“Monsters Without Masks: An Interlude”
by H.B. Kurtzwilde

 

The house at the corner of Cherry Street and Beville was the object of endless rumors. It was too big, too old, and too creepy to be just a home. Any child in River City could have given the address with total confidence if asked where to find a ghost or a witch. Therefore, the residents felt they had a civic duty to fulfill when it came to Halloween.

Birdie Lee, homeowner of his generation, took his responsibility to be entirely weird very seriously. His family had been freaking people out since at least his grandfather’s era. Normally the house was protected by charms and wards strong enough to keep out even a minor deity. The rumors were all completely true, with Birdie being the current witch in residence. But like the stories said, Halloween was a night of mischief.

From sundown to sunrise, any spook or fool might pass the gate without invitation. They might walk right into the house, where they were sure to get the surprise of their lives from the deceased Lees partying on what they felt was ‘their night.’ Birdie’s husband, Malcolm Choi, had floated the idea of letting the neighborhood in just to see how many would survive.

Birdie had rejected the notion, dizzy at the thought of so many funerals this close to Thanksgiving. The prior owner, his uncle, had settled for throwing firecrackers from the second story balcony if anyone tried his patience. That embarrassing display had done nothing good for the Lee family reputation.

Rather than resort to salvos, Birdie set a small table in the middle of the front walk. On it he arranged plastic skulls and spiders, some crepe streamers, and a sign that said ‘poisoned’ in six languages. The centerpiece was a punch bowl brimming with full-sized candy bars, bags of chips, cans of soda and one lonely apple in case a strange child wanted nutrition in their loot.

Malcolm set up a spotlight on the balcony so that the table was in full view. With their preparations complete they adjourned to lounge on the front porch and enjoy cocktails while they waited for kids to come along and test their courage. All they had to do was dare to open the wrought iron gate, walk In and take anything they liked.

“We’re going to have to eat all that ourselves,” Malcolm predicted.

“Nah. Our kids are tougher than you think.” Birdie took in Malcolm’s all-leather ensemble and had to wonder.

“Is that a costume?”

“Yeah. I’m a demon hunter.”

“But… you are a demon hunter. That doesn’t count as a costume.”

Malcolm regarded Birdie’s pointed hat and stethoscope. “You’re dressed as a witch doctor.”

“I never called it a costume.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a godawful screech as someone out front tried the gate. A second later the gate clanged shut, and the front garden was quiet again. Birdie scowled, concerned that the young punks might have grown timid during the recent series of disasters they had endured.

He sipped his drink, resolving to be patient. After all, a night where he wasn’t deep in the pine woods battling transdimensional hell beasts and mosquitos was to be thoroughly enjoyed. To that end he finished his drink and started on another.

The gate sounded its protest again. This time the visitor held it open. A very small Bo Peep, complete with shepherd’s crook and adult-sized sheep, pranced down the path without a care in the world. The sheep held her up as she carefully considered the offerings. She selected a bar of chocolate and was carried away in triumph. With that, the other kids came in and stripped the table of its bounty.

“Oh well,” Birdie said. “No treats for us. I’ll go try to lock the gate. Will you turn off the light?”

Malcolm went inside and Birdie went down to put a chain and padlock up. There was a possibility that it might unlock itself, but Birdie at least felt he’d done his best for the neighborhood. He went in, sneaking past the spectral festivities in the parlor. The dead could do without him for one night. He went upstairs and was delighted to find Malcolm lying in wait on the bed.

“Since we’re not having treats, would you like a trick?” Malcolm asked.

Birdie forced a laugh for such a lame joke but accepted the offer just the same. He leaped to the bed, bounced, and rolled over onto Malcolm to take a deep kiss. Malcolm relaxed under him, stretching his arms out, inviting Birdie to do what he liked. Birdie rolled off him and shucked out of his scrubs. He had already lost his hat, and was confident his blond curls were in full rebellion but couldn’t bother to care.

Malcolm abandoned his leathers, moving languidly, as if confident that he was about to get everything he wanted. After so many years together, their passion had the comfort of permanence. Birdie grabbed the lube from the nightstand and they resumed their kiss where it had left off.

Malcolm tugged at Birdie’s cock, rough in his eagerness to get on with it. Birdie reached between Malcolm’s legs, found his opening and slicked him up. He would have taken more time teasing his lover, but Malcolm had no patience for it. He pushed Birdie over onto his back, straddled his hips and thrust down onto Birdie’s cock in one smooth stroke.

Birdie groaned, arched his back and pumped deeper into Malcolm. Pure pleasure rolled through his body, and then his need was beyond his control. Malcolm grinned down at Birdie as he set a racing pace, every roll of his hips a demand for more.

Birdie grinned right back, pounding up into Malcolm until they were breathless and running sweat. His cock throbbed wildly and felt like it was growing harder with every thrust. He seized Malcolm’s shaft and stroked mercilessly. They picked up speed, each trying to make the other lose control first.

Birdie had no idea who won that race. His skin raised in goosebumps and he cried out as his thighs tensed and his whole body shook. He poured his climax out into Malcolm, his cock clenched tight inside his husband as that tight passage quivered, drawing waves of pleasure out of them both. When Malcolm slumped over, Birdie caught him and guided him down to the pillows. They lay tangled together, breathless and satisfied.

Birdie kissed Malcolm again and murmured “Get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

“Oh yeah?” Malcolm asked, hopeful.

“Tomorrow we’ll have to contend with the annual malevolent spirit infestation. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Malcolm stretched out, re-arranged Birdie like a pillow and made himself completely comfortable. “You find ‘em, I’ll fry ‘em. Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

Birdie lay awake watching over Malcolm’s sleep and listening for warnings of worse mayhem than normal out in his city. Only when he was satisfied that the night was as quiet as could be hoped for did he close his eyes. As he waited for sleep, he considered once more how lucky and grateful he was to love such a man as Malcolm. He whispered his thanks until dreams dragged him under.

–

H. B Kurtzwilde lives deep in the wet, sticky, mosquito-ridden depths of Florida. When not busily avoiding alligators, he scribbles out futuristic and paranormal romance, as if this is any way for a grown person to behave. His works include Chocolatiers of the High Winds and Sea Turtle Inn.