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The amazingly stacked blonde was named
Maggie. Her darker haired and sleeker figured siblings,
Celine and Cate, were actually fraternal twins. And that
bit of hearsay equaled everything that Harold learned. He
was never formally introduced to the girls themselves, which
was ok, since his tongue probably would’ve knotted like a
strand of cherry Twizzler. His usual bit would’ve been
useless to him. Whenever meeting someone for the first
time, he loved to extend his hand and casually announce,
“Hairy Asshole.” Then he strained to remain straight-faced
while awaiting reaction. In their embarrassment, most
people simply tried to gloss over the remark. For those who
begged his pardon, he seemingly repeated “Harry Antzle,”
leaving them to wonder about their own perverted
imaginations and the amount of raw sewage that needed to be
swabbed out of their ears.
Even Harold knew that you didn’t pull an act
like that on girls like these. He also knew that he stod
little chance of charming such girls no matter what
he said, and thus didn’t see any benefit of dealing on a
face-to-face basis. Indirection always served him better;
his best approach, he found, was from afar. That’s why he
tailed the girls home from Red Hawk Deck that afternoon he
spotted them lined up at the automated machine waiting to
pay their parking fee. He followed their black Volkswagen
Beetle at a discrete distance, and to his pleasant surprise,
discovered that they lived at the opposite end of his own
hometown. Once the girls had parked and gone inside, Harold
pulled up for a closer look at the house: a boxy, two-story
job with weathered gray siding, centered on a wide piece of
unfenced property. “WEIR,” the white stencils spray-painted
onto the curbside mailbox divulged the sisters’ surname.
Harold stopped his Geo Tracker in front of
the house only for a moment that afternoon, but with the
sisters now crowding his thoughts, he returned on foot later
that same night for some more detailed reconnaissance. When
he laid eyes on the large tree sprouting from the back yard
about twenty feet behind the house, he immediately began to
plot his late-October voyeurism. Something told him that
Halloween was tailor-made for these girls, that their
costumes would provide a delightful eyeful.
His intuition hadn’t steered him wrong.
He sat there now, legs dangling a good
twenty-five feet above the ground. Dressed in all black,
from the Raiders wool cap atop his head down to the
steel-toed Lugz anchoring his feet. Autumn-burnt leaves
that had yet to take their suicide dives provided additional
camouflage. From this terrific vantage point, Harold peered
through the lit window that framed a full-length mirror on
the bedroom’s far wall. The one called Celine presently
stood facing the mirror, examining her own Boxer Babe
costume. She wore a hooded silk robe, black with pink trim,
around a black sports bra and matching Spandex
short-shorts. The lettering scripted across the back of the
robe redundantly proclaimed “Knockout.”
Harold fancied going toe-to-toe with the
brunette pugilist, with them both sprawled out horizontal.
The sweaty bout he envisioned was soon trumped by the sight
of Celine’s twin crossing into view. Stripped down to her
lacy bra and thong, Cate held high a sheet of printer paper
upon which she’d magic-markered a perfect “10.” She giggled
throughout her mock-ring-girl act, and as she strutted past
her sister, Celine turned around and playfully swatted her
on her taut, tanned behind.
“Girls, you are killing me,” Harold murmured
happily, feeling his jeans tightening at the
crotch.
Glancing down at the distended denim, he recalled the old
joke—about the Boy Scout leader who could never camp out
with the troop without immediately pitching a tent.
Returning to his bedroom-side vigil, Harold
watched Cate don her own costume. He quickly ID’d her as a
female firefighter. Her uniform consisted of a bright red
leather minidress with neon-yellow reflector straps
stretched across the bottom, around the wrists, and beneath
the breasts. She completed the ensemble with a plastic
helmet and a pair of red stilettos. She was absolutely
stunning. Harold understood fully the algebra of the
adult-female Halloween dress code: basically take any
Costume X, tart it up by shrinking it down, and your result
was Sexy Costume XXX. Still, in this case it seemed to be
the Weir girls who made the clothes, who rendered the
outfits exponentially more titillating by choosing to wear
them.
Cate’s firefighter get-up had an adverse,
enflaming effect on Harold. Sensing himself roasting, he
rolled back his flannel sleeves and scrunched them at his
elbows. His sweat-sheened forearms glistened in the pale
light cast by the night’s sickle moon. Harold tugged at the
collar of shirt and tried to air himself cool. While doing
so, he caught faint whiff of something sweet lingering in
the night air.
The next costume unwittingly modeled for him
only made him hotter. Harold sucked air in through his
teeth when Maggie entered the scene from stage left. She
was a horn-dog’s dream, naturally voluptuous but without an
ounce of fat visible anywhere. Her French Maid costume
looked more likely to have come from a Frederick’s of
Hollywood catalogue than a Spirit Halloween store. White
fishnet stockings stretched high up gartered thighs barely
covered by the black satin skirt. The lace-up corset top
put her extensive cleavage on full display.
Harold had always thought there could never
be a more scrumptious looking piece of French cheesecake
than Jennifer Love Hewitt in the movie “Heartbreakers,” but
Maggie’s turn as a busty maid topped even that.
Celine and Cate eyed their sister in seeming
envy as Maggie stood before the mirror, fussing with her
frilly apron. A separate jealousness twinged in Harold as
he wondered where the sisters would soon be heading out to.
He wouldn’t be surprised if they were going to Dave
Beiderbitt’s annual bash, where everyone who was anyone in
this town congregated on Halloween. Well, everyone except
Harold. He’d earned himself a lifetime ban last year for
bringing over a plate of oatmeal cookies whose raisins
proved to be baked flies. His little gag had caused the
partygoers to do just that, once the secret ingredient was
discovered. Doubled over, they’d serenaded him with their
retching, before chasing him off with their disgusted cries.
Harold’s smirk-inducing reverie scattered
when he sensed movement in the bedroom ahead. He could
discern just enough from expressions and gestures to
comprehend the pantomime glimpsed through the windowpane.
Apparently Celine and Cate felt outdone by their sister,
felt like their own costumes didn’t stack up. This became
quite obvious when the twins began to undress as they headed
back to the ol’ bedroom closet.
Harold meanwhile relished their change of
heart. Hell, if the girls wanted to stay home all night
playing dress up, he was game.
Celine stepped back into view minutes later,
fashioned this time as a belly dancer. The gaudy,
gold-fringed halter top left her midriff wonderfully
exposed. The ruffled green skirt hung low on her hips and
was slit high on her right thigh. The piece was
diaphanous—one of Harold’s
all-time
favorite words—revealing the skimpy bikini bottom
underneath. Celine stood examining herself in the mirror,
then delved into character by undulating her muscle-ribbed
midsection. Harold’s own stomach gurgled in instant
response, as if actual hunger panged through his hollows.
Scowling, Maggie stalked away even before
Cate arrived to elbow Celine aside. Cate now wore knee-high
white boots and a slinky, spaghetti-strapped black dress.
At first Harold couldn’t place the costume, but then Cate
darted off for a second and returned with the telltale prop
balanced on her palm. Atop the rounded tray sat a thick
dildo complete with scrotum, looking like some mutant,
flesh-tone snail. That’s when Harold got it: she was a
“cock”-tail waitress! He marveled at the crude ingenuity of
the costume. Here was a girl after his own heart.
Harold’s eyes widened even further when the
implication of Cate having a dildo handy sank in. Gulping,
he moved to brush the sweat from his brow, and the muscles
of his upper-torso screamed their disapproval. Seemed that
his johnson wasn’t the only thing that had stiffened while
he sat hunched like a gargoyle ogling the girls.
Once again Harold scented an undeniable
sweetness, even stronger this time. For some reason he
associated the smell with stickiness, and thus figured that
it must be sap he detected. Tree-ejaculate, he
thought, sniggering. Maybe anything phallic couldn’t help
but drip in the presence of the girls’ risqué masquerade.
Harold, too, oozed excitement as he sat
waiting for Maggie to retake center stage. He could recall
only one other time in his life when he’d experienced such
illicit thrill. His older sister Greta still lived at home,
and Harold brimmed with inspiration from an old Billy Joel
song. Whenever his sister went out on one of her Saturday
night dates, Harold promptly snuck into her bedroom and
masturbated onto her eggshell-colored pillowcase. Squeezed
out encrypted little love notes that dried safely before
Greta came back home.
Maggie returned finally, sporting her latest
costume. Harold recognized it at once: Wet T-Shirt Contest
Winner. He’d seen—okay, leered at—the costume hanging on
the rack at Party City. It featured a white shirt painted
to look as if a pair of maroon nipples peeked through
wet-down cotton. Along with a “FIRST PLACE” sash, the
package came equipped with a rubber bosom that could be
inflated to exaggeration. In Maggie’s case, the device
proved unnecessary.
Grinning lasciviously, Cate and Celine
bracketed Maggie and gazed into the mirror. They seemed as
appreciative of Maggie’s suggestive costume as Harold was.
And then, incredibly, the twins proceeded to tug the shirt
right up over Maggie’s head. They unveiled her gloriously
sloping breasts, crowned with an authentic pair of DVD-sized
nipples. Even before the onset of nudity, Harold was
reaching into his pants, fondling the hardness pocketed
there. He extracted and flipped open his cell phone,
expertly activated its video-recording function. As the
phone worked to gather evidence of incestuous lesbianism,
Harold remembered the blackmail scheme that redneck guy had
worked against Jennifer Connelly’s character in “The Hot
Spot.” Plum visions of coital extortions suddenly danced in
Harold’s head. They were bettered by the sight of the twins
twisting around to Maggie’s front and bending to fasten
amorous lips to each of her breasts. Asthmatic with
excitement, Harold leaned closer and panted, “God bless this
holiday.”
No sooner were the words uttered than Harold
heard the crack, sharp as the snap of a giant wishbone. The
violence of the nearby noise seemed to knock him off
balance, and next thing he knew he was in freefall. His
whole body clenched. He wanted to shriek, but never got the
chance.
Alerted by the crash, the sisters rushed
downstairs and out into the back yard. They stopped short
upon spotting the figure cratering the lawn.
Lying there supine, he looked like a wooden
chair that had tipped over backwards. His rigid forearms
stretched straight skyward, curving only at the clawed
hands. Bent at the knees, his raised legs effortlessly
modeled a 90-degree angle.
The girls tiptoed over toward where he had
landed. Her apparent uneasiness causing her to lag behind a
few steps, Celine called to Cate in front: “Is he…?”
Cate hunched over in inspection, then
gingerly prodded him with the toe of her go-go boot. She
looked over to Celine and Maggie, nodding. A beat later,
the utter astonishment on her face morphed into an ecstatic
grin.
“It worked!” the sisters exclaimed in
unison. They joined hands and danced giddy circles around
their conquest.
“This is incredible, Maggie,” a breathless
Cate avowed once they stopped gyrating.
“I can’t believe we ever doubted you,” Celine
added.
“I told you two not to worry.” Maggie, who
had bolted outside topless, cupped and jiggled her massive
teats. “Simple variation on the world’s oldest spell.”
Cate stood rubbing her palms together. “And
so much easier than all that hair-of-black-cat, eye-of-newt
hurly-burly.”
Celine meantime stared at the fallen figure,
whose clothes and exposed skin bore a sugary gloss. “I just
hope he isn’t tainted.” But then, after an oh-what-the-hell
shrug, she reached down and snapped an index finger off
clean. She lifted the curled, petrified digit to her mouth
and lapped at it as if it were a candy cane. “Mmmm,” she
purred as the confection melted onto her tongue.
Encouraged by her sister’s taste test, Cate
procured her own sample. Practically slavering, she peeled
off a pair of red licorice lips, exposing in the process a
clenched set of albino-Skittle teeth. Cate moaned as she
chewed the male morsels.
Obviously the sister with the healthiest
appetite, Maggie helped herself to a more significant
portion of the human quarry. Using her long, lacquered
nails to complete the extraction, she made gumballs of his
eyes. Delectable as they were, though, they did not quite
satisfy her sweet tooth. So she bent over and hefted one of
the gnarled branches that had splintered off minutes earlier
when the voyeur plummeted.
Celine and Cate both squealed eagerly when
they realized what their elder sibling intended to do.
Grunting, Maggie swung the branch into the midsection of the
grounded piñata. His hardshell exterior cracked apart like
so much peanut brittle, and the eyes of the three Weir
sisters widened in delight at the assorted treats in store.
Patience being yet another virtue lacked, the covetous coven
did not wait to drag their Halloween booty indoors. They
pounced right then and there beneath the moonlit ash tree.
And that’s how Harold Antzle, who remained
sentient throughout most of the subsequent feasting, found
out for the first and last time just what it was like to be
in good taste. |
