Weedman the Mighty Lover

My decision to smoke weed for the first time was both a long time coming and a spur-of-the-moment decision. I had thought about it for a long time, but between my strict Bible Belt upbringing (the first 18 years), my involvement with the military (the next 11 years), and then my employment with a national retailer that didn’t allow marijuana in any form (2 more years), I had never really gotten around to it.

Sure, I’d considered it. I had played around with the idea in my mind, systematically resolving many of the mental obstacles I was raised with. This wasn’t some hardcore drug, cooked up in a lab, refined and mixed to a fine degree of chemical composition… no, this was literally just a plant. Getting baked was no different than getting drunk from an intoxication standpoint, and pretty much everyone I knew had done that at some point. One by one, the objections fell until that fateful night I was hanging out with a girl I had recently started dating—and she had just finished rolling a joint.

She started to light it, and I looked over at her. “Mind if I smoke with you?” I asked.

Her jaw dropped. She knew I had never smoked pot before. “Sure!!” she replied, rather enthusiastically, then lit the joint and handed it over.

My first inhale nearly killed me. I’m a social smoker, but one thing I had forgotten to consider was the presence of a filter on the end of a cigarette. This requires significantly more suction to pull the smoke through than it does on, say, oh, a hand-rolled joint with a completely open hole straight to the good stuff.

I almost died coughing.

She almost died laughing.

She took the left-handed cigarette from me, saying that she was helping me out; in reality, I think she was not only trying to save the doobie she had just rolled but was also making an earnest effort to keep me from setting her apartment on fire. Once both of us had recovered and were breathing normally, she re-lit the J and demonstrated how to slowly pull the smoke into your mouth, then inhale slowly. She kept emphasizing this word “slowly” like I had just tried a Santa Clause over a lit chimney, but instead of trying to go down it with a bag of gifts, I’d attempted to put the fire out by inhaling the entire thing.

(I don’t know if I mentioned this or not, but she’s exceptionally gifted in the art of sarcasm.)

I gingerly took it from her hand, slightly traumatized from my apparent betrayal of every childhood Smokey the Bear warning, and copied her technique as closely as I could. I still coughed, but not nearly as much. After three hits, she advised me to wait and see what happened. At this point, I was feeling slightly buzzed, kind of like the nicotine high you get with that first cigarette after you haven’t smoked in years. I’ll admit, I was disappointed. “This is what all the hype is about?” I thought.

Three minutes went by.

Five minutes.

Nothing.

Then it hit me, like a freight train out of nowhere. I’m not really sure what happened, but time and space warped, the room shifted, and happiness descended upon me like a warm blanket. As the test subject in Pineapple Express says, I felt “like a slab of butter melting on a big ole pile of flapjacks.”

Unfortunately, just like a slab of butter, I couldn’t move. I was, almost literally, stuck to the couch. She left the room and took a shower; having lost all sense of time, I contemplated waiting somewhere between two minutes and a hundred years before she would come back and help me to bed. Approximately three decades and half a movie later, I decided that she wasn’t returning, ever. Rather than do the heroic thing and search for her apparently lost soul, I assumed she must have died of old age and decided bed was the only logical option.

I mustered up the courage and somehow managed to get from the couch to the bedroom, primarily by a combination of a low crawl and crawling on my hands and knees with all the skill of an infant who just figured out he had knees. I dissolved into the bed and stared at the ceiling, enjoying the absolute, complete, utter relaxation that washed over me. A few years later, she returned, and after recovering from a fit of giggles at my expression, we made love.

And how. Wow.

That was, to date, the single most epic lovemaking experience I’ve ever had. I’ve already described how I lost sense of time, so I don’t know how long it went on, but it felt like forever (in the best way possible). The following day, I asked her how long sex had lasted. She rolled over, lifted herself up on one elbow, and stared directly into my eyes. “Hours,” she said. “You were amazing.”

Slowly the image of my rapidly evolving alter-ego, Weedman The Mighty Lover, materialized before my eyes. Thoughts of heroic deeds were quickly dashed as I realized this superhero would never be able to bypass a buffet or Krispy Kreme; regardless, I couldn’t wait to experience this phenomenon again. It wasn’t long until I smoked pot again, and for each of the next two or three times, that first experience repeated itself.

Over the next few months, my tolerance grew, and the experience changed to a generally relaxed experience; the best word I can think of to describe the way it has felt since then is “mellow.” Completely mellow. I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression for most of my adult life with a laundry list of tried and failed prescriptions for both, and weed has been the one thing that has turned it around for me. It’s something that I would highly recommend to anyone.

Just make sure that when you go to smoke that first joint, you’re in the spot you plan on sitting for the next centuries, with an appropriately sized supply of Doritos and a well-lit path to the bedroom.

The Final Sunset

Trigger warning: This story deals with suicide, but in a positive way that might surprise you.

~

The coals burned low as the sun sank to the edges of the mountain range. Rocky crags became nearly featureless silhouettes, only their outline remaining against the backdrop of the fiery sky. Silas McClintock lay beside the fire, letting it burn down as he enjoyed what would be one of the last sunsets he’d see. That night would be more cool than cold, and the wool blanket would be sufficient to keep him warm. He’d grown to appreciate a bit of chill in the morning; the discomfort it drove in his aging bones reminded him that he was still alive.

A knot popped among the embers, sending a brief shower of sparks skyward. Cactus, the buckskin gelding that stood hobbled nearby, whinnied briefly. He’d earned his name a decade prior due to his prickly demeanor. At the age of 12, he was no less grumpy than he’d been as a colt, but Silas didn’t keep him for his friendliness. The horse stayed in his life because the cowboy understood him.

The man had a few defining traits. His needs were simple, his desires uncomplicated, his lifestyle not always agreed with, but easily comprehended by any who bothered to look. He was, in a word, elemental: unchanging, immovable on his principles, and unafraid to own them when the time to act came. He’d had few friends in his lifetime but held the respect of many. Thirty years prior, a foreman on the cattle ranch he’d worked for a few seasons summarized him in a single sentence: “That man lives life on his own terms.”

McClintock had never married, sired children, or even owned a house. He had no desire to settle down in his sunset years, nor did he have a place to go if that had been his preference. His life had been lived under the stars, out on the range, his choices reflecting the traits of men from a soon-to-be-bygone era. Civilization had come to the West; ranches had turned to farms, vast expanses of wilderness had been measured and marked, and roads were becoming more common. Those transitive jobs many cowhands had held were becoming more permanent, and long cattle drives had all but ceased to exist.

The last rays of the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon, and the sky began to darken quickly. Silas rose to his feet, feeling the stiffness that possessed his joints now, and walked a few feet away from his camp to take a piss. A wolf howled in the distance, and a few moments later, the soft hoot of an owl could be heard much closer to camp. The chirping of Mormon crickets provided a steady background ambiance to the occasional calls of larger animals. The sounds comforted the man, indicating another typical night was beginning. With rare exception, stillness was far more of a warning, nature’s indicator that something was amiss and danger close.

The opposite was generally true with people, and McClintock reflected on this as he settled into his bedroll for the night. It seemed that the trust one could place in a man was inversely proportional to the number of words he spoke. Talkative men never lasted; they simply didn’t have enough sand. They were always the first to whine when things got tough instead of sucking it up and forging ahead, the first to make trouble when they got a bit of whiskey in them, and the last to face any form of danger.

Silence wasn’t always advantageous. The man shifted his position repeatedly, trying to get comfortable. The hardness of the earth wasn’t the problem; he’d spent most nights over the past forty years on the ground, and he was more comfortable here than he was on the few feather beds he’d experienced in his life. The problem was something no one knew about, save the doctor who had provided the terminal diagnosis six months back. The pain had grown steadily in the time since, and extended periods in the saddle had grown all but unbearable. Reclining wasn’t as agonizing, but it had been a while since he’d truly felt comfortable.

The sun had set around eight, but rest didn’t come until the North Star and two pointer stars of the Big Dipper indicated it was 11 pm. The aged cowboy slept fitfully, unconsciously tossing and turning as the pain built with lying in a single position for too long. Cactus watched him, far more attuned to his owner’s body language than to the words of admittance that would never make it out of his throat. Both man and horse knew he was dying, but neither of them could tell a soul.

A month earlier, Silas began setting his affairs in order. He let the foreman know he’d be moving on to “a more permanent location further west,” but didn’t offer any more detail, and the head man knew better than to ask. He knew that if McClintock thought it was his business, he’d tell him, and the man hadn’t said a word. The foreman told him he was good to go, then watched Silas saddle Cactus and ride out to mend fences along the ranch’s northeastern border. What was that lesson he’d learned about in the one-room grade school he’d attended as a boy? The foreman wracked his brain, trying to remember the word that best described the cowboy who was slowly fading into the distance. “Stoic. That’s it.” The ranch boss snapped his fingers with the discovery, then watched the old cowboy until he disappeared on the horizon.

In the days that followed, McClintock said goodbyes in his own way. Cookie, the closest thing the ranch had to a chef, was the same age, and the two had shared night skies on innumerable cattle drives over the years. Both drifted from job to job but had repeatedly encountered the other over the years. The night after he’d spoken with the foreman, Silas had knocked on the cookshack’s door. Cookie opened it, and the cowboy held up a fifth of whiskey and two glasses. His friend smiled, nodded, and stepped back, motioning his compadre in.

The cookshack doubled as an apartment but was sparsely furnished. A single bed occupied the corner of the room alongside a small nightstand with an oil lamp. Across the room was a large wood cookstove, which sat adjacent to a fully stocked pantry. The only other piece of furniture was a large prep area that doubled as a dining room table, with two chairs neatly tucked in on opposite sides. This is where the men sat, each rolling a smoke and sipping the amber liquor while they reminisced about the times when they were young. Each story was punctuated with chuckles and typically followed by long bouts of silence. The quiet was anything but awkward; the two old men in a young man’s world simply rested in the bond they shared, not having to say a word.

Hours later, the bottle drained, Silas stood and nodded at the cook. A moment of understanding passed between them, and in that second, Cookie knew everything he needed to. He rose and extended his hand. The cowboy grasped it firmly, and in that simple, intimate gesture, the two said their goodbyes.

Cactus softly whinnied at his partner who lay on the ground, awake but unmoving. The soft rays of dawn had begun to creep across the plain, creating a visual effect on the western mountain range as the sunset had the evening before. Their overall outlines muted, the eastern-facing slopes were filled with detail. McClintock lay on his side, facing them across the dead embers of his small campfire. He took in the snow-covered peaks and the evergreens that stood in thick groves, signaling life regardless of the season. Stands of birch were interspersed among them, meeting the sun’s rays with a fiery yellow intensity of their own. There was always a sense of rebirth as one looked east, and a feeling of melancholic farewell toward the west. The cowboy rose, packed camp, saddled the ornery horse, and headed toward the mountains.

A half-dozen younger men worked on the ranch full-time, the oldest half of Silas’s age. They’d grown to respect this fellow who never offered an excuse and could still outwork most of them, despite his years. Although he mostly kept to himself, he was always there when one of them needed to ask advice in virtually any area.

Each day for a week, he’d summoned one of the ranch hands and told him that they’d ride together for the day. As they completed mundane chores and rote tasks, the old cowboy provided finishing touches to the mentorship he’d provided them. To one, he spent half the day explaining some of the finer points of horse behavior, showing him how to quickly assess the character of an animal beyond examining just its physical qualities. Another, he set to work on chopping down a stand of young pine, working alongside him and matching each swing of the ax. Every time the more youthful man paused, Silas would look at him, shake his head, and then continue the steady pace. The twenty-year-old received the cue and worked slowly and relentlessly until the area had been cleared.

So it went, McClintock selecting work assignments that would allow him to adjust a boy’s tendencies, teaching him to adopt a behavior or learn a lesson that would shape his development as a man. It took a full week, but eventually, each of the younger cowpokes had been given his finishing touches.

The day’s ride was slow and ambling, with several stops so the cowboy could dismount and walk around until the pain lessened. It was growing daily; he’d already surpassed the estimated timeline the doc had given him by a few days and was unsurprised that his body was reacting this way. An hour before the sun set, the two companions made camp. McClintock pulled together a simple meal of fried bacon, coffee, and hardtack that he soaked in water and leftover bacon grease to make more palatable (as well as edible). He pulled a measure of oats from one of his saddlebags and gave it to the horse, Cactus snorting in a rare display of gratitude.

This night, the man’s sleep was disrupted by memories as well as physical discomfort. Thoughts of the last days on the ranch filled his mind. The hardest farewell Silas faced had been with Susie, the owner’s six-year-old daughter. McClintock had never had children of his own, but the young girl had found a way through his gruff exterior to find a spot inside his heart. The cowboy’s protective nature had always driven him to shield innocence from the harshness of the world, and he took particular care to make Susie smile whenever he was around.

He carved small animals from scrap pieces of wood, eventually creating a veritable Noah’s ark with all of the figures he created. Rather than exotic beasts, though, this wooden zoo had a uniquely frontier vibe. Cattle and coyote, horses and jackrabbits, chickens and mules comprised the young girl’s collection. With the vibrance and excitement that characterized children of that age, she had burst with excitement whenever he delivered a new piece. Her statements of thanks were unnecessary; the joy he felt when her eyes lit up was more gratitude than he could ever have asked for.

Three days before he left, he brought her one final carving. Unlike the simply-carved animals of previous days, this one was detailed and wrought with care. Every line had been made with strict concentration, and the cowboy had often paused to sharpen his knife, ensuring the cuts were precise. It had taken an entire month’s worth of leisure time to form the statue that was a foot tall and eight inches in diameter at its widest point. It was also different than his preceding works; rather than frontier animals bursting with life, this statue was of a man. An old cowboy sat resting against a tree trunk, one leg stretched in front of him, the other bent at the knee, rising to create a rest for his elbow. The lines accentuating his features imparted a sense of calmness and rest, indicating a man who had made peace with the world around him.

To the same degree that this carving was different than the others, Susie’s reaction to receiving it was also unique. As Silas handed it to her, she took it softly, cradling it as she would a rare, fragile treasure. The two sat on the ranch house’s front steps that faced the unseen Pacific Ocean, a thousand miles distant across the grassy sea of the Great Plains. The young girl turned it to and fro, examining every detail. Once she’d taken in the big picture, she turned it to face her and intently studied the man’s face. “Why, it’s you!” she exclaimed with surprise. The cowboy didn’t react and just continued to watch her expression change as she took in all of the details. Finally, the little girl spoke again. “I like this one best. You look happy.” She turned and threw her small arms around the bearlike figure of the man seated beside her.

The biggest things were often hidden within the tiniest clues. If one had bothered to observe the cowboy’s expression as she embraced him, the slight upward turn at the corner of his mouth and the moistening in his eyes would have betrayed the impact that this one-sided goodbye had on him. Haltingly, his arms rose, and he gently returned the hug, then quickly released her. His gruff nature quickly returned, asserting its protective shell. The man stood, then unemotionally said, “You take care of that one, ya hear?” He heard the enthusiastic voice behind him affirm that she would as he walked away, refusing to look back.

A soft nuzzling at his back pulled the cowboy out of his slumber. To his surprise, he’d slept longer than normal, and the sunrise was in full force by the time Cactus had impatiently awakened him. The man restarted a small fire, setting a pot of coffee to brew while he brushed down his horse and cleaned his hoofs. When he finished, Silas poured coffee into a tin cup and sat on a nearby stump, shifting until he found the least uncomfortable spot.

The landscape surrounding him was familiar, and he knew that he was nearing his destination. Nestled in the foothills, there was a small lake he’d discovered years before and memorized its location. A beaver dam had blocked a slow-moving stream, filling a natural low spot and creating a pristine body of water surrounded by hardwoods and pockets of wildflowers. He planned his route for the day, knowing he would arrive in the late afternoon.

In contrast to his relatively late departure from camp that morning, his exit from the ranch had occurred hours before dawn, intentionally without notice. Life started early on the frontier, but by the time roosters were crowing and Cookie had stoked the breakfast fire, Silas and Cactus were nowhere to be seen. Although his absence was immediately noticed, it was only in the ensuing days that it was genuinely felt. In many ways, subtle and seemingly unremarkable in the moment, the older cowboy had been the center of life at the ranch. His knowledge, wisdom, and experience had been taken for granted, not out of ingratitude or disrespect, but with the implicit assumption that he would always be there, steady as the river that flowed through the center of the grazing areas. No one realized what a hole he would leave until they saw that it could never be filled.

By late afternoon, McClintock reached the lake. He led Cactus to drink from its peaceful waters, then walked him around its edges, giving the horse his head as the cowboy took in every detail. He paused to watch a woodpecker make its mark on a tree, its steady hammering revealing a meal of termites that hid just beneath the bark. Nearby, two squirrels engaged in a raucous territorial dispute, their frantic races through adjacent branches creating a humorous commotion. The man’s face spread in a small smile, comparing their antics to the petty arguments he’d often observed between testosterone-fueled men in their youth.

An hour later, he completed his journey, having fully circled the lake. Silas dismounted, then led Cactus to a slight rise that faced the open lake. He unsaddled him, piling the gear next to a poplar at the crest of the hill. The aged cowboy brushed the buckskin down with the utmost care, feeding his companion the last measure of oats he’d brought, along with the rest of the hardtack. By the time he was done, the buckskin looked refreshed and energetic, the short day’s ride having hardly sapped his strength.

Silas walked around to face the horse, resting his forehead on the gelding’s. His voice gently flowed with soft words, reminiscent of a softly babbling brook. The horse could sense the sincerity of the moment and set aside his ornery nature to listen intently. McClintock explained that there were ranches and farms within twenty miles in every direction; although the horse couldn’t understand his words, he absorbed the cowboy’s meaning. Minutes later, the man finished, having said all that he intended. A step to the side and another forward, he lay his head on the horse’s neck, wrapping his arms around it for a final few moments.

When the man withdrew, he pointed toward a box canyon to the south, then slapped the horse’s rear. Cactus trotted off, then paused to glance rearward. He watched as Silas gingerly lowered himself to sit against the tree, one leg stretched in front of him, the other bent at the knee, rising to create a rest for his elbow. He faced west, watching the sun begin to set through a gap between two of the taller mountain peaks. The horse could see that his demeanor was calm and peaceful, and this gave him the assurance he needed to resume the journey his owner had set him on.

The cowboy enjoyed the view. The yellow, orange, and pink hues of the sinking sun set the valley ablaze with new colors. Its rays reflected off of the lake, imparting a sense of undying peace to the surrounding glade. It was every bit as beautiful as he remembered, and he was grateful for the opportunity to see it one final time.

An hour later, McClintock pulled his worn Colt single-action Army revolver from its holster. Chambered in .44-40 Winchester that matched his lever-action rifle, it had rarely left his side for more than 15 years. The cowboy turned it over in his hand, examining each scratch, scuff, and scrape. He chuckled as he thought of the assumptions tenderfoots had about sidearms in the West. Greenhorns assumed that cowboys purposefully marked their guns in various ways, notching them or etching symbols into the stocks and handles for macabre reasons. No one in his right mind engaged in this practice, but that wasn’t to say that the revolver was without markings. Worn bluing and numerous scratches told the story of a tool that had served a useful purpose, each mark hiding a memory, the sum of which comprised the man holding it.

Silas’s mind drifted to rumors about why cowboys carried guns. Although self-defense was always a possibility, gunfights were far rarer than the dime novels made them out to be and had decreased substantially as the heyday of the wild West was slowly eroded by the unrelenting forces of civilization. Much more commonly, a handgun was used to ward off wild animals by creating noise, intimidating cougars and grizzly so a confrontation was less likely. The most common application, however, was as an act of mercy. When an animal had reached its end, suffering an incapacitating injury or a wound too grievous to heal, the most compassionate action to be taken was to end its life quickly.

Laying the revolver on his lap, the cowboy shifted his position to lessen the pain radiating from numerous points in his body. He took in the full scope of the view, both of the landscape and the life he’d lived. The first provided a sense of peace; what his eyes saw was perfect in its way. The latter—well, he was satisfied with it. There had been mistakes, decisions he regretted, and bridges that he wished he hadn’t burned, but such is the case with all lives. The man was wise enough to recognize the overall picture he had painted through the decades, and he was content with what he saw.

Miles away now, Cactus ambled through the brush. He had felt disquieted for weeks, his bond with his owner informing the animal’s emotions to a far greater degree than most people would ever realize. The horse had sensed his ever-increasing pain for quite some time, and dialed down his orneriness to provide the maximum comfort he could. He knew no other route to take, but his thoughts stayed with the man.

A dozen yards later, the buckskin paused. Something had changed, and he lifted his head, ears slowly rotating in an attempt to identify what he sensed. The woods grew quiet, but not out of fear or a sense of danger. A blanket of emotion settled over the valley, and the horse knew what it was: respect. A moment later, a single shot rang out, its echoes receding as they bounced off the rock walls that surrounded them. The emotional landscape slowly shifted, and the gelding felt relief. He knew that the cowboy was finally at peace.

Surprise!

Dozens of would-be attackers had originally surrounded Lois Lane, but Superman had heard her cries for help. Before they could even touch her, he had appeared seemingly from nowhere and pummeled the intended assailants.

BAM!

A left hook tossed one into the side of a brick wall, leaving a permanent indentation in the shape of Frank Schumer’s now rather flattened corpse.

POW!

An uppercut launched Carlos Pinchero into the stratosphere. Twenty years later, his body was discovered in one of the Apollo space missions as it orbited the Earth. Initially assumed to be an extraterrestrial being, his presence was explained when a reporter named Clark Kent wrote an expository article in the Daily Star that revealed how Superman had, quite literally, rocked Pinchero’s world.

WHAM!

The Man of Steel picked up George Santoro and tossed him into ten of the remaining assailants in the same way a bowling ball clears a lane. The superhero paused momentarily to initiate the world’s first fist pump, calling “Steeeeeeeerike!!! You’re OUTTA here!!!” Despite his superior abilities in numerous arenas, the Last Son of Krypton knew little of Earth’s sports and was not immune to using mixed metaphors.

Most of the remaining thugs scattered in every direction. One unfortunate soul was so panicked that he ran into a dumpster, knocking himself out cold. Superman chuckled in amusement.

And then there were 5. Each of the remaining assailants was armed, giving them some measure of courage against the seemingly invincible demigod standing before them. “Get lost, you alien creep,” one of the thugs rasped at the Metropolis Marvel in a voice that indicated he’d smoked a pack of unfiltered before noon. “She’s ours.”

Superman shook his head, clearly wondering whether they’d ever learn. He sucked in a deep breath, then blew it out in a hurricane-force wind. The five landed three blocks away, and it took them quite some time to recover their faculties. Brushing his hands together in a gesture of self-satisfaction, Supes chuckled under his breath, “Now that’s what I call a blow job.” He turned to the damsel recently rescued from distress and offered her his hand.

Lois had watched the scene unfold in breathless wonder. Her infatuation with the superhero had gone from crush to near-psychotic obsession in the few months she’d known him, and watching him manhandle those men so easily had given her quite the lady boner. As Superman stepped forward, his hand extended, she felt her panties dampen with anticipation.

“Where were you headed, Miss? I’m happy to take you there.”

His pretend act of not knowing her made the woman smile. She knew very well that he had feelings that mirrored her own. “I was actually headed home. I’d love to take you up on your offer.” The Man of Steel grinned with boyish enthusiasm. “Of course,” he stated in a deep voice. Picking her up, her arms wrapped around his neck, the Man of Tomorrow launched skyward, then turned his direction toward her loft apartment.

Moments later, they landed on the balcony, and Clark Kent gently set the slender woman down. One of Lois’s hands remained draped around his neck, and she brought her other up to clasp her hands around his neck. Superman felt her toy with his hair, wrapping his locks around her fingers as they locked eyes. “You should come in,” she whispered seductively, batting her lashes in a naturally flirtatious way.

Supes was used to being able to hear everything around him, including others’ heartbeats. He wasn’t as used to feeling his own. His blood pressure rose as lust filled him, and he felt the skintight suit begin to expand in his nether regions. “Of course,” he whispered in a low, husky tone. Lois unclasped her hands, letting them run slowly down his shoulders to his chest, then dropping them further as she explored his toned abs. Her fingers continued their exploration, reaching the middle of his stomach, then drifting lower; with every inch, she admired his firm, muscular body. Their eyes met, and the woman unconsciously bit her lower lip. She stopped just below his beltline, and the Man of Steel felt one part of his body harden to tungsten in response.

“Come with me,” she said, then grabbed one of his hands and led him through the balcony door into her living room. The man lustfully ogled her tight ass, so perfectly accentuated in that form-fitting skirt. Without thinking, he activated his x-ray vision, watching her figure sway as she sauntered to her room. The brown lacy panties and bra that she wore matched her brunette locks perfectly, and he salivated at the thought of fully exploring her body.

When they reached her bedroom, Lois stopped at the foot of the bed and turned to face him. Her eyes inflamed with desire, she spoke in a firm, commanding tone. “Take me, Clark, and don’t hold back.”

The superhero stepped forward and placed his hands on her trim waist, pulling her toward him. “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a smile, then leaned forward to meet her lips with his own. Their kiss openly communicated how they felt about each other, each motion demanding more, as if their desire could be quenched by making out alone. The Last Son of Krypton slid his hands higher, centering them on the line of buttons clasping her blouse. With one pull, he ripped her shirt apart, shredding both the front and back of the garment in two, then tossed them on the floor.

Their lips had never parted, and Lois smiled against his as she felt her upper body suddenly stripped except for her bra. The cool air rushed across her skin, raising it in erotic anticipation. Her partner’s hands returned to her body, immediately moving toward her skirt. His fingers dipped inside her waistband and hesitated for just a moment before pulling outward, ripping it in half as he had done her shirt. This time, he raised the two halves out to the side, lifting them at shoulder height as if they were trophies while grinning into the kiss.

Lois was wet before, but now, she was soaked. The Metropolis Marvel dropped the shards of cloth, then cupped his hands under her ass cheeks and lifted her toward him. The woman wrapped her legs around his firm body, flexing her thighs to draw them together as close as possible. The heat emanating from his body caused her clit to throb with an intensity she’d never felt. She grabbed the hair at the back of his head viciously, using it as leverage as she thrust her hips forward, rubbing up and down his abs. Superman was so well-formed that she felt every ridge of his 8-pack, and within sixty seconds, she was almost ready to cum.

Despite his inexperience as a virgin, the Man of Tomorrow was intimately acquainted with the signals that human bodies emitted. He sensed her pheromones reach peak levels, Lois’s breathing quickened as she lay her face cheek to cheek with his, and the woman’s thrusting reached an almost frantic pace. He placed one hand on the small of her back, pulling her even more tightly to his body. The other wrapped in her hair and pulled downward, forcing her body lower and closer. That was the final push, and Lois gushed as she squirted all over him. He lifted and pushed her downward, prolonging her orgasm as the woman’s clit slipped against his rock-hard abs.

Lois had never experienced an orgasm like this. The months of anticipation, the erotic display of raw power in the alleyway, the impassioned kisses, how he had ripped her clothes from her body without breaking a sweat, all of these had heightened her horniness to a new peak. Sensuality rose within her to unprecedented levels, pulsing with each breath; again and again, she thought the tsunami of pleasure had peaked. Each time, she was wrong. Superman’s lover had no idea what he was doing to her; in truth, he couldn’t describe it himself. Krypton’s people were physically superior to Earth’s in every way, and apparently, that extended well into the bedroom. His control over her experience was complete.

Finally, he allowed her to come down. The woman collapsed against him, exhausted. Her legs relaxed, and she was held aloft only by the strength of his right arm, now supporting her thighs and ass. The Man of Steel rocked her gently, caressing her skin with his left hand as it drifted across her back, her neck, and her arms.

His lover nearly fell asleep, so complete was her relaxation. The orgasm had ended perfectly, and she felt she’d descended on a cloud into a state of pure bliss. However, she wasn’t done with him yet. Desire, sharpened by countless nights where she had fingered herself, aching to feel the thrusting of his cock, would not be left unfulfilled. She pulled herself from the overwhelming sense of euphoria that filled her, then looked deeply into his eyes. “Now, fuck me.”

Supes grinned, his anticipation evident in every line of his chiseled features. “Yes, ma’am,” he said again. The Man of Steel’s hands shifted so one was beneath her ass and the other was planted on her chest. He tossed her onto the bed, and she pulled herself back to a seated position against the headboard. “Strip,” she ordered, biting her lower lip in anticipation.

The superhero’s skintight suit was apparently comprised of two pieces, and she gasped as he slowly pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it and the cape aside. Clark’s body was every inch that of a god: muscled, veined, and as defined as if he’d been sculpted from granite. “You have been drinking your milk in Smallville, I see!” Her flirtatious remark dripped with an undertone of desire. The man winked at her, momentarily posing with his hands on his hips. He continued the corny flirtation. “Fresh off the farm!” came the enthusiastic remark.

Lois smirked at him. “I’m a city woman, Kent… a bit inexperienced with farmhands. Especially farmhands that can lift trucks. So be gentle, okay?” As she uttered the last words, she winked, obviously communicating that “gentle” was a relative term. “Of course, Lois,” Supes rejoined.

The Last Son of Krypton hooked his thumbs inside his pants and bent over, pulling them to his ankles. Stepping out of them as he rose, he again proudly posed in a way that accentuated his muscular physique. Clark was expecting to see an expression drenched with lust, and was confused to see Lois’s face twisted in horror. Her focus had inched up his body as he rose, naked: first his calves, then his thighs. Finally, with an eagerness sharpened by months of desire, the woman lustfully gazed at his cock. What she found was not what she expected.

Her arm shot up, finger outraised to point accusingly at his crotch. “W-W-W-WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?!?!?!” The woman’s tone reached a near fever pitch. Clark was confused, and his answer came in the form of a query. “Um… my penis? Why?”

Lois quickly replied: “WHY??? IT HAS PINCERS! WHY DOES IT HAVE PINCERS!?!?!?” There were many advantages of Clark’s human parents insisting he never participate in sports, but one experience he missed out on was the locker room. This is rarely considered to be an advantage, but in light of the current situation, it would have provided a bit of a heads up about the scenario that was now unfolding. The virgin superhero hesitated, unsure of his own inexperience as he spoke. “To… grab onto you?”

To say that the night had taken a turn for the worse would be to understate the situation drastically. All sensuality and eroticism vanished from the room, and Lois rolled to her side. She reached into her nightstand drawer and pulled out a rather impressive dildo. The woman turned toward Clark and shook it at him in what would have otherwise been a rather hilarious display of fit throwing. “THIS IS WHAT A DICK IS SUPPOSED TO LOOK LIKE, OKAY???” The Kryptonian reached forward, gingerly taking the molded impression of a well-hung human phallus in his hands. “Oh,” was all he said.

The awkward silence hung in the air, so thickly one would have choked on it by drawing too deep of a breath. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Clark glanced up from the dick he was holding and looked at his intended partner. “So… um… no sexy time?”

As is often the case with women, Lois’s frustration had only increased with the silence. Now, it erupted via her voice. “NO, THERE WILL BE NO GODDAMNED ‘SEXY TIME’!!!” Her hands raised mockingly in heavy air quotes surrounding the last two words. “I’M NOT LETTING YOU SHOVE SOME MOTHERFUCKING PINCERS UP MY HOO-HA!!” Taken aback by the entire situation, the Man of Tomorrow wisely deduced that now was not the time to further extend his sexual body of knowledge by asking what a “hoo-ha” was, and that tomorrow (or a few tomorrows from now) would likely be more appropriate.

“Okay,” he mumbled. Arguably the most powerful superhero of all time had been reduced to shambles of embarrassment by the situation. He took full advantage of his supernatural speed, dressed in less time than it took Lois to blink once, then waved goodbye. The gust of wind that followed his exit nearly pulled Lois off the bed.

In the hour that followed, the woman calmed down substantially. She realized that, although her reaction was completely understandable by any human standard, she had overreacted within the context of their relationship. Her lover’s expression of shame haunted her, and she tossed and turned that night, unable to rest for any significant period of time. Lois resolved to make the situation right when she saw him the following day, and that decision finally allowed her a few hours’ rest.

When she awoke, the sun was shining, birds were singing, and every clue pointed toward it being the perfect day for reconciliation. She quickly dressed in a new business suit, then traversed the few blocks to work in record time. As she walked, she noticed that something felt different, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The flow of traffic was unlike it had been in the preceding days; a unique clientele populated the coffee shops and cafes, and everything felt… slower, somehow.

When she arrived at the Daily Star, the security guard at the front wasn’t who she expected. She approached him in a driven manner, determined to get some answers. “Where is Carl?” she practically demanded. The man was a bit taken aback by her direct approach. “Umm, he’s off for the day.” This made no sense to Lois.

“Why?” the woman queried again.

“Because it’s Saturday? He’s normally off?” In the short space between interpreting the man’s tone, body language, and facial expressions and actually grasping the meaning of his words, the results-driven journalist realized that her demeanor apparently threw men so far off guard that they questioned even the facts they knew to be gospel truth. She’d have to work on toning that down a bit.

Then, the words sunk in.

“Wait… what?” It was her turn to be unsure. “It’s the weekend?”

“Yes, today is Saturday,” the security guard repeated, suddenly doubting the mental faculties of the paper’s star reporter. “Yesterday was Friday,” he further explained, as if to a child, ensuring that there was absolutely no confusion as to their current relation to the calendar. “The day before that…”

“Yes, okay, I get it,” the woman waved her hand in frustration and turned back toward the front door. It was the weekend. She wouldn’t see Clark for two days.

A few hesitating steps reflected her indecision about how to handle the situation. However, within moments, the resolve of her previous decision asserted itself. Lois’s pace quickened, barely slowing as she walked out the front door and toward the street. Hand raised, the woman hailed a cab and gave the driver Clark’s address. With weekend traffic, it took nearly twenty minutes to travel the distance; every moment that passed chipped away at the woman’s preconceived notion of how the morning would go. When they finally arrived, she threw cash at the man in the front seat and practically ran up the stairs to Superman’s door.

Her first knocks were polite but insistent. When no answer came, they grew more desperate. No sound came from within, and Lois dug in her purse for the spare key he had given her. She fumbled with the lock, finally managing to open the door. It took only a few steps to view his entire apartment, and each forward motion increased the disappointment she felt as more of the space came into view. He was gone.

~

Chapter Two

~

The weekend passed at a torturously slow pace. Clark wasn’t answering his phone, and he hadn’t been home at all. No one had sighted Superman in Metropolis since Friday. Lois didn’t know what to make of these events; it was possible that the Last Son of Krypton was halfway across the globe fighting crime, combating some toothed alien vagina eating and maiming someone, but she had a sneaking suspicion that his absence was related to their Friday night encounter. Although she’d felt bad on Saturday morning, by the time Monday rolled around, she was firmly in the “I feel like I’m a horrible person” stage.

The woman went to work a half-hour early, but Clark’s desk sat empty. As the minutes rolled by, people walked in one by one and began their workweek. Monday morning rituals were in full swing: conversations droned by the coffee pot, coworkers stopped at other’s desks to chat about their weekends, numerous aspirin were popped by the younger crowd as they attempted to escape their hangovers from a weekend of drinking. By 10 AM, the office was a buzzing beehive of activity, and everyone had shown—except for the one person she wanted to see.

She was about to leave for lunch when her ears, subconsciously attuned to any sign of her would-be lover, heard a deep voice with a slight Midwestern accent greet Harvey Brzezinski, who sat closest to the elevator. At nearly the same speed as Supes had left her apartment, she leaped from her desk to stand in her doorway. There, down the hallway formed between cubicle dividers, the tall, muscular, spectacle-wearing hunk of pincer-possessing penis strolled toward his office chair, greeting those along the way in a friendly fashion. Just as he was about to turn into the space that bore his nameplate, he looked up, and their eyes met.

There was no awkward pause in his eyes, no hesitation in his demeanor. He simply smiled just as he’d done to everyone else, nodded his head in greeting, and said, “Hello, Lois.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and entered his cubicle.

The woman was torn. Should she walk up to him and start a conversation, pretending nothing had happened? Should she wait for him to come to her? For all of the thought she’d invested in the situation over the past 48 hours, nothing had prepared her for him acting… normal. Finally, she decided to say hello and gauge his reaction.

The hall had never seemed as long as it was during those next 22 steps. Her heart pounding, she peeked around the corner to see him sitting in his office chair, then attempted to casually lean against the cubicle divider.

She missed.

The brunette leaned into thin air, unintentionally avoiding the cloth-clad wall by inches. On her way down, she grasped frantically for anything to hold onto, managing only to grab the WWII-era drawing Clark’s neighbor had hung on his wall featuring a smiling soldier drinking from a stainless-steel canteen cup, overshadowed by the caption, “How ‘bout a nice big cup of shut the hell up?” In retrospect, those words would have been good advice. As her eyes took in the drop ceiling tiles above her while she lay on the floor, she earnestly wished she had just stayed in her office.

Her crash had caused quite the commotion, and heads stuck out of cubicle entrances like so many meerkats on the African savannah. Clark was by her side in a (human-speed version of a) flash, and he helped her to her feet. “Are you alright, Miss Lane?” he politely asked. “I’d be better if I could vanish,” she muttered under her breath. For a moment, the alter-ego of Superman briefly considered making her wish come true, but decided against it. Instead, he chose a more gallant action. Seemingly ignorant of all of the eyes staring at his companion, he loudly stated, “I shouldn’t have left that extension cord hanging out! I’m so sorry! That was completely my fault!”

Seemingly satisfied with his simple explanation, heads retreated into their cubicles as quickly as they had popped out. The female reporter shot Clark a look of gratitude, entered his workspace, and sat at the lone, cheap chair sitting across from his standard-issue metal desk. “So, how was your weekend?” she queried in a rather meek fashion. The Kansas emigrant smiled as he tucked his tie to his chest with one hand, seating himself in the rotating chair he typically occupied.

“It was good. I swung by Gotham to visit a friend.” Lois’s thoughts instantly turned to Bruce Wayne, the bat-suit-wearing billionaire who had formerly been Superman’s nemesis. “Oh really? Did everything go well?”

His face spread in an easy smile. “It did! One of them managed to help me solve a bit of a personal problem I’ve had. Speaking of which, are you doing anything tonight?”

“NO!” Her response was a bit too enthusiastic, and she blushed.

Clark’s smile reflected the twinkle in his eye. “Perfect. Say I swing by your place around 6 PM?” He rose, signaling an end to the conversation. She stood in response to his nonverbal cue, nodding enthusiastically. “I’ll be there!” the woman said, then (rather carefully) exited his cubicle and returned to her corner office.

To say she got much done for the rest of the day would be to overstate the situation. Despite the interest that her piece on a nuclear-waste-infected urban river typically initiated, much of her afternoon was spent working through the logistics of various sexual acts she could complete with a pincer-clad penis. Although her earnest desire to make it up to Clark was robust and undeniable, she also had to admit that allowing the equivalent of a set of crab claws in any personal orifice wasn’t a concept she was able to reconcile with. By the end of the day, she was no closer to a tangible solution than she had been at the start.

She exited her office a few minutes before 5 PM; as Lois walked by Clark’s desk, she noticed that he had already left for the day. Resigned to the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to pick up any clues as to how he was feeling, she walked the three blocks to her upscale apartment with thoughts and emotions in a jumble.

The loft was already clean, but she busied herself with making it spotless over the next hour. By the time her wall clock indicated it was five minutes to six, she had prepped her place and herself as much as possible and sat nervously on the sofa, awaiting the knock on the door. Punctual as always, a quick rap four minutes later signaled the start of the evening. Lois stood, nervously brushed the front of her skirt flat, walked to the door, and opened it.

There stood Clark Kent in a navy blue suit, a bouquet of roses in his left hand and a small paper sack in his right. She smiled, then stepped back and motioned him in. He entered, stopped, and turned in the foyer as she swung the door shut behind him. “These are for you,” he said, offering her the flowers. “And this,” he lifted the sack to eye level, tapping it mischievously, “is for me.”

The woman gratefully accepted the bundle of roses, then said, “Clark, before anything else, I want to say that I’m sorry for the way…” The man stepped forward, leaned down, and kissed her, interrupting the apology in the most chivalrous way possible. A bit taken aback and surprised by his response, Lois recovered quickly and returned the kiss with passion. After a moment, Clark stepped back. “There’s no need for that,” he said. “Take a seat.” The Metropolis Marvel motioned to the sofa.

The female reporter was growing used to things going entirely against her preconceived assumptions and followed his direction, seating herself on the edge of the cushion. Supes unrolled the top of the bag, reached in, and pulled out a flesh-colored object. He turned his back to her, and she watched in confused fascination as she heard his zipper lower. The man’s shoulders hunched and his head lowered as he worked with intense concentration. A few moments later, his posture straightened, and the man glanced back over his shoulder. “You ready?” he asked, the smile evident in his voice.

Responding in what had apparently become the new normal in their relationship, Lois’s statement ended with a question mark. “Yes?” came the answer.

Clark boyishly leaped, spinning in the air as he turned to face her. There, amidst an otherwise blue cloth background, hung his cock. The coloring was the same, but the difference was immediately evident. Instead of pincers, the Man of Steel’s rock-hard smaller head was now shaped like a typical circumcised human penis. She stared at it in confusion, then let her eyes drift upward to meet his grinning countenance. “What is that?” she asked.

With obvious pride, Krypton’s Last Son stated, “It’s called a Clawndom. Bruce made it for me.” Stepping closer, he explained its features. Constructed from a super-sensitive material, any sensation outside the supple sheath was transmitted through human-like nerve endings to his cock inside. The head folded his pincers inward, wrapping them neatly to form a normal dickhead. By the time he finished, the woman had fully accepted that this was happening and moved forward, kneeling before him and taking his cock softly in her hands. Clark shivered with the sensation, unwittingly verifying that the Clawndom performed as advertised.

A smile spread across Lois’s face, and she began to stroke his cock. He responded immediately, his stiff member raising upward as his excitement increased. Wondering how it would taste, she leaned forward and took his dick into her mouth. Surprisingly, the “Clawndom” (in her mind, heavy air quotes manifested as she slowly accepted the term) felt precisely like natural skin. For the briefest of moments, she marveled at Bruce Wayne’s technical skill, but her attention quickly returned to her partner.

Slowly at first, her head bobbed back and forth as she took him deep into her throat. Her tongue stroked the underside of his shaft, then explored the newly reformed head. Lois’s lips wrapped around his cock, and the degree to which they stretched informed her that this was among the largest she’d ever experienced. She felt her pussy respond in anticipation, moistening her panties as she continued sucking his hardened member.

Clark groaned in ecstasy; this was the first time another being had ever touched his alien tallywhacker, and the actual experience far exceeded his wildest expectation. He knew Lois was a master with the pen, but he chuckled silently at the thought that her written expressions must naturally flow from her skill with her tongue. The woman’s left hand took his cock and followed the motions of her mouth, caressing his shaft with a firmly erotic grip. The feel of manhood in the back of her throat had always excited her, and Lois placed her right hand on his tight ass and pulled him into her.

A few minutes later, she could tell that her partner was ready to cum. Withdrawing her mouth and hand, she looked up at him, wiping saliva from her lips with the back of her hand. “Not yet,” she stated with an impish grin. The woman rose, turned, and walked to her bedroom. She stripped as she went, casually tossing clothing to the right and left. By the time she reached the bed, she wore nothing but a pair of high heels. Kicking those off, she turned and reclined on the king-sized mattress, spreading her legs in invitation. Clark stared as she extended one hand over her pussy, then curled her index finger inward, beckoning him forward.

With the same speed he’d used in an exit a few days prior, Superman suddenly appeared before her, naked. He leaned forward, his muscular biceps contacting her thighs as he lifted her and pushed the woman back to the center of the bed. He climbed up, took his cock in one hand, and placed it at the entrance to her soaked lips. The man paused, looked into her eyes, and pressed forward.

Lois groaned in ecstasy as she felt him fill her. The man’s dick touched all of the right places, and he began thrusting and withdrawing in a slow, steady tempo. The woman reached around him, positioning her hands on his shoulder blades, and pulled him into her. As his pace increased, she raked her nails across his back, knowing that even the most intense attempt would fail to mark his skin in any way. He grinned, reached beneath her knees, then threw her legs onto his shoulders.

The superhero pushed deep inside of her, eliciting a nearly animalistic moan of eroticism. This time, instead of pulling back, the man stayed where he was. The next moment blew Lois’s mind as she experienced a hint of what Kryptonian sex must feel like. Instead of the rigid phallus that humans have, Clark had complete control of his cock. He flexed it inside of her, curling it upward to press hard against her g spot. The woman’s eyes and mouth flew upon with this unexpected sensation, and she stared at him in wordless pleasure as he explored her pussy in every direction. Reaching, pushing, pulling, twisting, the Man of Tomorrow gave her a taste of the joys her future sex life would hold as his hips remained motionless and his cock fucked her relentlessly.

Lois repeatedly came, each orgasm leading to the next as naturally as train cars follow the one before them. She thrashed beneath him, nonverbally expressing the uncontrollable pleasure he gave her. After her fifth ecstatic crest, the Man of Steel ceased all motion with his hardened member. His lover shivered as she drifted back down from her endorphin-infused high, then looked up at him. “Are you ready to cum, baby?” she whispered.

His lustful gaze answered her question without words. Supes pulled back until his dick almost slipped out of her, then rammed it forward. Lois screamed at the sensual fulfillment she experienced; his forceful thrusts pierced her repeatedly, stretching her fully but stopping shy of causing any pain. It was, in a word, perfect—the best fucking she’d ever received. One could expect little else from a man who exceeded every male member of the human species in all conceivable ways, even if this was his first time.

In less than a minute, Clark’s breathing intensified. Lois sensed what was coming, and she focused exclusively on him, wanting to observe every detail of his body as he orgasmed. The man’s pupils dilated, hands clenched on the bedspread to her sides, and his entire body began to shake as his cock pulsated inside of her. The woman gripped him intensely with her arms and her legs, wrapping herself around him in absolute intimacy. His pace slowed, then ceased, and she felt his weight settle on top of her as he relaxed in post-orgasmic bliss.

Their loving respite lasted only a moment before Bruce Wayne’s roguish personality manifested itself in the privacy of Lois’s bedroom. The billionaire had secretly programmed the Clawndom to respond to a male orgasm, and after a ten-second delay, in the absolute silence filled with only the echoes of the pair’s heavy breathing, a sound emitted from the sheath that had been Superman’s saving grace.

“I’mmmmm BATMAN!!!”

Their reactions were understandably apprehensive. Lois shoved the man off of her, desperate to get whatever was happening inside of her most intimate organ out immediately. Despite his lack of costume, her lover manifested his superhuman abilities and literally levitated off her, rising instantly to the ceiling. As she stared up at him, she saw the bat sign flashing on the tip of his faux dick as her ears detected the sound of “duna dunnanuna dunnanuna dunnanuna BATMAN!!”

The Metropolis Marvel felt his face turn crimson. “I’m… going… to… kill… him…” he muttered through clenched teeth as he ripped the Clawndom off and threw it to the side. Lois overcame her momentary horror, then shock, and finally settled into a fit of laughter at the absurdity of it all. Clark watched her from above, the natural seriousness of a just-deflowered virgin slowly transitioning into a smile, then a grin, and culminating in a chuckle. He floated back down to the mattress, then pulled her to him as they cuddled.

The two talked and laughed long into the night, interspersed by several rounds of lovemaking. Much to her enjoyment, Superman filled her in on the events of his weekend. He’d confessed his issue to Bruce Wayne and experienced a half hour of mockery as the egotistical billionaire bragged about his prowess with his own allegedly sizeable penis. He forgot that Clark had x-ray vision, and Krypton’s Last Son told Lois how the Dark Knight was rather less impressive than the braggadocios claims he made. “Alfred, on the other hand…” Superman silently spread his hands apart, indicating that the humble butler was hung like a small horse. The thought of her partner spending his weekend using see-through abilities to inspect dicks was too much for Lois, and she laughed until she cried at his stories.

Clark discovered that he could silence the obnoxious sounds of the Clawndom by emitting a high-pitched frequency, silent to human ears, but sufficient to muffle the insufferable theme song completely. This allowed them to resume their sexual explorations without further disruptions. After their fourth round, even the superhero was exhausted.

Supes pulled the sheets over them as his lover nestled against him, her back to his chest. Before they fell asleep, Clark couldn’t resist a small practical joke of his own. Although the pincers of his natural member retracted when he was soft, Lois was still getting acquainted with Kryptonian cock behavior and didn’t know what to expect. The man reached beneath the sheets and, with two fingers, pinched her ass.

Although the rest of the details of the night were omitted, the woman’s reaction was one that Superman would later relate to Barry Allen after the next time the two men raced. The Metropolis Marvel looked over at The Flash at the finish line and said, “Let me tell you what. As quick as you are, you’re no match for how fast Lois moves when you pinch her butt.”

With a chuckle, but without further explanation or context, Superman flew away, leaving Barry to wonder what the hell that was all about.

The Emotion of Color

Funny how colors can tell a story.

Marco’s brush lay lethargically in his hand. The tool that had created such bright landscapes, bringing joy and hope, ecstasy and love, excitement and peace to so many, now sat paralyzed. In these moments, the world was filled with gray.

The artist knew how to elicit emotion with a simple choice of hue. Green was the color of envy; red communicated love; yellow, the color of cowardice; black, the mark of despair. When used in their purest form, the results could be volatile, eliciting sharp feelings with raw intensity. When combined appropriately, the colors told a much more nuanced story.

The Waterfall was his most famous work. A sky of light blue sparsely populated with cotton ball clouds oversaw a soft meadow on the edge of a peaceful lake. Behind the body of water, an inspiring mountainside centered around a coursing waterfall, pulsing with life. The soft browns and greens of the surrounding forest were home to many woodland creatures that interjected vibrant interruptions, sparking joy in a viewer. The sharp red of a cardinal pierced a tree on the forefront of the canvas; nearby, a gold and black monarch butterfly fluttered across a patch of brilliantly colored wildflowers; at the edge of a clearing, a fawn with pure white spots leaped in joy.

The painter remembered the day he’d created this work. His child had been born hours earlier; while mother and daughter rested at the hospital, Marco took brush in hand and poured his joy into blissful imagination, bringing a dull canvas on a wooden frame alive in a scene of vivid vitality.

Then, there was Shadowlands, a morose piece that one critic had called “deeply disturbed.” The night he’d gotten the call that his best friend’s life had been cut short in a horrendous traffic accident, Marco’s brush slashed the canvas in impotent rage. The colors combined to create pits of molten lava and plumes of sulfur, depicting a hellish landscape. Marco’s pain bled from the very paint that coursed from his brush in short, sharp strokes, the artist’s wrist jabbing at the painting in much the same way that a boxer strikes his foe.

Victorious was his wife’s favorite. He’d spent nearly 24 hours straight to bring the piece to life. The lifelike figure of a knight filled the center, his armor blackened with soot and covered with indentations that communicated an exhausting battle. He stood, his sword upraised in a symbol of triumph over the rancorous corpse of a slain dragon. The landscape was scorched with singed areas showing where the dragon had struck, and the context of a brutal onslaught further emphasized how glorious the knight’s final victory had been. Earlier that day, he’d gotten the call that his art would be featured in one of the premier galleries in New York City, something that had been his dream since he was a young boy with a set of dollar-store watercolors.

The artist sat in his studio, perched on his stool before the blank canvas. Surrounding him were numerous works in various stages of completion, some filled with the vibrant hues of nature in the forest, the savannah, or the ocean. There were scenes that communicated life in a busy city: street urchins playing stickball in the slums, children laughingly exploring an urban playground surrounded by walls tagged with graffiti, and the animated effervescence of Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Painting after painting marked his artistic evolution, how he had explored various genres designed to elicit emotions in their sharpest or softest forms. By all accounts, the fruit of his work demonstrated a successful pursuit in his chosen artistic medium.

And yet he sat, forlorn. An hour before, he’d absentmindedly squeezed dollops of paint from several tubes onto the handheld palette, now perched lifelessly on his right arm. Had he bothered to look down to see the unmixed shades, he would have known they communicated his emotion at the moment. A dingy white lay adjacent to a dirty gray, which itself sat across from an ashy black. The color of shadows, these tints could add depth to a painting, pushing the main images forth into the spotlight in three-dimensional perspectives. The monochromatic tones could create outline and context, their contrast permitting the artist’s intent to come forward in sharp contrast.

But sitting alone, they were simply a reflection of hopelessness.

By their very nature, artists feel more deeply than most. The degree to which they can communicate profound truths and elicit emotion in others is a reflection of how intimately they dance with their own feelings. Many artists struggle with depression, anxiety, and various other mental health issues. At their best, they are buoyed by brilliance; at their worst, they are dragged unwillingly into the depths in despair.

Marco was no different than any other skilled practitioner of the arts. His beliefs about the life he lived were showcased in his work, regardless of how accurate or erroneous those perceptions might be. He’d been penniless but filled with joy, unbelievably depressed while unimaginably wealthy, and lonely in the midst of a crowd. That tangled web of emotions reflecting his outlook could be empathized with by many, but truly understood by only a few.

His journal entries of late were characterized by pain, his struggle to grow amid an awakening realization of his past. For years, he had pressed forward, ignoring the agony of his childhood and the anguish of his more recent history, assuming that enough achievement could put the ingrained failure he felt in his soul firmly in its grave. Instead, the more deeply he had shoved the skeletons into the closet, the more pressure they exerted to emerge.

Over the past six years, his life had slowly fallen apart. His wife had left him and taken their daughter, and the ensuing spiral of hopelessness had driven him to drink, absorbing alcohol like a sieve. Disappointed in how his forlorn despondency had manifested, the church that had been a bastion of hope since childhood had informed him that he was no longer welcome. As he sunk deeper into the wretched tribulation that characterized his very existence, his immediate family had walked away, never to return. Rejection and dejection were his ever-present companions. The sharp features of his handsome face had grown dull with detachment, communicating a sense of melancholy that was the very antithesis of inspiration.

A closer inspection of his surroundings would have revealed the dust that sat upon the canvases, communicating that his talent had become dormant with every renewed encounter with discouragement. The few friends who remained had asked him what they could do to help, but he hadn’t an answer. When he managed to muster the courage to look at his phone, his return texts were branded with a faux rhapsody he hadn’t felt for years. Although every fiber of his being silently cried for help, he casually dismissed any offers of assistance with an air of impervious invincibility. And after each text, he’d reach for the fifth of whiskey that his hand held far more frequently than the brush these days, taking a swig of liquid solitude.

The honest answer was that he didn’t know what to do. The map to recovery remained blank to him, its features seemingly written with invisible ink. Part of him didn’t want to find a way out; the punishment he meted unto himself daily was something he felt he deserved, and he wallowed in self-pity as a hog does in the mud. Over time, his circle of friends had shrunk, atrophied through inattention and an inability to engage. Subconsciously, his loneliness sought a self-reinforcing pattern of actions that forced abandonment, then immediately turned and internally screamed how worthless he truly was. He attempted to drown the voice with liquor, but it never quite went away.

What he needed was someone to believe in him.

What he failed to see were those who did.

Marco sat dejectedly and stared at the canvas. He had drifted into his own world when there came a loud knock at the door and the friendly hail of a delivery driver. Startled, the man spun, knocking over a can of red paint that had been used on a furniture product that morning; in his absentminded state, he’d forgotten to replace the top. A bright red slash appeared over the center of his canvas, and he instantly saw red, both literally and figuratively.

“DAMMIT!!” he shouted, exasperated at his mistake. He chewed himself out in his head, sarcastically remarking about that being yet another thing he’d fucked up. He couldn’t do anything right. This was just another in a series of failures that…

His negative self-talk was interrupted by the canvas. The knock at the door suddenly forgotten, he stared at the lines of paint slowly dripping downward, pulled by gravity in an unrelenting call. Slowly, inspiration gripped him. The canvas became a smaller part of an overall picture, and he walked backward until he reached the rear wall of the studio. Now fifteen feet away, Marco stared at the easel standing before the large bay windows that framed the front of the room. Slowly, everything else melted away in his mind until nothing but the canvas remained, centered in his consciousness. That’s when he saw it.

The artist threw himself into his work, the next eighteen hours passing as if they were nothing. First one canvas, then another was outlined, their foundations painted, then set aside as another took its place. When Marco ran out of blanks, he paused to build frames, stretching and then tacking cloth over them to generate another landscape that would form a crucial aspect of the composite he was creating.

By the time the sun rose the next morning, the initial sketch was complete. The artist stepped back and examined his work with a critical eye. Satisfied with his progress thus far, he went straight to his bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and collapsed into a deep slumber—the first good sleep he’d had in weeks. Four hours later, he awakened, driven by a subconscious call to continue his work. Throwing on jeans and a t-shirt, he practically ran to the studio and began anew.

The next four days continued in the same pattern: the painter would work until he was too exhausted to hold the brush steady, sleep for a few hours, then continue in a mad rush of inspiration. By Saturday, it was done. He pulled his A-frame ladder from the garage, grabbed a hammer, nails, and measuring tape, then assembled the composite on the wall of his living room.

After he had checked the leveling across the nine canvases, Marco stepped back and examined his assembled, completed work for the first time. The centerpiece was marked with the original red slash, which had become an open wound across a patient’s side. Surrounding him was a team of healthcare professionals, each doing their part to save his life. Behind them was a large plate glass window, its space filled with faces. A mother and father stood, arms around each other, expressions of fear and love evident on their faces. Four others appeared beside them, of the same age as the patient and obviously friends. Genuine concern and affection were apparent in every feature of their countenances.

Down the hall, a doorway stood partially open, a man frantically shoving his way inside at desperate speed. A glance between the patient and the man at the door showed they were twins. Other details came into view. One of the friends, her arms crossed in a self-embrace of apprehension, clutched a cell phone, its screen facing outward. A text preview was evident, and the words on it communicated a panicked query about the patient’s wellbeing.

The right side of the painting faded into another image, indicating physical distance. An older man and woman knelt before their coffee table, hands clasped in prayer, brows furrowed in deep concentration. Between the hospital and living room scenes, bright figures descended from above in apparent response to the couple’s pleas. One had already arrived and stood behind the surgeon, wings folded, his powerful, translucent arms subtly guiding the doctor’s hands.

Marco reflected on every detail, then pulled his view back to see the whole composite picture. The emotion that the painting communicated was powerful and intense. One could almost feel the love emanating from the canvases, care and warmth surrounding the central figure on the operating table in a protective embrace.

Satisfaction slowly transitioned to self-pity within the artist. He sat down on the nearby ottoman, lowering his gaze from the image, suddenly unable to look at the picture of fervent devotion. Marco’s thoughts turned to everyone who had rejected him and dwelt on all those he had lost. Self-pity turned to disappointment, which quickly gave way to despair. The intense inspiration of the previous week had drawn him to emotional heights he hadn’t felt in years, and he felt in his soul that the view from the mountaintop had transitioned to the edge of a cliff from which he now fell. He barely made it to the bedroom before he collapsed, not even bothering to remove his paint-stained clothing. Curling into a ball, he pulled the covers over his head and wept despondent tears.

When he woke, there was no telling how much time had passed. It was dark, and hunger filled him, growling from his belly like an insatiable beast. He couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last. The painter drug himself from his bed, groggily stumbling toward the refrigerator. He opened it, the light shocking his sleep-heavy eyes with its intensity. Slowly, they adjusted, and Marco blinked his eyelids several times before he was able to examine the shelves. They were bare. This wasn’t surprising, as his normal routines had been disrupted by severe depression; he hadn’t been grocery shopping in weeks.

“Just like my life… empty,” the bitter voice inside of him whispered, its words followed by a mocking chortle. He decided to order delivery and found his cell phone where he’d left it days before on the kitchen table. Marco pressed his thumb to the center button, but nothing happened. The battery was dead. “Great, just like my soul—dead,” the painter angrily stated, aloud this time. He plugged the phone into the charger and, unwilling to wait for it to power up, grabbed his keys and headed for the front door.

Resenting even the presence of light, he failed to flip the switch for his front porch as he headed out. One step forward, and his foot hit an object. Marco’s momentum had already committed him forward, and his upper body proceeded where his lower body refused to go. He fell, hands splayed in front to catch himself. His hand hit a potted plant, splitting it into shards; a sharp pain sliced across his palm, causing instant agony. “AAARGGHHHHH!!!” The man’s yell stemmed less from the physical hurt he felt and more from the anger that now filled every inch of his body with unyielding ferocity.

The painter leaped to his feet and turned to vent his frustration on the object that had driven his fall, in that moment blaming it for the entirety of his life struggles. The light spilling forth from the hallway and through the open door illuminated what he’d failed to notice as he walked out.

Centered on the threshold was a pile of boxes that had been neatly stacked prior to his unintentional onslaught. Immediately adjacent to them was a plastic container piled high with envelopes. Rage melted from his body, curiosity quickly taking its place. The pain from his hand temporarily forgotten, Marco picked up the first box he encountered. It was a small package, and the address label listed his cousin as the sender. The artist used his keys to rip open the packaging and pulled out the contents. There was a small, framed photograph of the two as boys, sitting on a pier at the lake they visited each summer of their childhoods for family reunions. Marco remembered the warm nights, the bonfires, the laughter. Nostalgia filled him as he flipped the frame over. There, on the back, a small note was taped. He unfolded it and read the handwritten words.

“Hey man, I know you’ve been going through it of late. I’m planning a family trip next month to Lake Winnetonka, and I’d love it if you’d come. I want to relive those memories with my kids, and it wouldn’t be the same without you.  Love ya, Freddy”

The painter slowly placed the frame back in the box, then set it down. He pulled another from the pile, this one from a close high school friend. When the tape was removed, the cardboard flaps sprung open, and glitter erupted from the prank bomb placed inside. For the first time in a long while, Marco smiled. He and Jared had been the class clowns, each week of their senior year yielding another practical joke that plagued teachers and school staff alike, much to the enjoyment of their fellow students. Bright memories of laughter to the point of silent, gasping, tear-soaked expressions came to mind, and he reached inside to find a greeting card. The man opened it to find the word “GOTCHA!” emblazoned in bold, black sharpie. Beneath it, Jared had written:

“Duuuuuuude! It’s been too long! I’m coming through there the weekend of the 21^st on a business trip. Mind if I crash at your place?? Been dying to see you!”

Package after package produced the same results. Small mementos, encouraging notes, and trinkets that indicated inside jokes poured forth in tangible expressions of love. Marco had made it halfway through the pile when he glanced at the box of mail. He picked up a stack of envelopes and rapidly rifled through them. Expecting bills, he was shocked to see handwritten addresses time and again. He ripped open one in the middle that caught his eye. It was from an old girlfriend; they’d split on amicable terms in college and remained friends in the years since. The words sprang from the page so powerfully that he sat back, leaning against the wall of the house for support.

The letter told of a dark time she’d experienced three years prior, something she had never revealed to anyone. Everything seemed lost, and darkness had surrounded her like a palpable cloud of despair. One night, the demons had overpowered her. She had picked up a knife and placed it at her wrist, determined to end everything, when the phone rang. It had been Marco. The random call quickly turned into a three-hour conversation that gave her the encouragement she needed to pivot and begin her recovery. He had saved her life.

The artist dropped the pages between his legs, awestruck at what he had read. As the pages fell, he noticed that the right side of the paper was stained in red. Marco remembered the wound his hand had suffered when he fell, and he stood up, walking inside to retrieve a bandage. Halfway through the living room, something stopped him. An invisible force halted him as suddenly as if he’d run into an actual wall. Momentarily confused, he glanced around. The composite painting caught his attention, and his eyes were drawn to the bright red slash at the center. Dazed, the painter slowly drew his hand up in front of him, aligning it with the painting in his line of sight.

The red slashes were identical.

Emotions too varied and complicated to describe knocked Marco to the ground. He stared up at the painting, then back at his hand. The entirety of the scene hit him, and the faces he’d painted shifted into the images of his cousin, his friend, and former girlfriend. Dazed, the painter looked at the patient lying on the operating table. The face was his own.

Tears poured from his eyes as all of the pain and anguish he’d packed inside for years came rushing out like a flood. The man wept, sobs wracking his entire body in repeated convulsions. He wrapped his arms around himself, and the embrace became more powerful as he felt the love that he’d just experienced on his porch surround him in a cloud of support.

After a time, he quieted, utterly drained from the intense emotions he’d just experienced. Marco lay on the floor, staring up at the painting. Exhausted, his eyes drifted to the bottom right corner of the final piece he had painted. There lay the triple V that was his artist mark, the initials referring to his family motto: “Virescit Vulnere Virtus,” Latin for “Strength through a wound.”

The painter clenched his fist tightly, the cut on his palm stinging, clearing the fog from his eyes and filling him with a sense of peace. For the first time, he knew he would make it. Everything was going to be okay.

Finding Hope

It had been the worst summer of the worst year of her life. Ten months earlier, Maddy’s dad had been diagnosed with leukemia. She hated watching him lose weight from the chemo, his body wearing down after continual trips to the doctor. The pain and nausea could be overwhelming, but Leif made a valiant attempt to hide it from his daughter. Whenever he caught her looking at him in worry, he’d force a smile and tell her, “It’ll be alright, darling. I promise. This isn’t the end.”

Six months later, it seemed he’d been proven right. The first rounds of chemotherapy made a remarkable difference, and Leif—fighter that he was—staged a comeback. The cancer went into remission, and all signs pointed to a full recovery. His birthday that year was the best they’d ever celebrated together. Then came COVID, and that’s when everything changed.

She remembered driving up to the whitewashed hospital with Leif coughing in the seat beside her. The woman recalled how orderlies, clad in ugly gray scrubs, had prevented her from entering with him, citing new COVID regulations. The image of the dingy, sterile doors haunted her, closing behind him as if they were swallowing him whole.

That was the last time she ever saw him.

Within a day, he was on a ventilator. The lone FaceTime call they shared occurred three days in, and the teenager broke down when she realized he wouldn’t be able to talk. Shame filled her as she remembered breaking down, ugly crying on the phone. Sobs had wracked her body, and she could barely see the screen through the tears. A week later, when the hospital called to tell her that he had slipped into a coma, guilt smothered her, suffocating her like a wet blanket. He had been so strong for her, and all she’d done the last time she saw him was weep.

Maddy hadn’t let herself cry since.

It had been two months since he had died. She couldn’t shake the feeling that if she had just been there, this hole in her chest wouldn’t exist. She could have said goodbye, but now there was just… nothing. It was odd to think that a chasm filled her, as if emptiness somehow had substance. The contradiction characterized her life; she couldn’t even identify all that comprised the swirling torrent of emotions that drained her every day, let alone separate and address them. It was a tornado of pain filled by a void so thick she could feel it.

Nothing made sense anymore.

A shout brought Maddy back sharply from her thoughts. She had entered a crosswalk without paying attention, and a bike messenger nearly clipped her. She apologized to his retreating figure, checked the rest of the crosswalk carefully, then continued.

A half-hour later, the woman stepped onto the porch of the house she’d shared with her dad. They bought it when she started college several years before. Her mother had left when she was a child, and it had always been the two of them.

Maddy sat down on the steps. This is where she spent most afternoons and evenings now, trying to avoid going inside until she could head straight to bed. Before Leif died, the memories that filled the house had given her strength; now, they haunted her like so many ghosts. The regret and shame of not being strong for him; the pain and anguish of not being able to say goodbye—these weighed heavily on her, poisoning even the happiest of recollections. One day he had been there, and the next, he was gone. She wished she could cry. At least that would have provided some sense of release, but every time she felt the sting of a salty tear beginning, the guilt flooded back. She had failed him.

Physically and emotionally exhausted, she leaned her head against the wooden rails that surrounded the porch and sighed. She wanted to give up, to stop existing, to stop feeling anything anymore. As the afternoon progressed, life continued in the neighborhood around her. Parents arrived home from work; a group of children played basketball in a nearby cul de sac. She was immune to all of it.

Her sense of time evaporated as the woman surrendered to the forlorn solitude that enveloped her like a cloud. There was no sense of future, no way forward, not even a foundation on which she could ground herself. Just… gray. It was all gray. Daddy had said this wasn’t the end when he got sick, but she felt as if her entire world had been destroyed, never to recover.

Hours later, Maddy realized that she hadn’t moved. The sun was beginning to set, and the oncoming night would soon force her to enter the house and confront its memories. It took all of her remaining strength to stand, turn, and climb the last two steps. That was when she noticed it.

Leaning against the front door was a white cardboard mailer. She picked it up, noticing that the handwritten return name was unfamiliar. She stared at the crosstown address for several moments, then flipped the mailer over and drew the pull tab across the length of it. Inside was a small package, wrapped in brown paper, and a note. The woman unfolded the letter and began to read.

Maddy, you don’t know me, but I’m one of the nurses who took care of your dad. I’m sorry that it’s taken me so long to get this to you. Right after he passed, I came down with COVID myself. The moment I was back on my feet, I took this to the post office. He made me promise to mail it to you when he was gone. Writing in this was all that he did every moment that he was awake.

The woman’s hands trembled as she withdrew the wrapped package. She slowly tore the paper open to reveal a small, black notebook—exactly like the journals her dad had written in every morning. She stared at it, frozen for a moment, heart racing in her chest. Drawing a deep breath, she opened the front cover.

There, in Leif’s distinct handwriting, were the words: “Hey darling,”

Maddy lost it. For the first time since that final FaceTime call, tears poured like a waterfall down her face. Sobs wracked her body, and she put the journal down for fear of drowning the ink. Each of the emotions in the gray cloud that had enveloped her for months raced to get out first, pushing and shoving as they bubbled to the surface. After the initial torrent had subsided, she picked up the journal.

Nearly every page was filled. Story after story of her life, told from his perspective, each bringing back positive emotions the woman had felt when he was around. Maddy smiled nostalgically as she read the initial entry, where he had written about the first time she walked. She hadn’t taken her first step until she was over a year old, choosing instead to intently study the toddlers and adults around her until she had memorized their gaits. The wait proved worth it: her first step was immediately followed by a second, then a third, and she nearly made it across the living room.

The woman remembered his all-encompassing love and affection when she read his account of the first time he’d taken her to see the Nutcracker. He reminisced about how excited she had been to get her hair done, to dress up, and go on her “first real date.” The journal told of how giddy she had been when they met the prima donna after the show, and how the sheer joy that shone from Maddy’s face had caused Leif to fall in love with her all over again.

He recalled the lessons he had taught her, starting with the simple ones. Maddy grinned as she relived the memory at the Mexican restaurant, where she’d had a virgin blackberry daiquiri, and he’d taught her not to double-dip. That day, she learned the secret of breaking chips apart to get more salsa on each piece.

She blushed as she read his memories of her first crush. He recorded how she had asked him to drive her across town one weekend to deliver cookies to the young boy. She had been so nervous as they knocked on the door, but Daddy’s hand on her shoulder steeled her first-grade resolve. Leif wrote of the pride and joy he’d felt as he watched a grin spread across her face that was so grand, she positively glowed.

Maddy continued to read. It was all there, page after page: the story of their life together. The late-night talks, the shared movie dates, the passion he’d given her for cooking. After making it through the first third of the notebook, she had to stop. She was so emotionally drained that continuing wasn’t an option. The young woman slowly climbed to her feet, walked into the house, and collapsed on the couch.

~

The light streaming in from the window woke her. With a start, she glanced at the nearby clock and realized that she’d slept for fourteen hours. Still in her clothes from the night before, she glanced around in confusion, trying to make sense of the situation. Her eyes caught something on the coffee table—the journal.

She grabbed it so quickly that she nearly slapped herself. Flipping through the pages, she found her marker from the night before and began to read again. Hours passed, and the flood of positive emotion slowly and steadily eroded the gray cloud that had been her only companion for the last two months. She was reconnecting with him, and the warmth inside of her grew with each paragraph.

Maddy was 90 percent of the way through the journal when she flipped the next page and saw something that caused her heart to sink. Cut short before the last pages could be filled, there was one final sheet of writing. After that, it was blank. Without reading the entry, she rapidly flipped through the rest of the notebook and confirmed her worst fears. This was the last thing her father had written. The journal held one final message. She threw the book at the pillows on the couch in frustration, crossed her arms as she curled up across from it, and wept. She didn’t want it to be over. It couldn’t be through. Seeing the blank space brought a finality to her Daddy’s passing that overwhelmed her.

An hour passed before she reached over and picked up the journal again. As much as she didn’t want this journey to end, she needed to read his final entry. The pages quietly riffled past her thumb; when the last page of writing appeared, she paused, took a deep breath, then began to read.

Hey darling,

Saying goodbye isn’t easy, and we don’t even use the right words—as if there was anything good about goodbyes. Even “farewell” falls short; I would rather fare poorly with you than well without. A much better way is how the French say it: “au revoir,” which means “until we meet again.”

We’re separated now, but it won’t always be this way. Keep making me proud, as you’ve done with every breath you’ve ever taken. I’ll always be there, even if you can’t see me.

Au revoir, sweetie. This isn’t the end.

Maddy closed the journal and clutched it to her chest. The tears came freely now, but they were different. She realized the gift her dad had given her. For the first time, she was able to let go of the guilt, the shame, the fear, the regret. The anger she had directed at herself faded as it was replaced by his words of love.

“Au revoir, Daddy,” she whispered. “Until we meet again.”

“Shhh”

This is my first venture into the realm of horror. Let me know how it turned out 🙂

~

Nick was finally free. The stressful workweek had ended, and his car was now pointed north toward the mountains. He planned to spend the next two days completely unplugged from civilization, gathering the energy he’d need for another week at his hellhole of a job. As he entered the interstate onramp, the car’s acceleration matched his growing sense of ecstasy. Merging into traffic, he set his cruise control at a casual 75 miles per hour, then breathed a satisfied sigh. After a moment of adjusting to traffic, Nick grabbed his iPhone and held down the power button until the screen went dark. Now, it was just him and the open road.

He reminisced on the events of the previous week. His boss, Meesha Mundem, was arguably the worst person he’d ever met. Not only was she incredibly passive-aggressive, but she also seemed determined to actively create misery in those around her. Nick had worked with people who seemed to dwell in a space of perpetual self-pity, the kind of Eeyore-like personality whose moroseness knew no bounds, their pessimistic beliefs drenching the air around them with an aura that sucked the life of everyone around them. Those people, however, were relatively passive in their actions. If you managed to avoid them, you could generally prevent their energy from negatively impacting you.

Not Mundem. This bitch was the queen of assholes and seemed hellbent on spreading misery wherever she went. Nick’s anger rose with several memories, fresh from the previous week. He glanced at his radio, then pushed in the CD that his sister had left after borrowing his car the last weekend. He didn’t know what was on the disc, but nostalgia washed over him as the first notes drew him straight back to high school.

The man cranked the music to Kelly Clarkson’s Stronger album, this guilty pleasure guiding him on an emotional journey to absolute release. He sang along with every word, feeling the stress melt from his body with each verse. “You think you got the best of me, Think you’ve had the last laugh, Bet you think that everything good is gone…” Mundem’s face became a crystal clear image in his mind, and he directed the words straight at her. “Think you left me broken down, Think that I’d come running back, Baby you don’t know me, ’cause you’re dead wrong!”

By the second chorus of the album’s feature song, Nick was fully absorbed in the lyrics and grabbed a hairbrush his sister had left in his car, using it as an impromptu microphone. He cranked the volume knob and let loose with a screaming falsetto:

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, stronger… Just me, myself, and I…” His steering wheel became a full drum set as he hit the crescendo. “WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU MAKES YOU STRONGER, STAND A LITTLE TALLER, DOESN’T MEAN I’M LONELY WHEN I’M ALONE!!!!!”

A complete diva emerged, and “Kelly” tossed her hair back in reckless abandon, sweeping it with one hand while pointing to the interstate audience as he dedicated his performance to their nomadic souls. He tossed the “microphone” to the side; wrapping his hands around the back of his head and pointing his elbows forward, he rhythmically head-banged to the song. A series of horn blasts brought Nick sharply back to the present. He froze, realizing the noise had come from his immediate left. The man slowly lowered his left elbow, keeping his hands locked in place, and glanced in the direction of the sound.

A dark green Suburban was tracking his speed precisely, merely feet away. In the driver’s seat was a typical soccer mom: blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, oversized sunglasses stylishly perched on her nose. The rest of the vehicle was filled with teenage girls approximately 14 years of age, visible through the open windows. All of them were laughing uproariously, obviously enjoying his performance.

The man had two choices: embarrassment and speeding away or going full Method actor. The briefest of pauses ensued: the indecision lasted only a split second before Nick surrendered entirely to his weekend retreat. He dropped both hands and cocked them towards the girls, finger guns blazing, and launched into the next song with all the enthusiasm of a singer who had just received his big break. For three miles, the teens mirrored his every dance move, the occupants of each vehicle feeding off of the other’s energy. When the song ended, Nick threw his head back in uncontrollable laughter, waved goodbye, and sped off.

His mood fully reset to its normal cheery state, the rest of the drive proceeded without incident. The woods had always been where Nick went to escape, and the hike he had planned took him to a remote corner of a state wilderness area. The start was a two-hour drive from any hint of civilization, and the next three hours of hiking ensured he would be entirely alone.

By the time he arrived at the trailhead, the sun had started to sink in the west. He judged that he had an hour and a half of daylight left, not enough to get him to where he’d planned to camp, but that was of little consequence. Camping on the trail wouldn’t be an issue at all, and he’d get an early start in the morning. He parked, threw his phone and keys in a side pouch on his bag, and started the hike.

Within moments, he was surrounded by lush vegetation on all sides. The trail meandered through the forest, young beech trees spreading their leaves over the path. Their limbs provided a natural canopy that filtered the light into a soothing shade of golden bronze, pulling him further into a state of euphoric relaxation with each step. The man breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the pure wilderness air.

An hour later, he found a small clearing adjacent to the trail and quickly set up his pup tent in the waning light of dusk. Pulling out the portable gas heater, he boiled a cup of water and rehydrated a camping meal, then sat back and enjoyed the rays of the sunset as they bled through the trunks to the west. The temperature dropped rapidly; autumn days in New England were as beautiful as they were volatile. Nick unrolled his mummy bag, then pulled out his iPhone and earbuds. He fell asleep to the seductive crooning of Ava Max and Sabrina Carpenter as a full moon shed its light on the surrounding landscape.

~

He didn’t know what awakened him, but the darkness of the tent indicated that heavy clouds had completely covered the night’s shining guardian that had been so bright just hours earlier. White noise from his headphones slowly completed his groggy journey toward wakefulness, and he drew his hands up inside the sleeping bag to pull the miniature speakers from his ears. The man yawned, squinching his entire face into a contorted twist as he rolled to the side. When he finished, he was lying on his left arm, facing the nylon wall of his tent not 18 inches away.

The eyes were what he noticed first. Bright and curious, they locked onto his with vexing intensity. Nick froze in terror; he was so shocked that he was completely paralyzed. Slowly, the rest of the face came into focus. The stranger’s features were thin and drawn, with scraggly brown hair that fell in haggard, mangy locks over his forehead. Whiskered stubble covered his pointed chin. For a moment, his features were as still as Nick’s body: unmoving as a terrifying Halloween mask, with no indication that he was even alive.

Then, ever so slowly, the man’s lips drew back in a chilling smile.

Nick’s mind screamed at his body to react, to pull back, to run, to do anything. For some unknown reason, he was utterly helpless, his limbs rigid and unyielding. A slight motion beneath the man’s face drew the hiker’s attention downward, away from the grotesque grimace inches from his face.

A hand was inching menacingly through the slit the invader had cut in the tent’s side. The fingers more resembled a claw than a man’s hand: bone-thin, skin stretched tautly over the skeletal features, yellow nails long and unkempt. It inched forward, stretching for the mummy bag’s zipper. Nick was petrified with fear; he swallowed deeply, then just before the claw reached his bag, he managed to croak a strangled whisper. “Stop, please!”

The noise was barely discernible, but the monstrosity that had invaded his tent froze in response. For a moment, neither moved, each staring at the other, awaiting the next act in this hair-raising scene. The hand moved: neither backward, as if to withdraw, nor forward, to remove the last semblance of protection Nick had. Rather, it drew upward, fingers curling into a ball as it moved toward the figure’s grisly countenance. All of the fingers, save one.

The index finger remained straight, and the stranger pressed it to his lips which were still drawn into a terrifying grin. “Shhhh,” the man whispered. The figure inched away, face and hand slowly retreating from the slit cut into the tent’s side. The last thing to disappear was the very tip of the nose, the shushing finger, and the dirty yellow teeth. Right before they vanished, the features paused.

“Shhhh,” came the voice again, and then everything vanished.

Nick lay there, stunned into silence, every sense in his body heightened into raw nerves. There was no sound but a soft breeze: no footsteps to indicate that the man was walking away, no rustling leaves to betray a departure, no snapping twigs that would have communicated his exit. Complete and total silence filled the air.

Nick lay there for what seemed an eternity. No sound came. The man must still be right outside his tent. Slowly, not daring to make a sudden movement and attract attention, the hiker pulled his cell phone up to his face. He pressed the power button on the side, and the screen lit up. The battery was at one percent.

There was no time to process this information. The moment the screen lit up, a bloodcurdling shriek came from beside the tent… the side that was behind him, opposite the slit. Nick leaped in his sleeping bag, then rotated quickly and threw himself backward as the sound of ripping nylon followed the scream. He watched in terror as five ragged fingernails dragged from the top to the bottom of the fabric, opening as many tears in the side of his shelter.

Nick dropped his phone inside his bag and fumbled at the zipper, attempting to pull it open. As he yanked, he cross-threaded one of the teeth with the clasp, unwittingly locking the mummy bag. He was now confined in the cloth sack as effectively as if he’d been bound with rope. Terrified, the man’s blood pressure was so high that he could hear his heart beating in his ears. Straining to listen over the pounding of his pulse, the mummy-bound captive realized that he could hear… nothing.

The breeze entered his tent through the most recent rips, flowing through the original slit to his left. In stark contrast to the relaxing sensation the soft wind had provided during his hike, the current gust was bone-chillingly frigid. He grew aware of every vertebra in his spine as the terror he felt became palpable, a ghostlike sensation that filled the tent. The darkness added to the horror; despite his fully adjusted eyesight, he could barely see the end of his sleeping bag.

Moments grew into minutes, which stretched into an hour. Nick attempted to free himself, struggling with the zipper in the most subtle way possible. His efforts were in vain; even flexing in all directions, he couldn’t rip a seam or force the closure past where it was. It was as if the material had become steel; he was trapped inside his dark tent, locked into a literal mummy bag, only his face vulnerably and helplessly exposed to the elements. Frustrated, he gave up all attempts at subtlety and thrashed against his restraints.

At his movement, the scream came again, this time at the foot of his tent. He raised his head and watched in horror as a tear emerged in the very center, then two skeletal claws entered the fabric and began slowly pulling the sides apart. Utter blackness appeared in the center, contrasting starkly with the bone-white claws that proceeded to rend his tent wall in two. When the gap extended fully from the floor to the ceiling, the hands froze but didn’t withdraw.

Slowly, a round shape appeared in the middle. As it pressed into the tent, Nick realized that what he was seeing was the top of a head. The scraggly brown locks descended in clumps from a scalp with skin as white as a frog’s underbelly. It inched forward, toward him. All he saw was the skull’s dome; the monster’s face remained looking downward, hidden from view. When the entire head had entered the tent, it paused.

For a moment, there was nothing: no movement, no noise. Then, the softest hint of sound began: a slow, deep chuckle that grew into a high-pitched, terrifying cackle. As it reached a crescendo, the head turned upward, revealing the face that Nick had seen before. Its lips were drawn back in a grotesque grimace, features contorted with maniacal laughter. The camper stared in helpless horror, unable to move.

The laughter stopped suddenly and completely, as if the cord to a speaker had been pulled. The face stared at him, its countenance slowly relaxing into that terrifying death mask of a smile. A minute passed, then the figure drew his left hand to his face, index finger extended, the others curling into a fist. He pressed his lone outstanding digit to his lips and whispered, “Shhhh,” then slowly withdrew.

As the face pulled back, it didn’t look downward, remaining locked on the trapped camper instead. The last thing that Nick saw was the terrifying eyes, whites visible on all sides; the rest of the features disappeared in the darkness, leaving only the two glowing, unblinking embers locked onto him. A moment later, they vanished.

The camper collapsed backward in complete panic. Opening his mouth wide, Nick’s voice echoed in a shrill scream as he cried for help. No sooner had the sound issued from his throat than the last of the four walls, the canopy above his head, was ripped open to the sound of maniacal laughter. For the first time, Nick felt the claws touch him as they wrapped around the top of his mummy bag, digging into and scratching his scalp. The hiker was yanked from his tent by something with terrifying strength, his screams splitting the air. A moment later, they stopped as suddenly as the creature’s laughter had.

~

The following day, two hikers walked briskly along the trail. Bound for a scenic lake to the northeast, they’d risen early and begun the trek at sunrise. They were surprised to find another car parked at the trailhead that early. The man had placed his hand on the hood of the car, only to find it was cold. “Hmm,” he said to his companion. “They must have gone in last night and camped.”

The pair began their journey and had been walking for just under an hour when the path turned abruptly to the right. As they rounded the corner, a sight met their eyes that froze them in their tracks.

The remains of a small, one-person tent lay before them. It had been shredded from each side as if a rabid grizzly had torn it open so completely that it must have been searching for the tiniest morsel of food. A few yards to the south, the bottom half of a sleeping bag rested, covered in the dark, sticky blood. The pair took in the scene for a few moments, horrified at the gruesome wreckage. They exchanged glances, then both of their eyes settled on the sleeping bag. They began to inch their way toward it; if there were any human remains, they would be here.

They could see that the bag was utterly deflated as they moved closer, as if nothing remained. The woman grabbed a nearby stick, pushed it into the opening, lifted it, and glanced inside. The only thing left was a cell phone, covered in red gore but otherwise unharmed. Her companion picked it up gingerly, then pressed the power button once.

The screen lit up briefly, then went dark. Before it died, a single sound came through the speaker.

“Shhhh.”

The Swing Set

The metal legs tottered back and forth against the momentum of the swing. Most people would have cemented them into the ground, but this was like so many other things in his life. A charitable gift from someone who wanted to improve Billy and his siblings’ lives, gratefully received, fully assembled, and complete except for the very last step—anchoring it to the ground. That was his parents’ responsibility, and that part didn’t happen. They’d accept charity, sure; but when it came time to put forth even a modicum of effort, any incentive to engage disappeared.

The ten-year-old boy swung back and forth in the dusty backyard, patches of grass appearing amid the deeply worn dirt ruts that marked where his brother and sisters had run to and fro on their predictable journeys of playfulness. No grass seed would ever grace that dirt with its presence unless it happened to be blown there by happenstance. The way his dad treated the lawn was the way he treated his kids; if it wasn’t absolutely required for survival, it wasn’t a priority.

He pulled back on the chains, thrusting his hips forward to propel himself toward the top of an arc. He had learned to carefully balance the height of the swing: too high, and the whole unanchored play structure would topple forward. The dusty-faced boy wasn’t yet strong enough to lift it upright by himself if that happened, and he knew intimately well the consequences of such an innocent mistake.

There were the bruises, some of which didn’t appear for days after. He pondered why his father had gotten so angry at the scuffs and small dents the playset had received when it fell—it wasn’t like he’d paid for it, or played with them on it, or maintained it. Nonetheless, the man’s wrath was swift and punishment immediately meted out. The boy remembered clutching the comforter on his parents’ bed, gritting his teeth, determined to last as long as possible until he cried.

Not crying wasn’t in the cards, unless he passed out. His father had stated that 15 strikes was the starting point for effective discipline, and there was no upward limit. He hit you until you cried out for him to stop, however long that took. If it didn’t happen quickly, he just kept going until it did. The boy would count the hits… 25… 30… bracing himself against the tempo of the man’s swings. 35… 40… He would clench tightly, but he’d never outlast the man with the belt. Eventually, he always cried.

That was, until he learned the secret. The youngster had discovered a trick the year before: if he relaxed his buttocks, they would receive the blows much like a shock absorber on a truck was designed to do. The pain decreased substantially if one could muster enough self-control to remain relaxed. Splayed out on the bed, arms forward, in a position of absolute submission, the only defense was in the mind. Billy would go somewhere else, pretending that he was swimming with his friends or playing checkers. The blows would rain down, but if he could only maintain his concentration, he could hold on. He could outlast the pain. He could keep from crying.

As his legs kicked back and forth, continuing the arc, he delicately balanced the swing set on its poles, walking it side to side as the tips alternately ascended and descended with the steady rhythm. It was hot; the south Mississippi sun shone down mercilessly, drawing drops of precipitation from his skin. They gathered into beads that rolled down his back. He remembered the first time he’d found that his shirttail was wet after returning to his room from a beating. It wasn’t blood—his father was too smart for that, and the belt from his military uniform was perfectly blunt. It only ever burst blood vessels under the skin. Billy had removed his shirt and examined it, wondering what the clear liquid was. He sniffed it, detecting the slight tang of salt. It was sweat, but not his. It was his father’s.

In sharp contrast to the burning southern day outside, the one luxury his father splurged on was the frigid air conditioning that kept the house at a steady 69 degrees. To work up a sweat in those temperatures required a substantial amount of effort, and Billy chuckled to himself at the sadistic humor he’d learned to embrace. This was the most effort his father ever spent on him, and he never wasted an opportunity.

The boy tired of swinging and decided to jump. He timed it like a science: one final push forward to maximize momentum, the return, then forward again. He drew his arms inside of the chains, waited until ten percent before the swing reached its zenith, then leapt. “If you wait until the top,” he’d explained to his younger brother the week before, “you drop straight down. You have to let go while it’s still going forward so you can go out.” Billy bent his knees and landed inches beyond his target—a new record. He smiled, wiped his hands on his torn jeans, then walked toward the large cottonwood at the south end of the yard.

Challenging himself to excel was in his nature. Whatever level he’d reached before in any area, he tried to exceed it on his next attempt. Billy reached the base of the tree and eyed the first branch. It was a full eight feet off the ground, and his highest jump would allow him to wrap just his fingertips around it. It took two tries to snag the branch this time; he pulled himself up, swung a leg around the branch so he could pivot his body, then rose to his feet. He climbed to the top of the tree and found his perch across the large timber he’d hauled up a few weeks before. This was one of those quiet accomplishments he never told anyone about; it was a struggle to climb the tree itself, but carrying an eight-foot 4×4 twenty-five feet straight up without rope… that was tough.

He didn’t know how he’d done it, and that’s quite the literal statement. It wasn’t uncommon for him to forget things; not in the distracted, I-can’t-focus way where many kids struggle; no, sometimes it seemed his memory just didn’t work. He’d try to think back and entire days were just a mass of gray. Nothing existed. It was as if the day had never happened.

Billy hauled himself onto the boards from a pallet he’d found in a neighbor’s trash. He’d carefully pulled it apart, salvaging the planks and the nails to reconstruct the single platform that comprised his retreat. It took nearly an hour to straighten the nails, hammering out each curve so they were straight and reusable. Building supplies weren’t worth spending money on, he’d been told, so thriftiness became the answer.

His sisters and brother tended to stay inside most of the time, but Billy preferred the outdoors. Here, he was free. Even when confined to the yard, he would find the most vertical release he could and explore it, climbing until the branches thinned out and became so slender they nearly cracked under his thin, wiry frame. The child closed his eyes, feeling the wind whistle through the branches, watching the leaves dance as the wind ebbed and flowed.

This was where he would spend time deep in thought, something else he often did. Hours spent pondering the deepest mysteries he’d encountered at that tender age, these moments of reflection were another character trait that defined him. Billy thought back to when he was five, reminiscing about how he’d been staring at himself in the mirror on his parents’ dresser and realized, for the first time, that he was. That no one else was him, and he could be no one else. That he existed. That everyone else who was or had ever been was a someone who existed, too. It blew his boyhood mind, and it took him a full day before he got used to the wonder of it all.

A wry smile spread across his dirt-covered features. Billy sat high in the tree, safe from the world below. The question that filled his mind now was far less wondrous. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t be perfect. Why he always messed up. He tried so hard to do everything his parents wanted, but there was always some detail, some minor aspect he’d overlook. That was always his undoing. He didn’t get disciplined for lying or hitting people or breaking things or stealing or mouthing off. The spankings were often because he forgot to close a door or fold the last piece of laundry. With most of the beatings, he couldn’t even remember why they happened; some, he never understood in the first place. They just did, because he was a disappointment, because he deserved it.

He had some vague motion that he was smart. At least that’s what his Sunday School teachers had told him. Billy felt like a normal kid; he wasn’t better or worse than anyone else, he simply was. Most of his peers didn’t catch on to things as quickly as he did, but that wasn’t anything worth paying attention to. It just happened.

His dad had told him that he was smart, too; but he didn’t say it the way the Sunday School teachers did. They said it with a smile, a distinct tone of approval present in their voices as he was always the first to answer some trivial question found in the remote corner of a history book. No, his father frowned when he said it, then told him that God loved him less because he was smart. Smart people didn’t need God as much, so as a natural result, God didn’t love Billy like he did the other kids. It was more of a tolerance, really.

It made sense. Both his earthly and spiritual fathers casually disapproved of him; Billy’s only grandfather, on his mother’s side, told him that he was a nuisance. Being disliked by the people who had “father” attached to their name was just normal.

He’d watch other kids with their dads and wait for the anger, the reprimand, the instant disapproval when the wrong grammatical version of an answer was used. He remembered the time he’d been taken to the back for correction because he said “yep” instead of “yes,” and apparently that single-letter mistake was enough to warrant a beating. Asking why only increased the severity of the strikes; the only clue he got was that it had been “disrespectful.” It wasn’t uncommon simply not to know why you did something wrong, and Billy generally had to guess at what the right response was in its place. Being proactively taught wasn’t a thing.

Those other dads, though… they weren’t like that with their sons. Billy didn’t know why. His dad talked on an almost daily basis on how critical it was to “honor your father and mother.” At one point, he’d asked his dad what it would take to honor him. The boy’s motive was pure: he wanted nothing more than to please his pops, to be told that he was worth being proud of, that his achievements meant something. The answer was decidedly vague. “Whatever I want it to mean,” his dad had said, then returned to what he was doing. Billy had learned that standard was rarely well-known, and previously established lines often shifted with moods.

Why didn’t other dads do that? They played catch or video games or went fishing or shared hobbies with their kids. Had he done something wrong early on to become unlovable? Something that happened so far in the past that he couldn’t remember, that had driven him into the space where even God didn’t really like him anymore? The boy wracked his mind and the sporadic memories that filled them, trying to find some explanation that would finally satisfy the question burning deep within.

What made him worthless? He knew he was—there was no question about that part. Everyone knew it, too—how his dad felt about him wasn’t any secret in the family. Billy just didn’t understand why.

The breeze in the tree shifted to the other side, and the boy realized that it was getting dark. The sun had slowly sunk before him as he sat in the tree, facing west. Another day had come and gone, another day without answers. Adults might get frustrated at this, but Billy didn’t. Frustration happened when there was the possibility of another outcome and it didn’t happen, and that wasn’t the case here. The young boy’s ponderings were like the cycle of the days: they were constant, ever-present, and the fact that they didn’t end was just how life happened. He brushed the thoughts from his mind and climbed down.

As Billy dropped from the final branch, he gave himself another challenge. “Someday,” he whispered. “Someday, I’ll figure out why I’m not good enough.” He wiped his hands on his jeans and walked toward the house. Inexhaustible hope brought a quiet smile to his face as he imagined that day and the resolution it would bring. “And then, I can fix it. And then, he’ll love me.” Comforted by this flickering flame of optimism, the darkness brought on by the receding sun was defeated, illuminated by his boyish innocence. He could take the beatings, the neglect, the reminders that he wasn’t worth it.

Because someday… someday, he would be. And what a day that would be.

Alien Abduction

The writing prompt was to write about an alien encounter, and this is my first attempt at anything in the genre. Let me know how it turned out!

~~~

They saw each other across the room, and their eyes locked in a mixture of emotions. Lance Corporal Karen M. O’Quinn’s expression was apprehensive, aware, and obviously determined to escape as she strained against her invisible bindings. The young Marine knew that her training had prepared her for this moment; as a POW, her job was to find a way out. Her ramrod posture indicated that she was ready to go to her dying breath without revealing a single detail that would help the enemy.

Across the circular white room sat someone with a markedly different demeanor. Colby Windbreaker was slumped in his seat, his bleached blond hair hanging to his shoulders, and his eyes bore the hazy relaxed expression that occurred in the moments immediately following a massive bong rip. In fact, that’s precisely what had happened moments before he was beamed into the enormous ship floating above their apartment complex.

LCpl O’Quinn lived three doors down and had been preparing for an inspection scheduled for the following day at 0600 hours. Her dress blues had been dry cleaned and subsequently scrubbed with a lint roller. She’d used a ruler to ensure that her insignia and medals were perfectly aligned. The Corfams that adorned her feet had been scrubbed with a damp cloth and soap, dried with a soft cotton towel, and shone so brightly that the black shoes positively glowed. As a final step, she’d put her uniform on to ensure, one last time, that its fit was immaculate. It was when she approached the mirror that she, too, had been irresistibly lifted by the tractor beam, phasing through the two apartments above hers and the roof before being confined by invisible bindings to a chair that looked like it came from the Museum of Modern Art.

She stared at Colby, not even attempting to hide her disgust with the disheveled appearance of her completely relaxed companion. “Hey!” the Marine whispered hoarsely. “Are you stuck?”

The target of her words seemed utterly relaxed. “Whut?” he replied, straightening his posture somewhat. “What do you mean, stuck?”

“Are you restrained? Can you move?”

The apparent surfer raised his hands and waved them, obviously entertained by the motions. He giggled, then said, “Dude, I feel great.”

Surprised at how the reality of her neighbor had failed to reach even her lowest assumptions, she responded sternly. “Look, get your ass over here and help me get loose!”

Colby, still entertained by the effect that the lighter-than-earth gravity had on his floating arms, failed to respond to her words. It seemed as if he hadn’t even heard her. The man climbed onto his chair, then giddily jumped off and waved all of his limbs as he floated to the floor. “Bruhhhhh…” His feet hit the ground, and he immediately launched himself upward, reaching toward the twenty-foot-high ceiling. “This is epiiiiicccc!”

The Marine’s disappointed surprise quickly transitioned into confused shock. She tried each of her hands, then her legs. Each was frozen in place without so much as an inch of give. “Hey!” she shouted, surrendering all attempts at subtlety. “Come help me get free!”

Colby twisted his head toward her as he descended from above. “What do you mean? Aren’t you American? You’re free as fuck!” He chuckled as he began singing the theme song to Team America World Police. “America FUCK YEAH! Comin’ again to save the motherfuckin’ day, yeah, America (FUCK YEAH!), Freedom is the only way, yeah!” What began as an off-tune drone quickly escalated into a full head-banging, air-guitar-screaming solo. Within moments, his voice crescendoed. “Terrorist your game is through, ‘Cause now you have to answer to, America (FUCK YEAH!), So lick my butt and suck on my balls, America (FUCK YEAH!)”

LCpl O’Quinn was equal parts confused and frustrated. Her assumptions, sharpened by the time she spent in SERE training, was that all other prisoners would have the same goals and be onboard with any escape attempt. Her compatriot, however, seemed utterly content where he was. He continued to leap around the room, drifting softly back to the floor, screaming obscene lyrics while enjoying the hell out of himself. The noise had apparently alerted their captors, and the wall to her right whirred softly as it transitioned into a set of double doors that retracted on themselves.

She stared as three green beings entered the room. They were approximately three feet tall, with disproportionately large heads and eyes. Seemingly without chins, their nearly non-existent jaws transitioned seamlessly to toothpick-sized necks. The rest of their body mass combined equaled the size of their heads, with hands and feet that were long and slender. All three stopped, turning in robotic unison to look at her. Despite her previous determination to remain silent, a low “what the f…” slowly escaped her lips.

After a moment, the aliens turned, again in unison, to check out her fellow human. Colby was experimenting with front flips in the low-G environment, his headbanging continuing with undampened enthusiasm. He’d reached the point in the chorus where he was outright screaming, “Porno (FUCK YEAH!) Valium (FUCK YEAH!) Reeboks (FUCK YEAH!) Fake tits (FUCK YEAH!),” when he noticed their visitors.

The singing stopped immediately. Caught in the midst of a flip, the stoner was inverted and immediately assumed that the three newcomers were walking on the ceiling. “Duuuuude,” he whispered softly, obviously in awe. “This is unbelievable!” At that moment, his delayed descent concluded, and he bumped his head against the floor. The rest of his body followed, and he rolled into a seated position. Rising, he ambled toward the three, his body posture indicating an intense curiosity without any semblance of fear.

Karen loudly whispered, “Get away from them! They’re the enemy!” Colby continued his stroll but turned his head slightly and giggled. “Bruh, enemas are my friend. I was blocked for three days solid, and that sucker set me free.” The last word brought him back to the song, and O’Quinn heard him mutter one final, “America (FUCK YEAH)!” under his breath as he took the last few steps toward the aliens.

The three visitors gazed up at the five-foot, nine-inch, completely relaxed college dropout before them. Colby bent at the waist, leaning forward until his face was mere inches from the leading alien’s expressionless features. “This is friggin wicked, man!” With the demeanor of one attempting to make friends with a stray dog, the surfer extended his hand, raising it in a “high five” motion, and paused, awaiting reciprocation.

For the first time, the three acted independently. Each turned toward the others as if silently discussing what this gesture could mean. LCpl O’Quinn strained against her seat; this idiot might be completely useless, but he was a fellow human, and she was determined to rescue him from the impending danger he’d brought upon himself. Who knew what these aliens could do? Thoughts rushed through her head of them ripping him apart with invisible force fields, anally probing him with thick metal rods, or brainwashing him into complete submission. She paused at the latter thought and realized that probably wouldn’t be much of a change for this weirdo, but quickly removed it from her mind.

The three aliens slowly turned to face Colby, who remained absolutely still, a dazed expression of amusement marking his features. The leading alien took a single step forward, then head-butted Colby’s palm. “Bruuuuuh!!!” the man exclaimed, erupting into an ecstatic chortle. “Right on!” He got down on his knees and nodded encouragingly to his new friends, indicating he was ready to return the favor. The alien raised his right hand, and Colby softly head-butted it.

Although their faces remained expressionless, all three aliens began to glow a softer green, obviously communicating their satisfaction. Karen stared with outright incredulity as Colby exchanged greetings with the other two, each alternating hand-raising and head-butting. The four formed a circle, and from the man’s facial expressions, it was apparent they were having a conversation. Colby alternately nodded his head in agreement, laughed, and shrugged. His verbal responses of “yes,” “well, not completely,” and “I feel you there, my man,” were seemingly without context until O’Quinn realized that they must be speaking to him telepathically.

The moment she realized this, all four turned and looked in her direction. A tingle of fear ran up her spine. After a brief pause, Colby verbalized, “They’re gonna check us out. That means we’re gonna be nekkid. Heads up.” Before she could object, the second alien snapped his fingers, and their clothes unraveled into mere threads. The cloth floated off of each human, gathered in the center of the room, and was sucked up through an air vent that suddenly appeared.

Most men would have taken the opportunity to gawk at the newly nude, rather attractive, completely restrained woman. Marijuana, however, often causes someone to have much more juvenile reactions. Colby immediately stared down at his genitals, stood up, and began to make use of the low-G environment once more. He leaned back, arching his body as he thrust his hips forward slightly, and begin to spin his dick in a helicopter fashion. He laughed so hard that tears poured from his eyes, and the three aliens—despite their lack of complementary genitalia—joined him in the gyrating motions.

LCpl O’Quinn had been immediately embarrassed by her clothing’s disappearance, but quickly forgot all about it as she stared at the locker room-style juvenile male bonding that was taking place in front of her. The words “what the actual fuck” rolled through her mind, causing the three aliens to stop and look at her. Colby, on the other hand, was undeterred. He began a series of leaps and downward floats, giggling as his male appendage drifted downward in a delayed reaction relative to his body, causing it to seemingly drift weightlessly in the air.

Karen’s green hosts began to walk toward her. “Hey! Hey man! What are they doing??” she exclaimed, focusing the words on her tattooed, denuded human compatriot. The surfer stopped his motions mid-descent and turned toward her for the first time since their clothing had vanished. “I dunno. I think they’re going to examine you.” He shrugged, then did a cartwheel.

“Tell them I want my clothes back!” O’Quinn shouted, a sense of panicked urgency filling her voice.

The stoner didn’t even look at her to respond. His attention seemed entirely focused on calculating the logistics of launching himself from one wall and reaching the other before the slight gravity that still existed pulled him to the ground. “HEY, YOU! LISTEN TO ME!!” the woman shouted.

Colby turned his head toward her in bemusement. “What? Are you nervous that your coot coot and prune chute are hanging out? Don’t let it bother you. They have X-ray vision.” Karen didn’t pause to wonder how he had gained this knowledge; the aliens had arrived and surrounded her. Motionless, they stared at the woman with unblinking eyes. She felt fear rising inside of her. “What do I do???”

The man had launched himself from the top of the wall and was speedily approaching the other. He’d spun his body and was rapidly rotating while screaming, “I’M A TORPEDO!” Colby bumped into the wall before hitting the ground, rose to his feet, and gave a Tiger Woods-style fist pump. He turned toward her and said, “Oh, they respond to your thoughts. Just think of something fun instead of getting anally probed.”

Karen’s confused and panicked mind retrieved the first memory it could from her scrambled mess of thoughts. Immediately, the entire room transitioned into a perfect replica of her high school prom. She looked down and saw the smooth, wooden planks of the gym floor, then realized a disco ball was spinning in the center of the room, reflecting the neon lights shining from all sides. Immediately, the tunes of Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” drifted from the speakers. Colby was fascinated by his new clothing; wrapped in a cheap tux, he examined his threads in evident satisfaction.

The young Marine wondered how in the world THIS was the memory that she’d retrieved, but didn’t object. There were undoubtedly far more embarrassing situations that could have manifested. Colby walked toward the aliens, bowed deeply at the waist, and asked, “May I have this dance?” Karen shook her head in amazement as one of the aliens took his outstretched hand and walked with him to the center of the dance floor. The music shifted to a gentler tempo, and the surfer and his host began an intimate slow dance.

Remembering the single shot she’d taken before beginning her uniform prep that night, Karen swore to herself that she’d never taste tequila again. The two aliens reached forward and started gently batting her knockers, taking soft swipes and watching them lazily drift back and forth until they finally settled, each motion exaggerated by the spaceship’s environment. She was too shocked to object. Her assumption about any alien environment involved some version of “Take me to your leader!” but obviously, these fancy cats were far less interested in meeting the top brass than they were observing the effect of booby bouncing in low-G.

She closed her eyes, shook her head, and reminiscing about the time she watched The Wizard of Oz, focused intensely on a single thought: “I wish I was home. I wish I was home. I wish I was home.” The sounds slowly drifted away, and the feeling of alien hands on her chest disappeared. She felt bathed in a warm, fuzzy sensation and focused on the peace she felt. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes.

Karen was back in her bedroom, in her pajamas, staring up at the ceiling. She looked over at the clock, which registered five minutes before her alarm was supposed to go off. In a state of utter confusion, she rose and walked around her apartment. Everything was exactly as she remembered it. There was no indication that the night before had been anything but a dream. The Marine shook her head, showered, and dressed for the inspection.

As she walked out to her car, she glanced to her right. Colby was standing there in board shorts and an open, button-up Hawaiian shirt that flapped in the light breeze. He was loading his surfboard onto his 1965 yellow Volkswagen Beetle. Although she’d seen him around and knew he lived in the apartment complex, she’d had no interaction with him outside of the dream the night before. Without pausing, she spun on her heel and marched toward him.

The surfer heard footsteps approaching and turned to look at her. “Oh, hey.” His tone was friendly and familiar as if he knew her. At any rate, he seemed utterly unsurprised. LCpl O’Quinn struggled to find the words to ask him about what she assumed was her dream alone, knowing she’d sound crazy if she voiced her question. Colby continued strapping his board to the car. “You get home ok last night?”

Karen was shocked. “Umm… yes?” she haltingly stated, wondering whether he was asking about her commute from the base to the apartment or her shockingly realistic dream. Colby checked the straps, walked around to get in the driver’s seat, then cranked the engine. He leaned over to look out the open passenger window at his neighbor, then said, “Pretty crazy, man. I will say he was a friggin good dancer.”

The woman’s jaw dropped in shock. “You… you mean… that was REAL?? It actually HAPPENED???” The man shrugged his shoulders, his blond hair swaying with the movement. As he shifted the Bug into reverse, he made eye contact and casually said, “All in all, not my weirdest Thursday night,” then drove away.

The Caped Crusader

I wrote this blog in response to a writing prompt that required me to blend erotica with humor. I’ve never combined the two genres, and I’m intensely curious about what y’all think. Let me know!

~~~

She opened her eyes and couldn’t believe what she saw in front of her. For a moment, Katie wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or awake. There, at the foot of the bed, was Batman in full regalia. His fists were planted firmly on his hips, elbows angling outward in a classic superhero pose. The man’s body faced her, but his head was cocked to the right in a dramatic fashion. She rubbed her eyes—hard—then blinked. This must be a dream; she was inside her house, but Batman’s cape fluttered dramatically behind him in the breeze. Where could the wind be coming from??

The Dark Knight’s face slowly turned, casting a sidelong glance at her. As their eyes met, he winked. A sly grin spread across his face. That’s when she noticed the sound of air blowing and realized that her husband had placed an oscillating fan on the ground and positioned himself in front of it to blow the cape back. She burst out laughing.

“Honey, what in the world are you doing?!”

The masked figure replied in a deep, raspy voice. “I’m not your honey. We don’t have that kind of relationship. I’m here to rescue you from your tedious and uninteresting sex life.”

Katie immediately thought back to a conversation they had had a month prior about spicing up their time in the bedroom. She had mentioned roleplay, but her assumption was closer to a boss-secretary vibe than a marriage of DC Comics to a Viagra ad. She looked at him again, trying hard not to laugh but failing miserably.

“Babe, I’m so sorry. This isn’t working for me. I just can’t take you seriously with that on.”

To Justin’s credit, he remained undeterred and never broke character. Batman was as stoic in the bedroom as he was on screen, and he silently walked from the foot of the bed to her side. “Some people don’t want to be rescued, but they won’t know freedom until they are.” With that, he reached into his utility belt and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Grabbing her wrist, he quickly cuffed her to the bedpost.

“Justin!” Katie exclaimed. “What are you doing???”

As the mysterious superhero walked around to the other side of the bed, his raspy voice corrected her. “I’m not Justin,” he muttered. Then, with a wry smile befitting Justin’s sense of humor, he said, “I’mmmmm BATMAN!” With that, he removed another set of handcuffs and seized her other arm. Katie resisted this time, attempting to pull her hand away. Batman, being much stronger, pulled her wrist until it was outstretched and secured it to the other bedpost.

Katie’s feelings had changed markedly from just moments before. She was positive that she was awake, that the masked figure was her husband, and she knew what he was doing and why. In one sense, she thought the whole thing was dumb—I mean, who dresses up as Batman and fucks his wife?? Certainly, no one in her friend group. At the same time, she noticed that she was slightly aroused. She had been forcefully restrained in her bed by a masked man who had stated he was going to ravage her. As confused as she was, Katie was willing to see where this went. But she was going to make him work for it.

As the Caped Crusader neared the foot of the bed, he produced a length of rope and grabbed one of her ankles. The woman immediately pulled away, wrenching free from his grasp. “No!” she said emphatically. “You can’t do this!” During the previous conversation about sexual exploration, they’d agreed on a safe word if they ever needed it down the line. Katie was intensely aware of the fact that she could use it, and she trusted Justin to stop. She was also aware that, right now, she didn’t want him to.

Gotham’s Defender was relentless in his pursuit. As Katie thrashed on the bed, he climbed on top of the mattress, wrapped his arms around her thigh, and then straddled it. He slid down until her knee was trapped, immobilizing her entire leg. Patiently, the superhero tied her ankle to the bottom bedpost. When he’d secured her, he transitioned to her other leg. Katie resisted as best she could, but her one remaining limb was no match for her (assaulter? rescuer?)’s strength. In short order, she was tied down, spread eagle on their bed.

Katie’s typical bedtime attire was an old, oversized t-shirt and a pair of cotton panties. That’s what she wore at the moment, and nothing else. Batman stood and sauntered around the bed, admiring her figure. She regularly complained about having a mom bod, but Justin had consistently reassured her that her curves were erotic to him. His current demeanor was either a convincing part of his act or a reflection of intense desire. From his apparent alter-ego behavior over the course of their relationship, she knew it was the latter.

“Now, you need to remain still,” the husky voice commanded. He reached beneath his cape and withdrew a knife from his belt. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” Katie froze, not quite sure where this was going. The Dark Knight knelt on the bed between her legs, took the edge of her shirt, and lifted it as high as it would go. Slowly, carefully, he moved his knife-bearing hand up to the collar of the garment, then lifted the blade through. He positioned the cutting edge to face back toward himself and sliced through the fabric. When he reached the end, he tossed both sides of her shirt open, revealing her voluptuous breasts. “Mmmm,” he rasped in apparent satisfaction.

Katie could no longer even attempt to deny how aroused she was. This man had just cut her shirt open with a knife, denuding her while she was tied to their bed. The Caped Crusader moved down to focus his attention just below her waist. “Don’t move,” he commanded. Katie remained obediently rigid and observed Batman’s actions. He took a different approach with her panties; rather than slicing through them, he lifted the hem that formed the hole for her left leg and, using just the tip, cut through it. He repeated this on her right side and once more at the waistline. Stepping back, he laid the knife on her nightstand and admired his handiwork. “That should do it,” he rasped.

The woman watched as he approached the head of the bed. She was slightly confused by the fact that he hadn’t removed her panties, but her attention quickly shifted as Gotham’s Greatest Detective placed his hand on her throat. He leaned down and kissed her deeply. Katie had accepted that this roleplay was going to occur; now, she embraced it. She pulled back, twisting her head to the side to escape his kiss. Batman’s hand moved up to her jaw and locked it in place; his other hand moved to her forehead, firmly pinning her to her pillow. He leaned in again, and this time, the woman had no choice. He kissed her deeply. His commitment to the scene had obviously turned him on as well, and the passion he displayed was evident. Katie was almost surprised to find herself kissing back just as eagerly.

The Dark Knight moved downward, adjusting his hand as he went. He kissed her neck, then her collarbone, exploring her chest thoroughly before he moved toward her left nipple. His lips gently caressed it for a moment, then sucked it into his mouth. The way he suckled her reflected everything Batman was supposed to be: rough, but caring; intense, but aware; displaying intense passion for everything he did, laced with a surprising gentleness toward those he rescued. Katie gasped as he suckled her. This was inarguably the most intensity her breasts had ever experienced, and the masked man flirted with the line between affection and affliction. The results were undeniable. She had always enjoyed nipple play and wondered if she could cum from it, but Justin hadn’t made it a point to pursue, and she had never asked. But right here, right now, the question was about to be answered.

Batman lifted his mouth and transitioned to her right nipple, and began anew. This one, however, had already tightened into a firm mound of erotic anticipation, and she could feel his smile as his tongue explored her. He gently but firmly grasped her left nipple with his right hand and began to roll it back and forth. He timed the movements of his mouth and hand perfectly; when he sucked her deep into his mouth, he pulled her other nipple taut. As he grasped one with his teeth and lightly rolled it to and fro, he did the same with his fingers.

Katie began to moan, and her arms and legs subconsciously retracted. She was writhing in pleasure, and the more she reacted, the more enthusiastic the Dark Knight became. The woman became aware of the rising tide of desire that always preceded an orgasm, welling up deep in her belly and spreading its warmth across her entire body. “Oh don’t stop, don’t stop,” she gasped breathlessly. Batman had no intentions of quitting now. His pace became more rapid, and he alternated techniques and pressure with furious intensity. A few moments more, and Katie climaxed.

This was unlike any orgasm she’d ever experienced. Her pussy hadn’t been touched, yet she came with an intensity that felt as if she’d been passionately fucked. The woman’s legs shivered, straightening and flexing as she rolled side to side. She pulled her arms inward as far as the handcuffs would allow, then straightened them, curling her hands into tight fists. She had completely surrendered to the pleasure that the Caped Crusader had forced and was enjoying every moment.

As her orgasm peaked and then subsided, Batman’s movement slowed. As it ended, so did his stimulation, and he removed his mouth and hand from her breasts. His hand slid up to her neck, and he let the weight of it rest on her throat. Making no attempt to squeeze or even grasp, he simply reminded her of his presence, then leaned down and kissed her again. Their lips met with every ounce of the passion they had experienced previously, but noticeably gentler. It was a sensual exchange; Katie had always admired her husband’s kissing abilities, but in the moments after her virgin-like orgasm, she felt the love and warmth pour from his body as their tongues danced together.

After a few minutes, Gotham’s Greatest Detective withdrew, then stood up. The wry smile reappeared as his eyes traveled down her body. “Now,” he rasped, “To the bat cave!” The volume was so low that Katie couldn’t tell if he was whispering to himself or for her benefit. Justin had always laughed harder at his own dad jokes than anyone else had, and she loved that he found himself so infinitely amusing.

Batman reached down, grabbed her panties, and forcefully ripped them from her body. The cuts he’d made on each of the hemlines ensured that only the light cotton fabric needed to be severed, and he did so easily. The jocularity disappeared, and Katie was shocked at the feelings that enveloped her as the Dark Knight tore her underwear from her, leaving her nude except for the fragments of shirt that still lay against her arms. She felt her pussy flood and shivered in anticipation of the acts of dominance that were appearing before her eyes.

The man moved to the foot of the bed and paused. He placed one hand on his chest and the other on the waistline of his pants, then wrenched them forward. Both came off easily, and she realized that he’d worn a tearaway costume. He stood before her now, clothed in nothing but a cowl, a cape, and a utility belt. Katie busted out laughing. Rather than indicating any sense that he felt threatened, Batman grinned back at her. He turned and climbed on top of the dresser, then resumed his initial stance. His stiff erection extending past the buckle of the utility belt added an element of absurdity that redoubled her laughter. The man seemed to be enjoying the humor of the moment as much as he had the passion that preceded it.

When his wife had finally caught her breath, Gotham’s hero turned to face her. “Now,” he muttered in a low voice, his eyes gleaming, “For the rescue.” With that, he knelt and launched himself through the air toward the bed.

For all the advantages that his outfit had rendered thus far, one outstanding shortcoming quickly became apparent to both of them. The cowl had restricted the Caped Crusader’s vision to some degree, including what he could see just above his eyes. When he leaned into his leap, his head lowered, prohibiting him from seeing what lay above him. Batman was immediately and regrettably reminded of the ceiling fan he’d installed just a week prior, one that hung from their vaulted ceiling on an 18-inch down rod.

The mischievous cowl at least bore its part of the ordeal, being the first to forcefully encounter the ceiling fan. Batman’s forward momentum didn’t slow as his head stopped suddenly; rather, his lower body continued to propel itself forward as his top-end toppled backward. He hit the edge of the bed, then collapsed on the floor.

To say that Katie was shocked was an understatement. She attempted to rush to his side, but she was (now, unfortunately) inescapably restrained. The woman could hear her husband breathing and could tell that he was at least alive, but she also quickly surmised that he’d been knocked out cold. She shouted his name repeatedly, trying to rouse him from his forced slumber, but to no avail. However, this isn’t to say that her screaming didn’t produce results.

Stephanie, their fifteen-year-old daughter, was in her bedroom at the other end of the house. She had stayed up to complete a project that was due in school the next day and was listening to music while scrolling through TikTok. Her peaceful Zen was interrupted by her mother’s screams, and the girl rushed to her aid.

Nothing would prepare her for what she was about to see.

She swung the door open and immediately saw her mother naked and tied to the bed. The ceiling fan was in complete disarray: two blades were broken, and it was hanging at an awkward angle. What lay on the floor was what would result in several months of counseling, and as her eyes took in a semi-naked Batman, she did what any normal teenage girl would do.

She screamed. And she ran.

Moments later, as she was safely locked in her room, she remembered her mother. Her perception reawakened, and her mother’s voice shouting her name became apparent. The teenager unlocked her door and moved slowly down the hallway, not quite sure what else might manifest in this new, strange world that now surrounded her. The girl stopped just outside of her parent’s open door; she could see her mother, but all that was visible of the masked invader was his feet.

“Stephanie!” her mother shouted.

“Mom!” she screamed in return. “WHO IS THAT????”

“It’s your father!” came the reply.

“WHAT?????” Stephanie’s mind was having difficulty reconciling everything that was happening.

“Call 911 and then untie me!”

Stephanie slowly pulled her cell phone out of her jeans pocket, then dialed the three numbers.

“911, what’s your emergency?” The question was one she was wholly unprepared to answer. “Ummm…” she hesitated. What in the world was her emergency? “My parents are acting really weird, and they need help right now. Send an ambulance.” With that, Stephanie hung up.

The 911 dispatcher had very little to go off of with this cryptic message, so she assumed the worst. She rapidly pinged the cell signal and dispatched police, fire, and EMS to the location. To say that this was about to be a shit show was to drastically understate the situation. The neighborhood was soon filled with flashing lights and sirens as three police cars, a fire engine, a ladder truck, and an ambulance crowded the street in front of their residence.

Meanwhile, Stephanie had attempted to release her mother. She’d succeeded with the ropes but had no answer for the cuffs. “Where are the keys??” she asked her mother. Katie was equally confused. “I don’t know, honey. I didn’t even know we had handcuffs.” As the two thought intently, Katie had an idea. “Check your father’s utility belt. They’re probably in one of the pockets.”

Stephanie looked at her mother with an incredulous expression. “His what?”

“His utility belt. He’s wearing it.”

“Ummmm… he’s naked.”

“No, he’s not. He’s wearing a utility belt. Check it for keys.”

Stephanie’s current world continued in a downward spiral, divorcing itself entirely from the combined experiences of her fifteen years. She silently shook her head in confusion, then mentally prepared herself for having to explore the utility belt of her nearly naked, wholly knocked-out father. Slowly, she rose from the bed and woodenly turned toward the foot, steeling herself for what she was about to do. Just as she reached the footboard, the front door was assaulted by a series of blows. Stephanie screamed in surprise. “POLICE! OPEN UP!!” came the call from the front of the house.

The teenager was halfway to the door, wondering how her night could get any weirder before she remembered that she’d dialed 911, and they were there in response to her call. She unlocked, then opened the door, and two officers rushed in. “Are you ok??” the leading cop urgently asked. “Yes… yes, I’m ok,” she stammered. “My parents are that way.” Stephanie pointed in the direction of the master bedroom. “They need mental help.”

The confused police officers rushed to clear the room and ascertain the situation. Two minutes later, they’d accomplished the first goal but were nowhere near achieving the second. Recognizing Justin’s need for medical attention, they’d called the EMTs in and succeeded in unlocking Katie’s handcuffs, freeing her from her bed. One of them found her robe and handed it to her, and she rapidly dressed.

Stephanie was standing in the hallway just outside the master bedroom, and Katie anxiously stood nearby as the EMTs triaged Justin. “Oh man,” one of the medics stated. “We’ve got to remove this before putting him on the gurney.”

“What is it?” one of the cops queried.

“Well,” the EMT said as he concentrated intensely on the task at hand, “It’s a Batman butt plug that’s fully inserted in his rectum. And it’s flashing the bat signal.”

For a moment, silence engulfed the room. Then, with an amplified emphasis that comes when everything else is quiet, Stephanie’s voice wafted from the hallway. “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, MOM??”

Within a few hours, (almost) all had been set right. Stephanie, somewhat traumatized by the whole event, had spent the night with her best friend. Katie had accompanied Justin to the hospital, and he regained consciousness on the way. They both spent the night there as he was kept for observation but released the following day. Both took the day off work; although there had been some awkwardness early in the morning, they’d discussed what had happened and laughed uproariously as they filled each other in on their perspective of everything that had happened. By the time school let out, they were in a downright jovial mood.

When Stephanie got home, she walked through the door and just stood in the entryway. She glared at her parents, who were standing in the kitchen. She didn’t say a word; for a moment, neither did they. Katie broke the ice. “Stephanie…”

The teenager interrupted them. “I have only one question. Why??”

The married couple looked at each other, desperately trying to telepathically agree on a concise explanation that would somehow reconcile the situation with reality. Finally, Justin grinned. He turned toward their daughter, still glaring at them from the entry, and said:

“Because I’mmmmm BATMAN!!”

The Journey North

She was driving up I-5, windows down, music blaring. Amid her frustrations with the dating scene and man-children she’d consistently encountered, she’d found a welcome release. Jennifer and Eric were good friends, and although they lived a state apart, they’d grown close over the past year. A few months earlier, they’d met for the first time, and it was absolute fireworks. Like a key perfectly fitting a lock, they’d known from that initial hug in the restaurant parking lot how the night would end. Fortunately for both, it was an experience that had consistently repeated itself.

Jennifer’s mind drifted as the car propelled her along the straight road, sandwiched on each side by rather unremarkable scenery. The images in her mind, however, were far from mundane. The woman reminisced about how his beard felt between her thighs; how erotic it was when she caught her own scent on his whiskers after he’d eaten her out so thoroughly that she’d soaked him. The confident dominance he displayed as he wrapped his arm around her neck while pinning her to the wall, thrusting his perfect cock into her repeatedly from behind. The sounds he made when he came and the sensation of being filled with his cum. She breathed a deep, satisfied sigh.

A loud blast from a trucker’s horn brought her focus sharply back to the present. In the midst of her daydream, she’d begun to drift across the white stripes into the right lane, nearly colliding with the much larger vehicle. Her arm jerked the steering wheel to the left, correcting course, and she lifted her hand in a friendly wave of apology. “Keep it together, girl,” she told herself. “It will happen soon enough.”

One of the things she loved about their dynamic was what turned Eric on. He found pleasure in getting her off, and she’d never failed to walk away from one of their meetings without having been fully exhausted. His ability to rotate between his tongue, fingers, toys, and dick, combined with his eagerness to watch her climax, had briefly made her contemplate physical therapy for recovery on more than one occasion. It was rare to have her sexual thirst so completely quenched, but she found that she didn’t crave sex for nearly a full week after each time they’d met. Jennifer repeatedly came during those days, but it was always at her own hand as she relived every scene from the previous weekend.

When she finally arrived at the hotel, the intensity of her desire had become a living thing. It consumed her, and she couldn’t wait to satisfy herself. The woman parked, got out of her car, and headed straight for the entryway, not even bothering to grab her overnight bag. That could wait. She needed him.

The woman walked through the lobby and headed straight for the elevator. Eric had texted her the room number half an hour before, and she knew he was waiting for her. Jennifer chuckled as she turned and watched the doors close; it always amused her how her mindset was an odd mix of tunnel vision and absolute awareness in the moments before they encountered each other. On the one hand, she was intensely focused on what would begin in the next sixty seconds; on the other, the level of anticipation she experienced made her extremely sensitive to everything around her. The color of the tile floor, the gust of wind that lightly brushed her back as the lobby doors opened to welcome another patron, the clothes that the guests at the front desk were wearing. Her senses had never been more alive than they were when heightened with anticipation.

The slight ding immediately preceded the doors separating, signaling her arrival at the floor where Eric awaited her. A few steps took her out of the elevator, and a left turn pointed her in the right direction. Thirty yards later, she saw it: Room 413. With a level of excitement she could only equate to a kid on Christmas Eve, she stepped forward, lifted her hand, and rapped twice.

She heard the sound of footsteps approaching the entry, then watched as the handle twisted and the door swung away. There he was: all six foot and 195 pounds of black-haired, blue-eyed masculinity. He was dressed in gray slacks and a form-fitting, dark green button-up shirt; several buttons at the top were undone, casually hinting at his muscular chest. His easy smile was reflected across his face, eyes crinkling happily as he took her in. “Hi,” was all he said. It was all he needed to say. Their comfort with each other had grown over the past months, erasing all awkwardness and resulting in sheer, uninhibited desire.

Jennifer stepped forward, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him toward her for a kiss. Their lips met: hungrily, lustfully, passionately. She felt his hands at her hips, guiding her as he walked backward, allowing the door to swing shut behind them. The woman pivoted, then took a step forward, pressing her lover against the wall. One of her hands found its way to his crotch, where she groped his rapidly hardening bulge. Eric moaned, the sound communicating how turned on he was. Suddenly, he swung her around, swapping their positions.

The man’s hands moved up to her neck, lightly gripping her throat as the pair continued to make out. Eventually, he transitioned lower, grasping the breasts he had once described as “the perfect handful.” He slowly massaged her tits, using the palm of his hand to press her nipples deeper and rotate them in a circular fashion. Jennifer grabbed the back of his head and pulled him toward her, her fingers intertwining in his raven locks. She breathed in through her nose, her nostrils filled with the scent of his cologne. The Dolce & Gabbana he always wore had conditioned her to associate it with intense pleasure, and her pussy flooded in an immediate response.

Without realizing it, she thrust her hips forward, grinding against his body. Mid-kiss, Jennifer could feel Eric smile. His right hand released her breast and drifted downward, touching her waist, then slipping to the hem of her skirt. He grasped it, then pulled upward: slowly, teasingly, he removing the physical barrier between his hand and her throbbing womanhood. As the cloth moved higher, Jennifer became aware of the coolness of the room with every inch of skin that was exposed. By the time the hem had reached her waistline, her soaked pussy lips felt each degree of temperature change with pulsing intensity.

Her lover slowly reversed course, placing his hand between her legs. The woman shifted, spreading herself to ease his access. Another smile pulled his lips from hers just as she felt the pads of his fingers caress her outer lips.

Jennifer came immediately. It was a small orgasm, but the anticipation of reliving their previous encounters for the past several hours had so thoroughly primed her that she was actually aching for his touch. Without realizing it, her fingers tightened in the man’s hair, pulling his head to the side as she buried her face in his shoulder and moaned. The intensity of her focus on what his hand was doing slowly broadened as the orgasm ended. She became aware of his steady breathe on her cheek, the masculine feel of his beard against her neck, and the pressure of his body as it gently pinned her against the wall.

Eric drew his head back far enough to see her face. Their eyes met, and she recognized the look as he stared intently at her. His expression was primal, animalistic, and savage—not in a way that threatened her with harm, but instead communicating that millennia of evolution had reverted in an instant, driving this sophisticated man back to his most basic thirst. He wanted her.

At that moment, he entered her. As their eyes locked, her attention fixated on him as a person, he thrust two of his fingers knuckle deep into her pussy, continuing to press with such force that she was lifted onto her toes. Jennifer gasped, frantically clutching his back as she pulled him to her for support. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant in the least, and the shock of its suddenness amplified the physical pleasure she felt. The man stayed completely still, moving neither his body nor his fingers. His lover felt her pussy convulse, tightening and loosening as it adjusted to his presence. Her fingernails sunk into his back and her teeth gripped his shoulder, biting him in an attempt not to scream.

She sensed, rather than felt, his satisfaction. When her walls had acclimated to his presence, he began to alternate the two fingers: one going back as the other pressed forward, then alternating in a scissor-like motion. The pressure was slow, intentional, and deep. Jennifer’s pussy was slowly stretched as Eric rotated his hand, stimulating every inch of her womanhood. After a few moments, he brought his fingers together, curled them upward in a “come here” motion, and slowly pulled his hand away. The pads of his fingers applied intense pressure to her g spot, and as they dragged across it, increased the sensation she felt tenfold.

Eric knew how to move purposefully. He didn’t finger her furiously or clumsily, focusing instead on exploring her thoroughly with the precision of a surgeon. His fingers continued their retreat, pulling her pleasure button forward. When it finally slipped back, the sudden release of tension caused her g spot to swell with blood, inflaming her nerves in the most pleasurable way possible. Without pausing or rushing, the man’s hand reversed course, retracing its path as he entered her again. Her left leg began to shake; to support herself, she kept one hand on his upper back and moved the other to his neck, allowing him to bear nearly her entire weight. This was purposeful: in releasing control, gravity forced Eric’s thrusting fingers deeper inside of her, increasing the pressure until she was nearly driven mad with lust.

In the moments that followed, her lover displayed a level of mastery with his fingers that one typically expected of a professional pianist. He would lock his fingers together, pressed knuckle deep inside of her, and slowly rotate them in a conical fashion. His thumb moved to her clit, stimulating it as his index and middle fingers beckoned her g spot toward an orgasm. The man’s fingers split sideways into a V, then rotated back and forth to stimulate her deepest recesses. Jennifer was so wet that she felt her juices running down her leg, and she could feel the ecstasy building inside of her. “Oh baby, I’m about to cum.” Her hoarse whisper in his ear caused him to switch gears instantly.

Without hesitation, he lifted his thumb away from her, angled his hand inward, and pointed the tips of his fingers straight at the inside of her belly button. For the first time, the pace changed. It went from slow, intense stimulation to a rapid jackhammering that was so fast she couldn’t track it. His powerful, penetrating thrusts brought his fingers into a rapid staccato of interactions with her g spot. Pressure, release, pressure, release. The cycle continued without interruption, and within seconds, Jennifer came.

This was no ordinary orgasm. Her anticipation, his prep work, and the man’s knowledge of precisely how to switch it up drove her into a squirting frenzy. Stream after stream sprayed forth, soaking his hand, his arm, and his slacks. Eric didn’t let up, continuing his unrelenting pace that drove the tsunami of pleasure she felt between her legs into greater and greater heights. Finally, it peaked, hung for a moment as she crested the orgasmic wave, and began to come back down. Her lover was so in touch with her body that he timed his strokes with her descent, slowing each thrust until she came to rest in a blissfully relaxed state. He didn’t withdraw and kept his fingers buried inside of her.

When Jennifer had recovered enough to pull her head back, she glanced upward, and their eyes locked again. Her gaze was filled with a hazy detachment, the clouded look of someone who was pleasure drunk and on an intense high. As he stared into her eyes, he gently curled his fingers and began a slow retreat. The shift awakened her. Instantly, the fog disappeared as he felt her hands tighten on his shoulder and neck again. Her expression was an unspoken plea; her nerves were so sensitive that she was torn between the desire to feel him and push him away, precisely as he had intended. Millimeter by millimeter, he withdrew, stimulating her g spot one final time.

As his fingers exited her pussy, the release she felt caused her to shudder again, waves of pleasure washing over her. Whether she came again or not was a question she couldn’t answer, nor was it one she cared to explore. The only words she could think of to describe how she felt were “pure bliss.”

Eric wrapped his arms around her waist, allowing her to remain weightless. He turned, then gently lay her on the bed and relaxed beside her. Propped up on one elbow, the man stroked her hair, tracing it down the side of her face and tucking it behind her ear. She closed her eyes as his touch drifted across her skin, lightly stimulating her forehead, eyebrows, and cheeks. Minutes later, her eyelids fluttered, then opened completely to find him looking at her with an expression of utter satisfaction. She smiled at him, and he gave a boyish grin in return.

“Ready for dinner?” he said. “After that, we have the rest of the night…”