Trick or Treat, Smell My Feet!

Figuring it was finally safe to get comfortable and settle down to his annual television horror-fest, Randy started putting away the leftover candy - what little was left - and clearing away the more expensive Halloween props he'd once again set up outside his modest apartment at the Noxx Village complex. It always seemed like so much work for such a short period of time, but as exhausting as it was it was equally as much fun.

The trick-or-treaters had mostly stopped piling up to his door by 9PM, the usual curfew time. There were always stragglers, however, so he'd kept the candy bowl by the door until 9:30. Anyone who showed up after that, tough noogies. They weren't supposed to be trick-or-treating that late anyway. They could go to the local 7-11 for their sugar fix.

Randy noticed just how chill the night had become when he had to stand in that frigid air for almost a half hour removing grinning skulls, clumsy witches and bobbing ghosts with glowing red eyes from the tiny porch that led to his humble domicile. The skeleton clinging bonily to the left pillar, posed so that he could cackle down on the little candy-grubbers from above was the most time-consuming to remove and pack, but it was Randy's favorite prop...except for the life-size Cryptkeeper prop which he didn't have room to display on the porch. But he made sure the little costumed candy-addicts saw it. Every year he sat that gnarly corpse in his hallway, and the little tikes had to get close to it in order to get their candy...because the candy bowl sat in his moldy lap. How Randy couldn't wait to have a home of his own, so he could break out ALL his props and decorate for his favorite holiday PROPERLY. At the age of twenty-six, he'd managed to scrimp and save every spare penny - every penny which wasn't spent on Halloween decorations - and hoped to be able to afford his own house in a year or two. He was stoked for it.

Removing and repacking ghoulish props took about twenty minutes or so, which had Randy rubbing his hands together briskly and blowing on them to warm them up. He also danced around a bit on the cold concrete porch, as he'd been foolish enough to tackle the dismantling job while wearing only socks on his feet. As a result of the colder than usual mid-autumn night, he'd finished the job in record time. This was a wonderful thing. Now he could spend that much more time enjoying some nice hot popcorn while he watched his favorite horror flicks long into the night.

He placed all the props in the dining room, where he'd let them sit until the following day. Then he'd more efficiently "inter" them in the spare room, all securely boxed and organized so they could be easily located and displayed next year. As an afterthought, he remembered the "Sorry, no more candy" sign he'd posted on the door in hopes of discouraging the stragglers, the older trick-or-treaters who, every year, came begging for treats even though they didn't even bother PRETENDING to be wearing a costume. Braving the cold one last time, he quickly opened the door, tore down the taped sign, and once again retreated into the warmth.

Movie time! Yes! Tonight it was to be the classic, Vincent Price "House on Haunted Hill," followed by the very appropriate "Halloween" and then the deliciously twisted "Re-Animator." If he was still awake by then, he'd round it all out with either "Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things" or "The Sentinel." He wasn't sure which. The irreverently comic "Bad Taste" was also a possibility, but it would depend entirely on his mood.

Now warm and toasty again in his comfy apartment, Randy happily trod into the kitchen and tossed the popcorn bag into the microwave. He set the timer at five minutes and waited briefly for the first popping to begin. Then he got out of his clothes, leaving a trail of discarded items from the kitchen to the bedroom. In the bedroom, he listened intently for the continued popping noises in the kitchen. Totally naked, he fumbled through the center dresser drawer looking for his favorite lounging pajamas, the maroon silk pair that felt so good against his naked skin. He slid himself into the bottoms, almost sighing at the decadent comfort of the material. He caught himself quickly, realizing that such feminine thoughts of a simple pair of pajamas could get him drummed out of the "testosterone club." It was hard enough to get women as it was...without beginning to think like one!

When he heard the sound of the popcorn popping slowing down in the kitchen, he grabbed the pajama top and the matching silk bathrobe and rushed in the direction of the ebbing pops. Along the way he dropped the two items onto the sofa as he whizzed by it, planning to don them later, after he'd tended to his own Halloween treat.

Naked except for his loose-fitting pajama bottoms, Randy stopped the microwave with forty-seven seconds left. He'd gotten there just in time. The popping had completely stopped, and if he hadn't caught it when he did, his movie time snack could've possibly ended up as just so many smoking, miniature charcoal briquettes. And that would've ruined his Halloween horror movie experience, since that bag of popcorn was the last of his stash.

Pouring the steaming, fluffed kernels into a bowl, he wheeled and made a beeline for the living room. In the space of three minutes, he'd found the movies he planned on watching, put them beside the DVD player, popped "House on Haunted Hill" into the deck and hopped onto the sofa, popcorn in hand, ready for the mayhem to begin. This was always his second favorite part of his Halloween tradition, second only to the look of fear on the little trick-or-treaters' faces when they saw his props and ran screaming for mommy and daddy. A little cruel, maybe, but always such a hoot to watch. But all that was forgotten now. Dear, delightful Vincent - may he rest in peace - was about to introduce his victims...er....party guests.

Ahh, that delicious scream. And then there was "the man," with his crooked, wicked smile, introducing the hearse-driven guests, some of whom might not make it through the night in the "only truly haunted house in the world." Oh, this was going to be fun.

Just at the part where Richard Long saves the movie's scream queen from a falling chandelier, movie night was rudely interrupted. A knock came at Randy's front door. What the...? he thought, Who the hell...?

"Dammit," he muttered to himself. Toward the door he shouted, "Go away! Halloween's over! I'm all out of candy anyway," he lied.

The knock repeated, a little louder. Insistent little treat-grubbing peckers.

"Go home!" Randy shouted, also a little louder, "You're way past the curfew. Give people a break...go egg someone!"

The knock came again, much louder, and much more persistent. "Goddammit!" Randy snarled, putting the DVD player into pause mode. "This is ridiculous!" he snarled on the way to the door. Realizing at the last instant that he was naked except for the pajama bottoms - and it was frigid outside - he reached for the pajama top as he passed by the sofa. But, at the last second, he didn't want to waste time putting on his top, so he just grabbed the bathrobe instead, slipped it over his arms quickly and had the waist tie loosely tied by the time he reached the door.

As he tore open the door he growled, "You're breaking the law, you kno...." and the words got cut off by his gasp of surprise. He froze in place there in the doorway like some great, human popsicle, but with a widely gaping mouth and round, saucer eyes.

There on his tiny porch, their every breath visible in the chill air, were two lovely, costumed lasses. They appeared to be just a few years younger than himself, early twenties. But, my oh my how they were dressed. Neither of them, however, held out a bag for him to fill.

"Trick or treat, smell our feet, we'll give you something good to eat!" they sang in unison, giggling at his obvious surprise.

Randy barely heard them. He was looking them up and down. If they'd been dressed any sexier, they would probably have been arrested immediately on the street! He looked from one to the other, sweating despite the cold, and swallowing continually to avoid drooling.

"Hi, cutie," the one on the left said, "I'm Carly, but you can call me the Booty Bitch. Happy Halloween, sweet meat." She offered her hand and he took it, shaking it in a semi-mesmerized state. His eyes moved over her body so fast they almost strained a muscle.

Carly appeared of Hispanic descent. Her dark, mischievous eyes peered out from beneath shiny black, curly hair that flowed down to land on and caress her shoulders. Dark, thick eyelashes accented her impish eyes, and dark brown lipstick brought a wet sheen to her smiling lips. Her dark, sparkling eyes drew Randy in, her shiny lips promising to keep him exactly where her eyes had easily drawn him.

She appeared to be about 5'7" tall or so, and very slightly plump, but she had tempting curves. Even from the front, looking at Carly's hips, Randy could tell she must have one finely sculpted derriere. It must surely be round and firm, a delight to fondle and squeeze. Her hips and thighs - and that intriguing bottom - were accentuated by the tight black stretch pants she wore. They hugged her butt, hips and legs tightly all the way southward to about halfway down her calves. It was a good thing they were stretch pants, because if they hadn't been, and she'd even made the ATTEMPT to bend over, they'd have split in a hundred places. If those pants had been PAINTED on, he wouldn't have been able to see the pouting bulge of her mound more clearly. It was an enormous act of pure willpower to disengage his dilated pupils from that cleft, mesmerizing bulge.

Below the end of those skintight pants her calves were bare for several inches. Just above her nicely turned ankles the naked flesh ended, replaced by the shiny black leather of a pair of 5" stiletto-heeled boots that zippered down the outer sides. Fuzzily, in some distant part of his brain, Randy calculated that Carly's height, barefoot, must be closer to 5'2" or 5'3". A short, fireplug of a woman...but a sexy one indeed. While Randy's brain did the math, the shiny toes just ahead of those pointy heels tapped impatiently on the cement.

Not noticing the tapping, Randy's dilated pupils sought out more. Tucked into the flesh-squeezing pants at the waist, Carly wore an equally tight, midnight black T-shirt. The plunging neckline, combined with her abundantly endowed chest, made it difficult for Randy to focus on anything but cleavage, but he forced his eyes to avoid that trap lest he receive a stinging Halloween night slap. But although his eyes managed to pry themselves from that deep chasm, they couldn't help but notice the two smiling jack-o'-lanterns not far from it...one over each nipple. The severely stretched material of the blouse made the locations of Carly's nipples an unkept secret. The chill of the evening helped make their presence even more noticeable. The cold, hardened nipples gave the grinning jack-o'-lanterns almost a 3-D look. As a last little tweak, Carly's T-shirt - below the material-stretching mams - sported, in bright yellow letters, the rather bold exclamation, "Eat Me!" On closer inspection, below that brazen comment and in much smaller - though no less radiant - lettering, was the additional belligerent suggestion, "and while you're down there, KISS MY ASS!" Randy couldn't help but grin. Realizing he was smiling at Carly's chest, however, he thought for sure he was going to receive that slap after all, and be instantly propelled by it into the middle of the next week. Carly looked as tough as she was beautiful. But, thankfully, the slap was not forthcoming.

"Hey, there, sexy man, I'm Amber," came the voice of the beauty on the right, "but you can call me...Black Widow." Another hand was proffered, and dreamily shaken. And once again wandering eyes took in all they could without his risking bodily harm in the form of a stinging palm.

Amber appeared an inch or two taller than Carly, even in shorter, three inch heels. For some odd reason noting her height before anything else, Randy looked at those shoes first and worked his way up from there. Amber's feet, he thought, must've been cold. Unlike Carly, who wore warmer boots, Amber wore a slinky pair of medium-heeled black slides. The two leather cross straps on each shoe just behind the bases of her toes were decorated at their intersection with a small, but very recognizable spider. At the center of each eight-legged body was a tiny, sparkling gem that looked like a drop of blood.

Helping to keep Amber's feet a bit warmer were a pair of finely meshed fishnet stockings, but instead of the usual crisscross pattern, the lines of nylon depicted multiple spider-web formations up and down her legs, from the easily seen elastic thigh bands all the way to the tips of her shiny red toes. A tiny spider was tattooed on her left outside ankle, and outside her hose on her left leg a gold ankle bracelet lay gracefully around her ankles. More arachnids adorned those visible thigh bands, one lucky arachnid per stocking. The reason the tops of those stockings were so easily viewed was because Amber's black leather skirt was barely long enough to cover her pubes, let alone her intriguing hose. The slit up the left side of her skirt was redundant, since so much flesh was already showing. But what it DID reveal, was that she either wore no panties beneath that skirt, or they must surely be of the skimpy thong variety. Either way had Randy heated up.

Amber's bosom wasn't quite as ample as Carly's, but there was certainly enough there to bring much joy to the properly motivated lips and fingers. The most startling fact about Amber's chest, however, was how they were covered, or should I say, BARELY covered? Her blouse - if it can be called that - was a sheer black see-through nylon halter. Every curve of her breasts was openly visible, minimally shadowed by the almost transparent nylon. The only thing that kept her cold, pert nipples from giving Randy that "come hither" look, was that fact that each nipple had yet another eight-legged champion hiding it from view. Again, each arachnoid abdomen contained a tiny gemstone droplet of blood. Somehow, seeing those flaunted breasts so clearly, but not being able to see the nipples, was excruciatingly cruel to Randy. So his eyes continued upward.

Amber's lovely neck was encircled by a black leather choker, again adorned with a black, blood-drop sporting spider. Her face, surely paler than the Hispanic Carly's, was painted up darkly gothic. Aside from the stark white of her face, everything else seemed dark and mysterious...perhaps wicked?...evil? Her pale green, penetrating eyes were enhanced by the surrounding black and dark green eye shadows. She appeared as though she could completely devour you with just those captivating, hungry eyes.

One white cheek had a spider tattooed on it, again with the requisite blood drop ever present. Shiny black lips smiled at Randy; a wet tongue slithered out from between them to enhance their gloss. Black and silver spider earrings dangled from her ears. Just above her exposed navel, another spider tattoo - clinging to ink webbings that extended down under her skirt - decorated her pale flesh; and just above it, in black, the words "Black Widow."

When Amber spoke again, Randy looked into her mesmerizing green eyes. It was only then that he noticed the obviously dyed hair. It was short, barely long enough to cover the tops of her ears. Short and red, blood red...with black highlights at the tips all the way around - imitating the many adorning spiders with their red, dripping hearts.

"Well, sport," Amber said, hands on hips, "gonna let us in? It's colder'n a warlock's cock out here."

"What?" Randy replied incredulously. "I'm...uh....I'm out of candy. It's late. You can't trick-or-treat this late."

Carly and Amber looked at each other and began laughing. Randy was confused, but loved watching them laugh. Tight clothing plus emphatic giggles produced a wonderful "jiggle effect," which Randy was most assuredly a fan of.

Getting themselves under control, the two women again sang in unison, "Trick or treat, smell our feet; we'll give you something good to eat!"

Randy blinked at them. Were they mad? They didn't LOOK dangerous. Wacky, maybe, but not dangerous. Maybe he should just chuckle at them and then just return to his movie marathon.

"Honey," Carly said, moving up close to him, "we're just here to make you happy. We know all about you. We're here to make your dreams come true."

"What?" Randy said again, "You guys are crazy. I don't want to get you into trouble, but you really need to leave now, okay?"

"He doesn't remember," Amber said to Carly.

"Nope. Maybe we should've made our move on him years ago," Carly replied. "Oh, wait, that's right, we couldn't then, could we?" The two women exchanged knowing glances.

"Show him," Amber said, nodding her head toward Carly's small, black purse.

Carly unsnapped the clasp on her purse and reached into it. She pulled out a tiny, folded piece of paper. It was newsprint. She unfolded it and looked at it, smiling. She was obviously reading something, and seemed to be reminiscing as she did. She held the paper out to Randy.

"Is that you?" she asked him. "Are you that guy...that 'Lonely Foot boy'?"

Randy read the personal ad with growing recognition, clearing memory. He remembered back several years ago, when his loneliness and his growing foot fetish and submissiveness led him to do something out of desperation...something unwise, downright foolish. But, luckily, it hadn't come back to haunt him...until now.

"Where did you....how.....this was...." he stammered, "this was.....years ago."

"Doesn't matter, hon," Amber said, walking up close to Randy, too, now, stroking his cheek with cold fingers. "We're a little late, but we're here to answer your prayers." She nudged her way past Randy and walked brazenly into his apartment. Randy, still shocked at seeing the ad again after all those years, staring at it as if believing it might be a hallucination, made no move to stop her.

Carly suddenly whisked the ad from Randy's fingers and folded it again, dropping it back into the depths of her purse. She, too, stroked his cheek. But she gave him a soft kiss on that cheek as well. "What's your name, foot boy?" she asked in a whisper.

"Um...Ran...Randy," he bumbled, dazed, still seeing that old ad before his eyes.

"Well, Randy, your dream has come true. Amber and I are going to see to that. Come inside like a good boy and we'll give you everything you need." She took him by the arm and turned him around, ushering him into his own apartment. He was dazed, partly from shock, partly from the realization of what Carly and Amber seemed to have in store for him.

He stood just inside his doorway and looked over at Amber, who'd already made herself comfortable on his love seat and was turning off his DVD player with the remote. "We won't be needing that," she proclaimed.

Carly closed the door behind Randy. He wasn't expecting the sound and he jumped.

"Now, now, Randy," she whispered into his ear, "you've nothing to be jumpy about. Amber and I are exactly what you're looking for. We came across your ad a few days ago and decided to pay you a visit. First, we're going to talk to you about that very intriguing ad of yours, and then we're going to make you happier than you've ever been in your life. Surely, that's nothing to be afraid of...is it?"

"Oh, stop coddling him," Amber said from the love seat. "Let's get things cooking here. Randy, do be a good little boy and get us something to drink, preferably something alcoholic if you've got it. Then come over here and tell us all about that ad. Once we know all the juicy details behind it...well...we'll see if you've got the guts to walk the walk, or if you just talk the talk."