Halloween Short Story: "Eye Candy"

This 2500-word short story was first published in the ezine Three Crow Press in February 2009.  I've posted it here as a little Halloween treat.  Just a word of warning, though: this one is rated R for Nudity and Adult Content.

Eye Candy

By Joe Nazare

Harold had come here with lofty hopes, but this show outstripped even his wildest expectations.  He could barely believe his goggling eyes as he peered into the upstairs window from his tree-branch perch.

To think, less than an hour ago he'd been home suffering his crone of a mother's bitchcraft, listening to her slurred complaints about the jack-o'-lantern he'd carved.  She'd taken no shine to his puking pumpkin, with its squinched expression and its seed-laced guts stringing from its mouth and heaping on the doorstep.  Wasn't imitation the sincerest form of flattery? he was tempted to respond to her ranting, but choked back the wisecrack, having no interest in prolonging the encounter.  He had places--or rather, one surreptitious place--to be.

The stakeout had been planned for over two weeks, from the day he decided to follow the coeds home from the parking deck at Montclair State.  They'd been catching his eye since the start of the semester.  A trio of smoking-hot girls always clad in tight, scant clothing, they made the other girls tramping all over campus seem demure by comparison.

A sophomore with no declared major, Harold unfortunately did not share any classes with the threesome.  Intrigued by his glimpses of them, though, he'd asked around.  Apparently the beauties were sisters, recent transfer students from out-of-state.  The amazingly stacked blonde was named Maggie; her darker-haired and sleeker-figured siblings, Celine and Cate, were actually fraternal twins.  But that meager info was the extent of what Harold gleaned.  He was never formally introduced to the girls themselves, which was okay, since his tongue probably would've knotted like a strand of cherry Twizzler.  His usual bit would've been useless to him.  Whenever meeting someone for the first time, he loved to extend his hand and casually announce, "Hairy Asshole."  Then he strained to remain straight-faced while awaiting reaction.  In their embarrassment, most people simply tried to gloss over the remark.  For those who begged his pardon, he seemingly repeated "Harry Antzle," leaving them to wonder about their own perverted imaginations and the amount of raw sewage that needed to be swabbed out of their ears.

Even Harold knew that you didn't pull an act like that on babes like these.  He also knew that he stood little chance of charming such girls no matter what he said, and thus didn't see any benefit of dealing on a face-to-face basis.  Indirection always served him better; his best approach, he found, was from afar.  That's why he tailed the trio home from Red Hawk Deck that afternoon he spotted them lined up the ticket kiosk waiting to pay their parking fee.  He followed their black Volkswagen Beetle at a discreet distance, and to his pleasant surprise, discovered that they lived at the opposite end of his own hometown.  Once the girls had strutted indoors, Harold pulled up for a closer look at the house: a boxy, two-story job with weathered gray siding, centered on a wide piece of unfenced property.  "WEIR," the white stencils spray-painted onto the curbside mailbox divulged the sisters' surname.

Harold stopped his Geo Tracker in front of the house only for a moment that afternoon, but with the sisters crowding his thoughts, he returned on foot later that same night for some more detailed reconnaissance.  When he laid eyes on the large tree sprouting from the back yard and stretching thick branches towards the second-floor windows, he immediately began to plot his late-October voyeurism.  Something told him that Halloween was tailor-made for these girls, that their costumes would prove a delightful eyeful.

His intuition hadn't steered him wrong.

He sat there now, his legs dangling a good twenty-five feet above the ground.  Dressed in all black, from the Raiders wool cap atop his head down to the steel-toed Lugz anchoring his feet.  Autumn-burnt leaves that had yet to take their suicide dives provided additional camouflage.  From this terrific vantage point, Harold peered through the lit window that framed a full-length mirror on the bedroom's far wall.  The one called Celine presently stood facing the mirror, examining her Boxer Babe costume.  She wore a hooded silk robe, black with pink trim, around a black sports bra and matching Spandex short-shorts.  The lettering scripted across the back of her robe redundantly proclaimed "Knockout."

Harold fancied going toe-to-toe with the brunette pugilist, with them both sprawled out horizontal.  The sweaty bout he envisioned was soon trumped by the sight of Celine's twin crossing into view.  Stripped down to her lacy bra and thong, Cate held high a sheet of printer paper upon which she'd magic-markered a perfect "10."  She giggled throughout her mock ring-girl act, and as she strutted past her sister, Celine turned around and playfully swatted her on her taut, tanned behind.

"Girls, you are killing me," Harold murmured happily, feeling his jeans tightening at the crotch.  Glancing down at the distended denim, he recalled the old joke--about the Boy Scout leader who could never camp out with the troop without immediately pitching a tent.

Returning to his bedroom-side vigil, Harold watched Cate don her own costume: a bright red leather minidress with neon-yellow reflector straps stretched across the bottom, around the wrists, and beneath the breasts.  Next, a pair of red stilettos, and a plastic fireman's helmet.  Altogether, a stunning ensemble.  Harold fully understood the algebra of the adult-female Halloween dress code--take any Costume X, tart it up by shrinking it down, and your result was Sexy Costume XXX--but in this case it seemed to be the Weir girls who made the clothes, who rendered the outfits exponentially more titillating by choosing to wear them.

Cate's firefighter get-up had an adverse, inflaming effect on Harold.  Sensing himself roasting, he scrunched his flannel sleeves up past his elbows, and tugged at the collar of his undershirt.  Though fragrant with a faint sweetness, the night air felt thick and stagnant around him.

The subsequent costume unwittingly modeled for him only made him hotter.  Harold sucked air through his teeth when Maggie entered the scene from stage left.   She was a horn-dog's dream, naturally voluptuous but without an ounce of fat visible anywhere.  Her French Maid costume looked more likely to have come from a Frederick's of Hollywood catalogue than a Spirit Halloween store.  White fishnet stockings stretched high up gartered thighs barely covered by the black satin skirt.  The lace-up corset meantime put her extensive cleavage on full display.  Harold had always thought there could never be a more scrumptious looking piece of French cheesecake than Jennifer Love Hewitt in Heartbreakers, but Maggie's turn as a busty maid topped even that. 

Celine and Cate eyed their sister in seeming envy as Maggie stood before the mirror, fussing with her frilly apron.  A separate jealousness twinged in Harold as he wondered where the sister would soon be heading out to.  He wouldn't be surprised if they were going to Dave Beiderbitt's annual bash, where everyone who was anyone in this town congregated on Halloween.  Well, everyone except Harold.  He'd earned himself a lifetime ban last year for bringing over a plate of oatmeal cookies whose raisins proved to be baked flies.  His little gag had caused the partygoers to do just that, once the secret ingredient was discovered.  Doubled over, they'd serenaded him with their retching before chasing him off with their disgusted cries.

A full year had passed and he still couldn't help but smirk at the thought of the successful prank.  This really wasn't the time for reminiscence, though; he needed to keep his focus on the peep show ahead.  Because judging from gestures and facial expressions, Celine and Cate felt outdone by their sister, felt like their own costumes didn't stack up.  In tandem, the twins started to undress as they headed back to the ol' wardrobe.   

Harold had no problem whatsoever with the girls' decision to change.  Hell, if they wanted to stay home all night playing dress up, he was game.

Celine stepped back into view minutes later, fashioned this time as a belly dancer.  The gaudy, gold-fringed halter top left her midriff wonderfully exposed.  The ruffled green skirt hung low on her hips and was slit high on her right thigh.  The piece was diaphanous--one of Harold's all-time favorite words--revealing the skimpy bikini bottom underneath.  Celine stood examining herself in the mirror, then delved into character by undulating her muscle-ribbed midsection.  Harold's own stomach gurgled in instant response, as if reminding him just how sex-starved he was.

Scowling, Maggie stalked away even before Cate arrived to elbow Celine aside.  Cate now wore knee-high white boots and a slinky, spaghetti-strapped black dress.  At first Harold couldn't place the costume, but then Cate darted off for a second and returned with the telltale prop balanced on her palm.  Atop the rounded tray sat a thick dildo complete with scrotum, looking like some mutant, flesh-toned snail.  That's when Harold got it: she was a "cock"-tail waitress!  He marvelled at the crude ingenuity of the costume.  Here was a girl after his own heart.

His eyes widened even further when the implication of Cate having a dildo handy sunk in.  Gulping, he moved to brush the sweat from his brow, and the muscles of his upper torso twinged in stern disapproval.  Seemed that his johnson wasn't the only thing that had stiffened while he sat hunched like a gargoyle ogling the girls.

Once again Harold scented sweetness, stronger this time.  For some reason he associated the smell with stickiness, and so figured it must be sap he detected.  "Tree-ejaculate," he muttered, snickering.  Maybe anything phallic couldn't help but drip in the presence of the girls' risqué masquerade.

Harold, too, oozed excitement as he sat waiting for Maggie to retake center stage.  He could recall only one other time in his life when he'd experienced such illicit thrill.  Brimming with inspiration from an old Billy Joel song, he'd snuck into his sister's bedroom one Saturday night while she was out on a date, and promptly masturbated onto her eggshell-colored pillowcase.  Squeezed out encrypted little love notes that dried safely before Greta came back home.

Maggie returned finally, sporting her latest outfit.  Harold recognized it at once: Wet T-Shirt Contest Winner.  He'd seen--okay, leered at--the costume the last time he was in Party City.  It consisted of a white shirt painted to look as if a pair of maroon nipples peeked through drenched cotton, a "FIRST PLACE" sash, and a rubber bosom that could be inflated to exaggeration.  In Maggie's case, though, the blow-up obviously wasn't needed.   

Grinning lasciviously, Cate and Celine bracketed Maggie and eyed her suggestive costume in the mirror.  Then, incredibly, the twins proceeded to tug the shirt right up over Maggie's head, exposing an authentic pair of DVD-sized nipples.  Even before the onset of nudity, Harold reached into his pants, fondling the hardness pocketed there.  He extracted and flipped open the cell phone, expertly activating its video-recording function.  As the phone worked to gather evidence of incestuous lesbianism, Harold remembered the blackmail scheme that redneck guy had worked against Jennifer Connelly's character in The Hot Spot.  Plum visions of his own coital extortions suddenly danced in Harold's head; they were bettered by the sight of the twins twisting and bending to fasten amorous lips to each of Maggie's breasts.  Asthmatic with excitement, Harold leaned closer and panted, "God bless this holiday."

No sooner were the words uttered than Harold heard the crack, sharp as the snap of a giant wishbone.  The violence of the nearby noise seemed to knock him off balance, and the next thing he knew he was in freefall.  His whole body clenched as he plummeted, like Lucifer expelled from heaven, the twenty-five feet down to earth.

#

Alerted by the crash, the sisters rushed downstairs and out into the backyard.  They stopped short upon spotting the figure indenting the lawn.

Lying there supine, he looked like a wooden chair that had been tipped over backwards.  His rigid forearms stretched straight skyward, curving only at the clawed hands.  Bent at the knees, his raised legs effortlessly modeled a 90-degree angle.

The girls tiptoed over to where he had landed.  Lagging behind a few steps, Celine called to Cate in front: "Is he...?"

Cate hunched over in inspection, then gingerly prodded him with the toe of her go-go boot.  She looked over to Celine and Maggie, nodding.  A beat later, the utter astonishment on her face morphed into an ecstatic grin.

"It worked!" the sisters exlaimed in unison.  They joined hands and danced giddy circles around their conquest.

"This is incredible," a breathless Cate avowed once they stopped gyrating.

"Can't believe we ever doubted you, Maggie," Celine added.

"I told you two not to worry."  Maggie, who'd bolted outside topless, cupped and jiggled her massive teats.  "Simple variation on the world's oldest spell."

Cate stood rubbing her palms together.  "And so much easier than all that eye-of-newt hurly-burly."

Celine meantime stared at the fallen figure, whose clothes and exposed skin bore a sugary gloss.  "I just hope he isn't tainted."  But then, after an oh-what-the-hell shrug, she reached down and snapped an index finger off clean.  She lifted the curled, petrified digit to her mouth and lapped at it as if it were a candy cane.  "Mmmm," she purred as the confection melted onto her tongue.

Encouraged by her sister's taste test, Cate procured her own sample.  Practically slavering, she peeled off a pair of red licorice lips, exposing the clenched set of Chiclet teeth underneath.  Cate moaned as she chewed the male morsels.

Next Maggie, using her long, lacquered nails, extracted the gumball eyes from their sockets.  As her chomping jaws worked vigorously at flattening the orbs, she bent over once more and hefted one of the gnarled branches that had splintered off minutes earlier when the voyeur plummetted.

Cate and Celine both squealed eagerly when they realized what their elder sibling intended to do.  Grunting, Maggie swung the branch into the midesction of the grounded piñata.  His hardshell exterior cracked apart like so much peanut brittle, and the eyes of the three Weir sisters widened in delight at the assorted treats in store.  Patience being yet another virtue lacked, the covetous coven did not wait to drag its Halloween booty indoors.  The sisters pounced right then and there beneath the moonlit ash tree.

And that's how Harold Antzle, who remained sentient through most of the subseqent feasting, found out for the first and last time just what it was like to be in good taste.