      She whispered this last part in my ear.

    I nodded, waiting for the gooseflesh to subside on all my limbs. When I spoke, it was sotto voce.

    “When I was a kid,” I said, “I never had the Baroness. She was never available. But I always wanted her.”

    “Do you want her still?”

    “Yes,” I said.

    “You're in luck.” Maureen said. “You've got one Baroness left on the shelf. And this next stop, that's where the Baroness gets off.”

Ω

    “Welcome to the snake-pit,” Maureen said as she turned the key and pushed open her apartment door.

    We stepped into a standard-issue one-bedroom apartment, albeit a well-furnished one.

  I took off my shoes but Maureen did not remove her footwear. She kissed me feverishly on the mouth. Her lips were quick, her tongue was sinuous, and her front teeth placed little periodic bites on my lower lip. Meanwhile, she unbuttoned my shirt and yanked it off. She unzipped my jeans and pulled them down.

   “We’ve still got some debriefing to do,” she said, and then tugged down my boxers, placing kisses on my thighs.

    Maureen backed me up into her living room and pushed me down onto her sofa. As I sank into the imitation leather, she squatted down in front of me. She stayed my bobbing erection with her mouth. She pulled back the hood of foreskin and her eyes narrowed on my glans. Her tongue flicked in and out snake-like, going tip-to-tip with my manhood. I stared up at the ceiling’s serpentine craquelure as if in prayer. And in my mind, there cycled a prayer, of sorts—don’t come, don’t come, don’t come. Whatever you do, do not come.

    She took the length of me in her mouth all at once, gagging. I couldn’t help myself but watch. Here now, kneeling in front of me, was a perfect likeness of the Baroness sucking my cock. Here before me was a spot-on incarnation of the action figure, giving me an enthusiastic blowjob. My eyes rolled back in my head as I contemplated a formless, pre-sexual desire for the Baroness that had stirred inside me when I saw her figure warming the shelf when I was a child. But this Baroness before me was even better. She was the figurine made flesh. She had countless points of articulation, all of them working in tandem to proffer me pleasure.

    In servicing my member, she alternated between her mouth and her gloved hand. She used all of her mouth to coat my cock in saliva. Her glove would pump furiously at the root of it, then slow up to pull my foreskin over and back, over and back at a pleasurable crawl. From time to time, she’d bury her mouth beneath my scrotum as she jerked me off, tongue-tip circling around my perineum.

    She took me to the verge of ejaculation and then pulled her face from my testicles.

     “Up!” she said, straightening her glasses.

    I did as she asked and then she stretched her long, lissome body out on the couch in full costume. She took me by the arm and pulled me on top of her, positioning me so that I was half-kneeling over her chest, one socked foot planted in the carpet.

  She squared up my cock between the mammary-shaped mounds molded up from the plastic breastplate. My cock hovered atop the mouth of the cobra. With my middle and ring fingers, I pressed down on the base of my member and pushed between those breast molds with short strokes. And each time my cock snaked through to full extension, the Baroness’s tongue lashed out to lick the very tip, occasionally catching the top of the glans with the bottom of her tongue. The plastic moldings offered a blissful resistance.

    Don’t come, don’t come, don’t come, I prayed.

   Maureen rose up and pushed me away. She snapped to her feet, locked her eyes on mine, and joined her hands on her gun-belt. Her thumbs girded the Cobra insignia at the center of the belt, which was right over her mound of Venus. She unclipped the belt and let it fall to the floor. She peeled off the breastplate. She pulled off her boots. All the while, she tilted her impassive face at a variety of angles, as if she were posing for a fanboy’s photo. She undid the buttons of the cat-suit proper and then turned her back to me. In just a few deft articulations, she peeled the suit down and off of her body. She turned her naked body to me.

  Neither office attire nor the Baroness costume had approached doing justice to Maureen’s naked physique.    

    Her breasts were natural, round, and wide-set. The lower halves of her breasts were pale. Her aureoles were long and ovular. The punctum of her nipple was dark and as incisive as her eyes. Her ribcage dipped sharply into a trim, cylindrical waist, only to flare out into deliciously wide hips that were squarish at the top and gave way to exquisite, tawny arc on either side. There was a thin strip of paleness across the lower tropic of her hips, evidencing some recent history of low-rise bikini briefs. Her Venus mound arced outward, like unto a cobra’s hood. An inverted pyramid of pubes, narrow yet scruffy, trailed up toward that Venetian mound, but not too far, as per my preference.

    I reached for her cunt, but she sidestepped my grasp.

    “No,” she said. “First with your mouth.”

  She pushed me down onto my back and then swung her knees onto either side of my head. I caressed her trim thighs in anticipation as she lowered her pussy onto my face. That tiny cloven enclave hovered over my mouth for several excruciating seconds, then she lowered herself. I was smothered in cunt. Labia blotted my vision. In the blackness, I found her clit, and it seemed like a throbbing monolith against my tongue. Defensively, my tongue circled and circled and Maureen conceded a moan. She counter-circled her hips, grinding her pelvis against my chin as I sucked her esculent sex. She cranked back, hand gripping my cock and jerking me off wildly in the meantime.

    Don’t come, don’t come, don’t come.

    Maureen didn’t seem to have the same thought process. In a twirling paroxysm, her hips circling like a tempest, and she came. Having juddered out her orgasm, she pushed herself up, planted a pivot foot in the carpet and spun herself around. She aligned her vulva with my erection, pulled apart her labia with two fingers, and then flopped down, sheathing my erection in hot, wet cunt. She clapped her tawny, round ass-halves down onto my erection-horned midsection, hollering in triumph with each downburst. On occasion she’d pause to adjust her glasses, my glans ensnared between her labia. While she did so, I’d thrust up once or twice into her dewy pubes, just because I loved the feel. Her hips were tireless, swiveling round and beating down, pale ass clapping and rippling as it stamped by cock over and over. Maureen rode me until her hips gave way to a circling that seemed involuntarily, and then she shuddered and squalled with another orgasm.

    While she murmured madly, momentarily come-drunk, I made my insurrection and took control. I lifted her off me and shunted her forward onto her hands and knees. I gripped her by her deliciously squarish hips and squared her up, stuffing my cock in her pussy and then slamming my pelvis into her ass and upper thighs. Again and again her hind met my lower abdomen in a sublime thunderclap. Maureen was braying and hissing—she seemed to alternate between these vocalizations with every thrust. With each thrust it was like I was chiseling away at a masterpiece figurine. As I hammered away, Maureen's backside raised up higher and higher into a steeper arch. I stood up into a squat, raining down thrusts, almost sitting on her ass as I delved straight down, 12-to-6, into her cunt. My cock felt anaconda-thick wedged inside her. All metaphor and costuming disappeared: I was fucking the Baroness.

    The Baroness shrieked as she came again, her effusion like a humid squall that my cock kept thrusting headlong through.

   The Baroness calmed herself down to a warble. I shortened my strokes, testicles pitter-pattering against her generous upper thighs. I slowed down, conscious now that I was once again on the verge. I’d been on the verge for a while, in fact, but it didn’t really matter. I felt like I could go all night. She snapped her head back in profile.

    “You're going to come, aren't you?”

    I nodded rapidly and murmured in the affirmative. And with that, her vulva relinquished its grip and she scrabbled off the sofa to the floor. Here, she picked up the breastplate. She laid it out on the far side of the couch, and then leaned overtop it, her nipples grazing the peaks of the plastic moldings.

   “Fuck these plastic tits again!” she said. “I command you to fuck the cobra's mouth!”

    “Yes, Baroness!”

    The Baroness’s heavy, fleshy breasts dangled over the plastic breastplate like nosediving zeppelins. I slapped my cock down between the plastic hillocks, threading it through the diamond shape aperture created in the stacked cleavages of fake breast shapes and the Baroness’s very real tits. The Baroness spit down onto the breastplates for lubrication, but I hardly needed any more. My cock was coated with the Baroness’s secretions.

    The Baroness’s breasts were so warm and inviting, my hips involuntarily thrusted my cock upward toward them. In concert, that hot breast-flesh and her humid breath were too much.

    “Come on!” the Baroness hissed. “Give me your venom!”

    With one final, decisive thrust, a bolt of come shot out onto her left breast, followed by another which landed in her glossy black hair, followed by another that landed on her cheek, and another which streaked her glasses. The conclusory beads that followed dappled the prim, satisfied smile that had formed on her lovely lips.

    “FUCK!” I growled, and then collapsed as if hit by a sniper’s bullet.

    “That,” the Baroness said, “was hot.”

    “Yes, Baroness,” I said, left side of my mouth chewing at the couch cushion.

    “Will you be reporting for duty at Comicon next year?”

    “Yes, Baroness,” I said. “And maybe next time, you can wear the black suit, Baroness.”

    Maureen burst into laughter.

Ω

    But Maureen and I never went to another Comicon. She was only the Baroness a few days out of every year; the rest of the time, she was a temp. And, as per a temp, she was gone from the office within a couple months. I came back the Monday after a long weekend, only to have a co-worker bro explain that Maureen was gone and then introduce me to her replacement.

    I really hadn’t gotten to know Maureen well enough to miss her, but I found myself bringing her to mind from time to time. That happened less and less through the months and then the years, but that night we spent together is still with me, springing up now and again in subtle ways.

    That was the case, I think, a few Fridays back when I got into a bit of a spiral online. I was looking for Maureen on social media. When I couldn’t find her, I got to watching clips from the old GI Joe cartoon. By 3 am, I found myself on eBay, scouring the listings for figurines.

    The Baroness arrived today. I paid more than I should have to get her, but she’s in mint condition, first run. I’m not going to take her out of the plastic, but that’s not for display purposes. She’s for six-year-old me, I think, and maybe for that version of me that actually showed up to a Comicon. She’ll remain unopened, I think, out of an appreciation for times I can never have back.

Halloween Routine

    On the eve of Halloween, Tera called me and asked me if I had plans for the next night. When I said I didn't, she invited me over to give out candy to trick or treaters. I told her I'd be there, and she said she'd appreciate the extra set of hands.

    I took the bus over to her place in the late afternoon. Tera and I had met online. We'd bonded over a love of horror movies, and for our first date, we went out to see one, the reboot of Halloween.

    When I got to her house on Halloween night, she greeted me dressed as a witch. This surprised me. I'd guessed that, as a horror movie fan, she would have gone all-out for Halloween. But she wasn't an especially horrorpilating witch. She'd put on some fake eyebrows and a wart to go with the formless black gown and pointed hat. She looked almost grandmotherly.

    "Nice costume," I said.

    "But?" Tera asked.

    "But nothing. It just strikes me as a little...conservative."

    "Conservative? You don't like it?"

    "No, it looks great," I said. "But a witch is pretty predictable. I just expected something with a little more...edge."

    "They're little kids," Tera said. "I don't want to scare them. And even if I did go with something more out there, I doubt they'd get the reference."

    "That's probably true," I said. 'It's all about the kids."

    And for the next three or four hours, it was. The door was open for ghosts and goblins, demons and devils, and no shortage of licensed characters. They'd gain speed on the sidewalk, scurry up the walkway, and pound up the steps, belting out "Trick or treat!" at full throat. Tera would reach into her bowl and dispense fun-size packets of M&Ms into their gaping candy bags. She'd pay them compliments and I'd watch and make smirking little comments.

    At 7:30, Tera shut off the porch light. She took off her fake eyelashes and wort and hat but left on the formless gown. She'd had the slow-cooker going all day—her cauldron, she called it— and from it she ladeled out a thick autumnal stew, full vegan. With bowls in hand, we sat down in the candle-lit living room to watch a movie, The Amityville Horror, which I hadn't seen before.

    After we'd finished eating and the plot had picked up, Tera sighed.

    "Are you bored?" she asked.

    "No," I said. "Are you?"

    "Sort of. This movie's just not doing it for me, not like it used to. Do you ever get to the point where the Halloween horror movie starts to feel like relationship sex?"

    "Excuse me?"

    "You know what I mean," Tera said. "That point where it starts to feel like you're just going through the motions, doing it because you're supposed to be doing it, but not because you're especially interested?"

    "We can do something else if you want."

    "That's just it," Tera said. "Your hands are so tied on Halloween. There's only a certain amount of things you can do. It becomes so rote. Maybe Halloween itself is what's really like the relationship sex. It lacks excitement."

    "Okay."

    "So do you want to do something exciting?"

    "Sure,” I said. “What did you have in mind?"

    "Why don't we get out the Ouija board?"

    "A Ouija board?"

    "Yeah,” Tera said, pausing the movie. “A real one. I still have one in my closet from back in college. My roommates and I used to bust that out when we wanted to scare ourselves."

    "And did you scare yourselves?"

    "Yes!” Tera exclaimed, sitting up. “And it worked. It's the damnedest thing. The little thing, the planchette, it actually moves under your fingers."

    I tilted my head. "Does it?" I said. "I think it's just autosuggestion. Your hands move it."

    "I thought the same thing," Tera said. "But be damned if it doesn't yank itself over with a force of it's own. It scared the crap out of me the first time. C'mon, I'll show you..."

    "But what about the movie?"

    Tera vaulted up off the couch, disappearing down the hall.

    "We can watch it later!" she called out from one of the rooms. Things rattled around. "Here it is! Milton Bradley's Ouija Board."

    Tera swished back into the living room in her gown brandishing a rectangular box and a grin.

    "Come on," she said, pushing aside our plates to make room on the coffee table. "Kneel down here."

    I did as I was asked and we kneeled down on either side of the coffee table. Tera squared the Ouija board between us, placing the planchette in the center.

    "Okay," she said. "Put your fingertips on the planchette like I'm doing."

    "Okay," I said, placing my fingers at a dainty angle on the planchette. Our fingertips touched. "But..."

    "Now we ask it a question..." Tera said. On her knees, she sat so pertly, a wry little grin on her face. "Ouija, we welcome all spirits in this dwelling. Is any one among you who wants to speak?"

    The planchette trembled beneath our fingers. Slowly, it crept across the old-timey letters towards the "Hello."

    "Hello yourself," Tera said. "See? Isn't that cool? Now ask it something."

    I stammered, wetting my lips.

    "Okay, if you won't, I will. Ouija, do you like The Amityville Horror?"

    The planchette moved again over to the "Yes."

    "Oh wow," Tera said. "You see? It really does work. Ask it something."

    "I..."

    "What, are you scared?"

    "No, no," I said, "I just don't know what to say..."

    "Ouija, is Dimitri scared?"

    The planchette slid with some force over to the S. Then it went with more force to the H. Then it crept to the Y.

    "Oh," Tera said, "he's shy, is he?"

    The planchette slid over to "YES."

    "That's what I thought," Tera said. "He shouldn't be shy, don't you think?"

    The planchette swung up and circled back down to "YES."

    Tera snorted a laugh. "Okay. So how can he get over his shyness?"

    The planchette moved across the board to the K. Then it went to the I, then is stopped at the S.

    "Kiss?" Tera asked. "You think we should kiss?"

    The planchette yanked our hands over to YES.

    Tera shrugged. "Okay then," she said.

    "What?" I croaked.

    Tera leaned over the table.

    "Come here."

    "Really?"

    "Yes. The Ouija board said."

    I leaned in and Tara placed a kiss on my lips, then managed to get in another before she drew back. Smirking and blinking furiously, she put her hands on the planchette. She waited until I placed my hands there, too.

    "Ouija, should I open my mouth next time?"

    The planchette did a lap around the board and came back to “YES.” Tara pulled me across the board and kissed me passionately. Her tongue lolled around in my mouth. She pulled herself back for breath.

    "Mwah," she gasped, putting her hands back on the planchette. "Now Ouija...should I take off my costume?"

    The planchette flew out from under our fingers and off the board, clattering across the hardwood floor.

    "Well," Tara said. "That seems like an enthusiastic yes."

    Then she stood up and let her robe fall to the floor. She wore a strappy leather getup, but no panties or bra. Her breasts were massive orbs, like crystal balls.

    "I..I..." I gasped, as that was all I could do.

    "Is this edge enough for you?" Tera asked. "Is this kid's stuff? Too routine?"

    "N-not at all," I said.

    "It was a rhetorical question," Tera said, stepping over the Ouija board. She hit her knees again.

    As she unstrapped my belt, her heavy breasts massaged my jeaned knees. My cock, bewildered, rose and did and semi-hard twirl before Tera secured it in her fist. She gave it six or seven upward tugs, a smirk leavening on her lips. Then she admitted my cock into her perma-smirking mouth and, when I'd hardened in full, she took it down her throat. She gagged, google-eyed, letting foamy spit leak out onto her lips. When it came to deep-throating, she was really putting herself through the paces, and I squeezed her lovely implants in sympathy. Once my glans came dislodged from her throat, she moved her mouth up and down on the length of my member, her splayed palms searching around my thighs and up underneath my shirt. She sped up gradually until she was bounding up and down, her silicone breasts bouncing off my thighs like basketballs. I clenched my fists around her upper arms and stayed her, flexing my cock out of her mouth. I eased her down tits-first onto my cock. Together, we calibrated it so my cock landed squarely in the groove between her boobs. She pushed her breasts together, my cock disappearing under her massive tits. She squeezed tight and then unsqueezed. She did this a second time and then a third, her tits falling perfectly still each time. She stared at me alluringly while her tits looked on, google-boobed. She went on squeezing and unsqueezing like that, smiling more sunnily with each go-round. My hips started into involuntary upward thrusting, cock pressing through those perfect rounds.

Tera drew back and pulled up to her feet, showing me her prim, pierced slit.

    "Yes," I said. "Give it to me!"

    And she did, right in my face. She bowled me over back into the couch and I was smothered in delicious cunt. I shook my head, as if clearing cobwebs from this witches' cauldron. Her brew was salty sweet. I pushed back face-first, getting myself lodged in Tera's pussy, nose and tongue delving deep within her elegant folds, tongue aflutter. Within minutes, she shuddered with an orgasm, whelping away.

Once she'd peaked, I grabbed her by the arms again and threw her down on the couch. I half-kneeled atop her torso with one foot planted on the floor and secured my cock between her boobs anew. I locked onto her come-drunk eyes.

    "Can I do it like this?" I asked. "May I tit fuck you?"

    Tera shrugged. "Maybe you should ask the Ouija."

    I drew back an inch.

    "I'm joking!" she slurred. "Just do it!"

    I slammed my dick forward, aiming for her mouth. I fucked her titties recklessly, using the silicone for cushioning, getting a good sense of rebound with each thrust, making the sensation of the act all the more exquisite. Meanwhile, I treated those boobs like stress-balls, squeezing and unsqueezing my palm, trying in vain to make a fist but not feeling at all like a failure. Her heartbeat accelerated beneath her left breast, reverberating through the length of my dick. I pushed Tera's tits back farther and farther as I fucked them, doubling them back such that she could almost lick them. God knows she tried valiantly. She didn't manage to reach the punctum of the nipple, but she did graze the tip of my glans a couple times. Finally, she stretched forward to get the whole head into her mouth fleetingly, and so I rewarded her for her strain by bounding up off her torso and burying my cock in her mouth. I fucked her face sleekly, my working haunches getting some good counter-bounce from her boobs.

    Mouth frothing, Tera ran her fingernails down my thigh, indicating she wanted something else.

    "Mind if I put it in your pussy?" I asked.

    She opened her mouth, letting my cock bound out.

    "Do it!" she said.

    I scooted off the couch and backpedalled. Tera opened her legs and I kneeled in between them. With my glans, I traced each labium, minora then majora, and then slid my cock into the wet runway of her opening. Tera's eyes batted madly. She gripped her tits as if pumping twin shotguns. Her legs locked around my back and pulled me in deeper. I changed up my pace, proceeding very deliberately. Her tits were built for speed, by her vagina was narrow. I fucked her glacially, watching as her fingers circled her nipples. In time, I laid myself down atop her, going even slower, our bodies parallel, tonguing her right nipple and then the left. When I sped up to a more tectonic pacing, she uttered long, low moans, and issued another orgasm.

    When she regained her faculties, Tera pushed me up and off. Now she was taking me by my shoulders. She sat me down just so on the couch and took a backhand grip on my cock. She torqued the shaft that way, sharpening me up to maximal hardness, then slid down onto my erection. Now the pace was hers to determine, and Tera didn't go slow. Soon enough, she was slamming down onto my hardon, thighs and cunt hammering it into submission. All the while, her tits beat against my face and chest like haymaker lefts and rights. She uttered little moans, puffs of air that served as a little balm after the barrage of big tits. At last, she let out a gust of air and, with that, a few drippings from between her legs.

    My cock had withstood her salvos, and as if paying it a reward, she squatted down and took it in her mouth again. Saliva seeped from Tera's mouth and down the length of my shaft. When her mouth tired, she switched to her hand. My cock stood unmoved, and she let out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes.

    "Do you want me to come?" I asked.

    "Do you want to come on my tits?"

    "I would love to come on your tits."

    "I have a better idea," Tera said.

    "What's that?"

    But before I could get an answer, Tera had relinquished my cock, leaving it to bound as if caught in a gale. She scurried over to the other side of the room where the planchette lay. She picked it up.

    "Let's ask the Ouija where you should come."

    "What?"

    Tera hurried back and almost skidded down onto her knees on the other side of the table. She lay the planchette on the board.

    "Come here. Put your hands on it."

    "I'm sort of occupied," I said, absently stroking my cock.

    "Oh god," Tera said, rolling her eyes again.

With that, she reached over and grabbed my hard-on. She pulled me down toward the table and then set my glans onto the planchette. Once it was steady, she assembled her fingers opposite of that rubicund head.

    "Ouija, where should Dimitri blow his load?"

    Slowly but surely, the planchette began to move again. It slid over to B, the moved to O...

    "Boobs!" I exclaimed. "It wants me to come on your boobs!"

    "Just wait," Tera said.

    The planchette inched sideward, this time making its way around and back across the O to the R. It slid promptly to the D.

    "B-O-R-D," Tera said. "Board! The Ouija board wants you to come on it!"

    "Hold on," I said, "it might be going somewhere else."

    Put the planchette did not move. I was hoping it would, as the sensation of having your glans ferried about by indeterminate forces was not without its charms.

    "Ouija has spoken," Tera said. "Now, come on the board."

    "Really?"

    "Really," Tera said, and laid her implants down on the edge of the coffee table such that their shadows danced over the letters in the candle light. "Now do it."

    I peeled my dick off the planchette and aimed at Tera's basketball tits. I kneaded the glans furiously and then felt the familiar rise in my balls. I shot forth a bolt of come that landed in a line across the board to Tera's left nipple. Another strand followed, this one hitting the left one, then another and another. A candle hissed, having received a wayward bead. The Ouija board wound up streaked, the letters occluded in my seed. Tera's tits glistened in the candle-light. Now her tongue reached for her tits, getting them every time, licking the beads of come clean.

    "Mmm," Tera murmured. "Now that was anything but routine for Halloween."

    "No," I said. "It wasn't routine in the least. Why did you want me to come on the board?"

    "That wasn't me."

    "Well, it's a hell of a lot of autosuggestion, to say the least."

    Tera shrugged. "If so, then that's just as much you as it is me. Or maybe we just have a perverted spirit in this house."

    "He's not into your average, run-of-the-mill relationship sex."

    "Nor your run-of-the-mill Halloween. We should do it again next year."

    "We should do it again tomorrow!" I said. "Why wait?"

    "Hold your horses," Tera said. "Let's not go too fast."

    "Well," I said, "maybe I want to have relationship sex with you."

    Tera smirked. "I'm not so sure I'm ready for that. Maybe I'll just have to ask the Ouija board."

    "But...you...I mean..."

    "Relax," Tera said, brushing a kiss on my cheek. "You'll get invited back next year. Now let's get back to the movie, shall we?"

Image Credit: The above images, entitled "Epilson" and "Alpha" respectively, were created by Ariane St. Amour. They were shared under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 License. Details for this license can be found here. No changes were made to the images, save for resizing to fit the article format. The text, meanwhile, is © Demetrius Cordova.