Moon Landing

My first and only Halloween story! Please check the tags to be safe.

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Chapter 1

The year was 1969. While Nixon was in the White House and protests against a forgotten war swept the nation, I was just trying to finish high school. We played Led Zeppelin's Whole Lotta Love on the turntable and still reeled from the fact that we'd actually put a man on the moon.

Dad was deployed overseas, and like any good Army brat, I was expected to enlist and join him as soon as I got my degree. Meanwhile, Mom had moved us to her hometown to take care of her aging parents.

Surprisingly, life was good. I quickly found friends in my classmate Dave, a lanky joker and aspiring car mechanic, and wannabe hippies Jim and Sondra. When I wasn't at school or hanging out with them, I spent my time writing for the school paper, devouring horror magazines like Famous Monsters of Filmland and Weird Tales, and reading the books of Raymond Chandler.

On October 31, 1969, Dave's parents had left town, so we met at his house for our own little Halloween party. Dave had managed to organize a couple of six-packs of beer, and Sondra contributed a few hand-rolled blunts.

For some inexplicable reason, Betty was there.

Sweet, sweet Betty. She was a waitress at Jerry's Diner, a year older than me, with a thick, unruly mop of blonde hair that always seemed to escape her bandana. Tonight, she was wearing her usual dungarees, a stark contrast to the flimsy, store-bought costumes the other girls her age wore. To me, she was the cutest, most infuriatingly untouchable girl in the world.

"Do you think there's more trick-or-treaters coming?" Dave asked, propping his feet on the couch table. "I think we had more last year."

Sondra took a slow drag from her blunt and then scoffed, glancing at the full bowl of candy on the table. "You scared them off with that stupid skeleton mask."

"Oh well. More for us then."

I looked over to the armchair where Sondra sat in Jim's lap, his hand under her blouse, snaking up toward her breasts. After her first few drags, she had opened a few buttons and invited his hand in. I quickly averted my gaze when I felt my pants tighten.

Betty leaned back in her chair and sighed. "I want what she's having, and I'm not talking about the weed."

"We can't help you with that," Dave said, grinning. "I think it's safer if we're just friends."

"Right." Betty took a swig of beer, glancing in my direction. "One of these days, you guys gotta man up. I don't wanna die a virgin."

Dave shrugged. "And I don't wanna die, period. And neither does Mike."

I nodded, but kept my mouth shut.

After working up to it for weeks, I had finally asked her out last month. She had accepted, but when I found out what her father had done to her last date, I was the one who cancelled. The poor guy had eaten his soup through a straw for a week and skipped town as soon as he was out of the hospital.

I decided to change the subject. "This house isn't the only one the kids avoid. What's with that old duplex on Maple Street?"

Dave gave me a broad grin. "That's the Wilsons' home. It's been abandoned since Mrs.  Wilson shot her husband. Must be ten years now."

"They say she broke her neck," Sondra said, a solemn look on her face. "Fell down the stairs when she was trying to get rid of the body. It was all over the news and even on national TV."

"She was a smut writer," Jim added, his hand now fondling Sondra's left breast. "Wrote erotic novels and published stories in porn magazines -- the kind Dave's passing around. At least that's what I heard."

Sondra opened another button. "And now she's haunting the place on the night of Halloween, to punish worthless men for their misdeeds."

"Right," I scoffed. "Sounds like a story out of Weird Tales."

"Then you'd feel right at home," Betty said, smirking. She took a sip of beer and looked me straight in the eye. "Spend the night there, and I'll suck your cock."

I almost spit out my beer. "We agreed to be friends, remember?"

"If you can't get pregnant, it's not even sex. But it's okay; stick around and feed me a couple more beers, and I might do it anyway."

Unsure what to say, I crossed my legs, trying to hide the bulge in my pants.

"I'm joking," she said. "Only stupid freshmen go into that house." She gave me a sweet smile, her eyes firmly on my crotch. "Not joking about the other thing, though."

A slamming on the front door interrupted us.

"Betty Jane!" yelled a man outside. "I know you're in there! Open the darn door!"

Betty rolled her eyes. "Fuck off, Dad!" she yelled back. "Just having a party, okay? I'm nineteen! It's none of your goddamn business!"

"As long as you live in my house, you follow my rules!" He hammered his fist against the door, making the whole wall shake. "You're with that McPherson boy, aren't you? Come out, or I'm kicking the door down."

"You better let yourself out in the back," Betty whispered, getting up. "Sorry about this. Hurry; I'll buy you some time."

On tiptoes, I made my way through the hallway and slipped out the back door. I crossed the backyard and climbed over the fence to the next property, almost ripping my pants on a rusty nail. From there, I walked down the parallel road, taking a look over my shoulder once in a while.

I heard car doors slam shut in the distance, then the tortured engine of the old Buick that would take Betty home.

It was a Friday night, with no school the next day and nothing better to do in town, so I decided to head home. At a quarter past nine, I entered Maple Street with a cigarette in my mouth, walking past burnt-out jack-o'-lanterns and the occasional toilet-papered house.

I had almost forgotten about murderous Mrs.  Wilson when I passed by her house at the end of the street, an old, weathered duplex that had once been painted white. The front yard was a man-high jungle of thorny scrub, and a moss-grown pebble path led up to the derelict porch.

Chapter 2

Maybe it was Betty's dare, maybe it was all the horror magazines I had read. Whatever it was, it felt like the house was drawing me in. The neighborhood was eerily quiet; my steps on the path and then on the porch were the only noise that broke the silence.

The front door wasn't locked. When I pressed down the handle and pushed, the door creaked open, so I let myself in. I didn't have a flashlight, but the waning crescent of the moon and a bit of light from the street lamp outside shone through the windows. I flipped a light switch -- nothing. After a few moments, my eyes had adjusted enough to move forward.

Compared to the stories, it wasn't all that scary; just an empty, abandoned house where time had stood still. A thick coat of dust covered the floors and furniture, and spiderwebs hung everywhere. In the kitchen, the calendar on the wall showed February 1957. Dirty dishes still sat in the sink, left from the fateful day when Mrs.  Wilson murdered her husband.

When I peeked into the living room, red eyes appeared in the darkness, glaring at me from the couch. An angry meow, an arched back and a yawn, then the eyes disappeared again as the cat settled back to sleep.

After checking all the rooms on the ground floor, I decided to go upstairs, the steep wooden stairs creaking as I made my way up. I could see how someone might break their neck here. When I reached the hallway, I paused for a moment, glancing around. It was quiet. A sudden cool draft brushed across my neck and gave me goosebumps.

Pull yourself together. There's just a crack in the wall somewhere.

When I walked into the master bedroom, I froze.

A woman stood in the near darkness by the window, staring at me with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"My, my," she said in a low, husky voice. "Who do we have here?"

I stared back at her with my mouth open. I had seen women like her before -- at home, when I was browsing Dave's porn magazines with my pants down. She was a curvy figure in a short black dress and high heels, wearing red lipstick, her dark hair cascading in waves around her shoulders. Younger than Mom, older than Betty. Thirties, I guessed. But that dress she wore? Skin-tight and shiny, leaving nothing to the imagination. It took my breath away.

What the hell?

It was a well-executed prank. The door slammed shut behind me, and I didn't even see how they did it. I figured I'd missed a string somewhere.

"Excuse my manners," she said, giving me a nod. "Deborah Wilson. And you are?"

I chuckled. "Right. So, who put you up to this?"

"What do you mean? The question is rather, who are you, and what are you doing in my house?"

Suddenly, she had a wallet in her hand. I blinked, unsure where she got it from. She pulled out what looked like a driver's license and studied it in the dim light.

"Michael McPherson," she read. "Pleased to meet you, Michael. Oh, you turned eighteen in March. That's good to know."

Damn you, Dave, I thought. He must have swiped my wallet on my way out. But looking at this spectacular woman in front of me, I couldn't really be mad at him.

"You're Jenna, right?" I asked. "Dave's cousin. You work at the gas station on Collins."

She laughed, tossing the wallet on the bed. "I'm not Jenna. Like I said, I'm Deborah Wilson, and this is my night out."

I grinned. "So you're saying you're the woman who murdered her husband? Who used to live here?"

"I didn't murder him. We were both wasted and played Russian roulette with his.38 Special. He lost, obviously. Word of advice: you gotta spin the cylinder every single time. It does make a difference."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that." She pointed at a small hole in the wall. "That's where the bullet went in. There was less blood than I thought, but I panicked, tried to get him downstairs. Not sure why I did that. Maybe I wanted to bury him in the yard." She loosened her neck with a sharp, loud crack that made me flinch. "You have to be careful on those stairs. Fucking dangerous when the light's out."

"And now you're haunting this place?" I asked, deciding to play along for now. They had gone to all this length, and Jenna, or whoever she was, looked absolutely stunning in that dress.

"Ghosts haunt; I'm not a ghost. I'm a condemned soul from hell. Once a year we're allowed to go topside and roam the earth." She sat down on the bed and crossed her legs. "This is my chosen hunting spot. Call me sentimental."

"Uh-huh. So if it was an accident, why did you go to hell?"

"A few things here and there when I was younger. Nothing major." She furrowed her brow. "Although, I shot a critic once who called my writing 'derivative.' But it turns out nobody likes critics, so they gave me a pass. I ended up in the second circle of hell."

"That doesn't sound too bad. Considering there's, what, nine circles?"

"It's nice. No bills to pay, no smartass readers sending you stupid letters. Real estate prices are reasonable, and I have a good job in administration. Speaking of which..." She got up. "Excuse me for a second. I have to get your book."

"My book?" I meant to ask, but before I could open my mouth, from one moment to the next, she was gone. No puff of smoke, no bright light, nothing. Simply gone without a trace. All that remained was the sudden, dead silence of the room.

Oh. My. God.

I turned to the door and twisted the doorknob, but it didn't budge. I glanced around. There was no other door. I tried the knob again, rattling it, kicking the door in frustration.

"Relax," I heard her husky voice behind me.

When I turned around, my heart thumping in my chest, she stood there with a big leather binder tucked under her arm.

"That's you," she explained. "Or rather, all your deeds from the moment you were born up to this day. We keep meticulous records." She sat down on the bed, opening the binder. "Let's see if there's anything that warrants punishment."

With a snap of her fingers, the ceiling light and the bedside lamps turned on. I stood with my back against the door, stunned like a deer in the headlights. She flipped through the book -- hundreds of dense, machine-typed pages -- and stopped at one in the middle, seemingly at random.

"Stole a pack of cigarettes from your dad when you were twelve," she read, then looked over to me. "You wouldn't have some on you by any chance?"

I reached into my pocket. "S-sure."

"We do have cigarettes in hell," she said, her hand smoothing down her already smooth dress. "I love this sexy little thing, but it doesn't have pockets. Designed by a man, if I had to guess."

She strode over, stopping half an arm's length in front of me, which I found way too close for comfort. I frantically shook a cigarette loose, trying not to stare as her flowery perfume hit my nose. She extracted the cigarette and waited patiently while I fumbled to light it with trembling fingers.

"Much appreciated," she said after taking a deep, sensual drag.

"W-welcome," I stammered.

Back sitting on the bed, she skimmed a few pages, blowing circles of smoke toward the ceiling as she read. The expression on her face seemed mildly disapproving, but I wasn't sure.

"Wow." She gently tapped the ash of her cigarette into the bedside ashtray. "That is a lot of masturbation."

I swallowed hard. Dave's magazines sure had given me plenty of inspiration. The pages of Ms.  April in particular, a cute blonde who vaguely reminded me of Betty, were my favorites.

"H-how bad is it?" I asked. "I... uh... I know it's a sin, but--"

"Nobody gives a shit. When I was writing, I had my hands down my panties all the time." She looked up from the book. "Sin is a concept humans made up."

"Y-yeah?"

"Yes. As long as you don't harm anyone, it's all fair game. You should get yourself a girlfriend, though. Get some variety into your sex life." She flipped back to the beginning. "I don't wanna keep you waiting too long; I'll just read the cliff notes." Her lips moved silently as her finger traced over the cover page. "I see you're still a virgin. Interesting -- I wouldn't have guessed."

It was true. With past girlfriends, I had never made it past first base.

"I... uh... we moved around a lot, and here... uh... there's a girl I like. But her father... I think he'd kill me."

"Old-fashioned guy, huh? No sex before marriage?"

"Not even dating."

"My dad was the same." She exhaled, shaking her head. "Of course, that was back in the thirties. What these guys want is respect. Talk to him, ask for permission, even if you shouldn't need it."

"He'd probably kill me on the spot."

"I'm not saying be stupid about it." She opened the nightstand, pulling out a.22 pistol. "Take my old Beretta. Let him slap you around a bit, then shoot him in self defense. Nobody downstairs bats an eyelash when a brute kicks the bucket."

I did not touch the pistol.

She went back to reading for a couple of minutes, then slammed the book shut and rolled her eyes. "Now that's disappointing. Kid, you gotta live a little. That stuff's barely worth mentioning."

"D-does that mean I can go?"

"Not so fast." She stood up to face me. "There are a few things that deserve punishment. We'll have to make do with what we have, right?"

Suddenly, a wide cold steel collar materialized around my neck. My fingers flew up, but found no seam or lock; it felt smooth and heavy and there was an engraving on the front. I instantly regretted all my misdeeds -- whatever they were.

Oh Lord, have mercy.

She hooked her finger into the collar and pulled me closer. "It says 'Deborah's Bitch,' in case you're wondering. But don't read too much into it. These things are standard issue when we go topside." She grinned at me like the cat that had just swallowed the canary. "You came into my bedroom, and that means you're mine until the sun comes up. I'm not going back to hell without having a little fun."

Chapter 3

My stomach knotted, thinking of what that fun might entail. I had a sinking feeling it would be entirely one-sided.

"Don't look so shocked," she said with barely contained amusement. "Maybe looking at this will help relax you a little."

When she hiked up her dress, I couldn't believe my eyes. Instead of panties or the body hair I had seen in pictures, she revealed a smooth, shaved crotch. Instantly, my pants became way too tight.

Her grin told me the reaction wasn't lost on her.

She inserted two fingers into herself. "Be a good boy," she purred, "then you'll get to put your cock in later."

This was, without any doubt, both the scariest and the most exciting moment of my life. Despite my fear, I was determined to be an exceptionally good boy. Self-preservation had taken a backseat to hormones -- even if the door were open now, there was no way I would have run.

My unbelieving stare was interrupted by a snap of her fingers. A wooden X-shaped cross appeared on the far wall, spanning from the floor to the ceiling. Another snap and I was naked, strapped hand and foot to that cross, facing the wall. My clothes lay folded on the chair next to the bed.

"That's a St.  Andrew's Cross," she explained, grabbing my left buttock. "It holds the delinquent in place for a good whipping. You wouldn't believe how often that shows up in my stories. And this, of course..."

A bullwhip appeared in her hand. She stepped back, making it crack in the air. The sound was loud and sharp, echoing ominously in the bedroom.

"W-w-wait," I stammered, tugging at my restraints. They didn't give.

"Yes?"

"What's this for, exactly?"

She gnawed on her lip, then peeked at the binder. "Lying to your mother when you were seven. Cheated yourself to another bowl of ice cream when you already had one at your grandma's."

"But... but... I apologized!"

"Only after you were caught."

With a vicious swing, the whip cracked on my upper back. I shrieked. The impact had been so hard, I was sure she'd drawn blood.

"You'll be fine," she murmured, running her fingers along my spine. "Nothing we do tonight can cause lasting damage. That's the rules of the game."

"Y-yes?"

"Yes. I'm just making sure you learned your lesson."

"I haven't lied to Mom in years!" I protested, sounding a lot less manly than I'd liked.

She chuckled, reaching around to grab my dick. "I know. But you have to see it from my perspective: I work in admin, and I never get to whip anyone. Just a dozen and we're done, okay?"

Inexplicably, I grew hard in her hand. She pushed me back a little, then her lips wrapped around my cock, taking it deep into her mouth. I shuddered, holding my breath. After a few moments, she let up.

"You think you can stand a few more?" she asked, her hand cradling my balls.

Newly motivated, I nodded emphatically. Of course, I could.

Doubt crept in when the next lashes cracked between my shoulder blades. I held on for dear life, clenching my fists and squeezing my eyes shut. It probably wasn't the most convincing display of masculinity, but she seemed content.

After I had my dozen for a set of undisclosed transgressions, both the whip and the huge St.  Andrew's cross disappeared, much to my relief. I turned around, covering my crotch with my hands.

"Well done," she said. "My Darryl, bless his soul, was an excellent lover, but this is something he didn't appreciate. He had no issue with tying me up, though." A smile danced on her lips. "Since you're a virgin, I guess it's my job to break you in properly. As a service to... what was her name?"

"B-betty. Betty Jane."

"For Betty Jane, then. The secret of a satisfying sexual relationship is in reciprocity."

I stared at her. "Reci--... what?"

"Reciprocity. You do something for me, and I do something for you in return." She pushed my hands away to grab my cock. "Unless you want to stop and go home and jack off to a porn magazine."

I shook my head. "N-no."

Going home was the last thing I wanted right now. I was in the presence of this beautiful creature of hell, and she had already given me a peek under her dress. Even though I felt I had more than held up my end of the bargain, it didn't matter. If there ever was a time to negotiate, this wasn't it.

"Good," she said. "Then I'd say we begin, shall we?"

This time, when she hiked up her dress, my heart almost stopped.

"It's called a strap-on," she said, stroking the thick black thing hanging between her legs. "You can probably imagine where it goes."

I instinctively clenched my buttocks. "I-I... I'm not gay!"

She shrugged, stroking the large, glistening piece of rubber. "What does that have to do with anything? My husband and I did this all the time. Debbie does Darryl -- I wrote a whole novel about it."

"B-but..."

"A lot of straight men enjoy taking it up the ass. You shouldn't deny yourself that pleasure."

My mind was racing at a million miles an hour. I stood with an open mouth, unsure what to say.

"First I do you, then you do me," she said, her hand still on the scary rubber dong. "It's simple. But you have to agree, or it's not going to happen."

I swallowed. "I have to agree?"

She nodded toward the binder. "Your paperwork doesn't support unilateral action. Penetration requires consent. If I went ahead without it, I'd get a serious scolding back home. Second circle or not, you don't want a scolding in hell."

Oh God, what do I do now?

I took a deep, ragged breath. "Okay," I whispered after a long pause.

She chuckled. "You have to spell it out for the record. Sorry to be such a stickler for the rules, but I really have to dot my i's and cross my t's. Hell's all about bureaucracy. Think DMV or the federal government, times a million."

My face was beet-red. "Fuck my ass with that... thing," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Hop on the bed then. I'll do you from behind." She grinned, giving me a slap on the butt. "I'm sure you've seen the position in a magazine. It works just as well for men."

I slowly walked over, slower than I'd ever moved in my life, and climbed on the bed. The collar rested heavy on my neck, its engraving feeling more and more appropriate. When I parted my legs, a lubricated finger pushed against my virgin back door.

"It'll hurt if you clench like this," she said, applying gentle pressure as I held my breath. "I'll go slow, don't worry."

Eventually, her finger slipped in.

"So, what are you gonna do after you graduate?" she asked in a conversational tone, as if she didn't have her finger up my butt. "Do you have any plans yet?"

"Enlist, I guess. Join the army like my dad."

She added a second finger. "Really? No offense, but you don't look like a soldier type to me." She paused. "My husband served in World War II. All that ever got him was night terrors and a drinking problem. Is there something you're good at?"

"I don't know," I said, wincing as I tried to get used to that second probing finger. "I write for the school newspaper. My teachers say I have a talent."

"Journalism, huh. Just stay away from the culture section." She scoffed. "Full of assholes who spend a week writing five hundred words, dumping on hard-working people. Pathetic."

I couldn't help but laugh. "I hear it can get you shot."

"Smart boy." She pulled out her fingers and tapped the inside of my thighs, easing my legs apart some more. "Now, buckle up. You're getting it up the ass, my friend."

Oh, crap. Here we go.

When I felt the strap-on between my butt cheeks, I did my best not to clench. With gentle pressure, she stretched me open, pushing the fake cock home. It hurt. It hurt quite a bit. I tried not to let it show.

Of course, she saw right through me. "Unpleasant, isn't it?"

"It's okay," I lied.

"My first couple of times hurt like a motherfucker, pardon my French. Didn't warm up, didn't use enough lube. Give it time; it'll get easier. And before you know it, you'll be taking dick like a champ."

Yeah, right.

Each deep, painful thrust increased my respect for the girls in Dave's magazines. For anyone really, who spread her -- or his -- legs to take cock where it clearly didn't belong.

She kept going for what felt like a very long time. It probably wasn't. As the pain turned into a dull ache, my erection came back, harder than before. She pounded me with raw, primal energy, grabbing my hips as she stuffed my aching ass with her rubber cock.

I breathed a big sigh of relief when she finally pulled out.

"Thanks for this," she said, leaving my butthole gaping. "Since you're such a good sport, I'm not gonna make you suck it. You're not quite there yet on your journey."

A final, hard slap made me wince. When I turned around, all pain was forgotten.

Gone was the strap-on, gone was the skin-tight dress. Naked, she stood in front of me, clean-shaven with large, pendulous breasts, smiling her unsettling, amused smile.

"Nice tits, huh," she said, cupping them proudly. "My original equipment wasn't all that impressive, so I got myself a boob job in hell. If you spend all eternity in that place, you should at least feel good inside your skin, right?"

"I g-guess."

"You wouldn't believe how many forms they made me fill out."

My hand reached out to her marvelous breast -- I just couldn't help myself. She let me touch it for a moment, then laid back on the bed with her feet planted on the mattress, her legs apart.

"What do you know about foreplay?" she asked. "Do you have any idea where to find the clit?"

"I think so, ma'am."

Luckily, I hadn't just looked at the pictures. I wasn't sure how realistic the accompanying stories were, but they had given me one clear idea: my tongue was key in what was supposed to happen. She wasn't shy -- I figured she'd tell me if I got it wrong.

I got to work between her legs, lapping away and soon found the little nub that needed my attention. As I licked and sucked, ignoring the musky taste as best I could, she helped herself to another of my cigarettes, one hand on my head as she smoked.

It took a while. I kept going until her soft moans turned into a long, drawn-out groan. Sitting back on my heels, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Kid," she said, still breathless, "I should write you a reference. That girl of yours will have no complaints."

"Are you okay? Your legs are shaking."

"That's what happens when you do it right."

With a grunt, she turned around and got on all fours on the bed, pushing her butt toward me. "The moment you've been waiting for, huh? Have at it. I could use a good, hard dick."

Over the last hour, I had been collared, tied up, whipped, fingered, and butt-fucked. Damn right! Now it's my turn.

I plunged my cock inside her, finding her wet and warm and irresistible. She clenched around me with a surprisingly strong grip, moaning as I hammered her like a madman. A few times I paused when I got close, trying to make it last. It was glorious. Breathtaking. But truth be told, it was over faster than I care to admit.

With a final groan, I shot my load inside her, collapsing on the bed and trying to catch my breath. Armstrong had nothing on me. This was my own, personal moon landing.

"Not bad for a first-timer," she said. "Congratulations, you just fucked your first pussy."

She leaned down, taking my rapidly shriveling cock into her mouth, sucking it clean while I reached for my pack of cigarettes. I lit one, which she snatched out of my mouth, then I lit myself another.

"God," I said, after taking a deep drag. "That was fucking amazing. Sorry that it was a bit short."

"Don't be. We have all night; we can go again." She grinned at me, caressing my balls. "If you can't get it up, I can bring back the strap-on. Maybe move on to the next size."

I stared at her with wide open eyes. "Just give me a few minutes."

She laughed. "I'm joking. Unless you want to, of course."

"We'll see." I leaned back, my hand stroking her breast, brushing my thumb over her nipple.

We lay there for a while without saying a word, smoking in silence. I thought about Betty. Would I ever be with her? If I enlisted, I'd never see her again. And even if I did, she'd probably be married to someone else. Someone who had the guts to stand up to her father.

"Hey," I said after a long pause. "What's it like, being a writer?"

She shrugged. "It's both the best job and the worst job. When you're inspired, things just flow, and you think you can do anything. Other days you stare at an empty page, and you just want to smash things."

"How do you get started?"

"Most of what you do is a craft, not an art. Read a lot, and write what you know. Research what you don't. If you want to be serious about it, go to college. The last thing this business needs is yet another hack." She turned her head toward me. "If you wanna give it a go, take my typewriter and my Rolodex and whatever else you need."

"You're serious?"

She chuckled. "I'm dead. Obviously, I don't need them anymore. But while you're here..." With a devious grin, she propped herself up and snapped her fingers. My cock was instantly hard, and I felt new energy pulsing through me.

"Whoa," I said, staring down on myself. "How did that happen?"

"You're wearing my collar. I can do all kinds of useful stuff to you." She turned around, running her hand along her buttock. "We still have a few hours until sunrise. If I'm not mistaken, it's my turn taking it up the ass."

Epilogue

Five years had gone by since I stumbled into Deborah Wilson's bedroom. The year was now 1974: Ford followed Nixon after Watergate, and American combat troops left Vietnam following the Paris Peace Accords the year before.

I never enlisted and never murdered Betty's father. Betty and I eloped to California right after I graduated from high school, and we both went to college. She studied business administration, working part-time at a restaurant, and I studied American literature, washing cars and delivering newspapers.

Using the contacts from Deborah's Rolodex, I managed to publish a series of short stories in porn magazines, blending sex and horror and sometimes science-fiction. Whenever I had time, I worked on my first novel.

Every once in a while, we came back to town to visit our parents and friends. Jim and Sondra got married and moved to a hippie commune in Canada. From my little circle, Dave was the only one who went to Vietnam. He never saw combat, spending his entire tour in 1971 repairing cars at Da Nang Air Base, and he continued doing the same at his dad's body shop in town.

Betty stood in the kitchen of her parents' house, carving the last of a dozen jack-o'-lanterns when her father walked in. He gave me an icy stare, then got himself a Bud from the fridge.

I nodded at him. "Gary."

"Mike," he grumbled as he lumbered out.

Betty laughed. "Dad has really warmed up to you."

"What's he gonna do," I said, stroking her very pregnant belly. "I knocked up his only daughter, and now he's stuck with me."

"Damn right." She leaned in for a kiss. "Don't forget, tonight's the night. You should go back to Maple Street. You'd regret it if you didn't."

"I told you what happened last time. You're really okay with that?"

"Well, she's a condemned soul from hell, and she's changed your life. Why don't you show her a good time? I think she deserves it." Betty grinned, raising the knife. "Fucking is one thing, but if you ever fall in love with someone else, I'll cut your dick off."

"Yes, ma'am." I gave her a long kiss on the mouth. "Don't wait up for me."

"Give her my best. Tell her I absolutely loved Debbie Does Darryl. That critic was an asshole."

***

When I saw Deborah Wilson again, upstairs in that bedroom, she hadn't aged one bit. She was wearing the same figure-hugging shiny dress, the same heels, the same red lipstick.

"Caught nothing yet?" I asked.

Her eyes lit up. "Michael? I'll be damned. Fancy seeing you here!" She opened her arms. "Come here and gimme a hug."

"I meant to check in earlier," I said when she finally let go of me, "but it's been a crazy few years. Studying, working, getting my novel published..."

"That's all right, I can imagine." She looked me over, both her hands on my shoulders. "I followed your career, read your stories and your book. Your characters? So vivid and realistic. Damn good writing."

"Thank you. Betty and I read all of yours. You were my biggest inspiration, and I typed every single word on your old Smith Corona."

She swallowed, blinking a few tears away as she sat down on the bed. "That means a lot, you coming back here. Seriously, I'm proud like a mom."

I pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "I stopped, but I thought you might want one."

"My, you're a gentleman," she said, waiting until I had given her a light. "Are you just saying hello, or do you have time to play?" She took a drag. "Ah, wait, you're a married man now. Wouldn't want to overstep."

"I am. Betty sends her best. She loves Debbie Does Darryl."

She laughed. "That woman is a sweetheart, and she's got great taste."

"She does. And about your question..." I winked at her. "Yes, I have time. Betty's giving me the night off."

"No time to waste, then." She jumped up from the bed, and her wide, mischievous grin made me chuckle. "We only have until sunrise."

The door slammed shut. I felt the cold steel collar materialize around my neck and my clothes disappeared, reappearing neatly folded on the chair by the bed. She hiked up her dress, revealing the glistening strap-on that had been my first sexual experience all those years ago.

I grinned. "Betty uses a bigger one than that."

She chuckled. "Say no more." With a snap of her fingers, she turned it into a massive thing that she could no longer wrap her hand around. "What do you say? First I do you, then you do me?"

"All holes are fair game?"

"Yours and mine," she said, grinning. "Could you...? It's just for the paperwork."

It took a moment before I understood what she meant. "Oh, right. Mrs.  Deborah Wilson, would you please fuck my ass with your monster cock?"

"Thank you."

Without further ado, I got on all fours on the bed and spread my legs, my dick already rock hard. She stepped behind me, and when she touched my collar, I heard a lock snap shut. When I turned, she was holding a leash, its free end wrapped around her hand.

"Something I read in your stories," she said, giving it a gentle tug.

"That's a nice touch. Obviously, Deborah's bitch belongs on a leash."

She laughed out loud. "Exactly."

Like on my first visit, she warmed me up with her fingers, then entered me from behind with a slow thrust. The huge dildo stretched me out, but it slipped right in. I grunted, resting my head on the sheets.

"Your woman prepared you well -- you're taking cock like a champ." She gave my butt a hard slap for good measure. "This is how a male ass is supposed to be used."

After a couple of strokes, she paused, pulling my leash taut. "I assume you'll suck it when I'm done?"

"What do you think? Would be impolite not to."

With my eyes closed, I enjoyed the sensation of her long, deep thrusts. She pushed the heavy rubber cock to the hilt, filling me completely with each powerful stroke.

When I finally left her house on Maple Street at sunrise, I promised to be back next year.