tagRomanceA Halloween Anniversary

A Halloween Anniversary


Dearest Sarah:

Ten years ago, you asked if I would ever write an erotic account inspired by what became our 'first date.'

Halloween is again upon us, the tenth one since then. I never fail to see an animal costume now without being reminded of my first introduction to your remarkable kitty tail. Or was it a kitty tale?

It took me ten years to write the account, but here it is.

As promised, I did change names and a few details, but this one requires your perusal and approval before anyone else will see it.

I'll always consider Halloween our 'true' anniversary.

— Your Loving Husband


He turned East onto the Skyway and headed out of the valley, up into the Sierra Nevada foothills, away from parties and crowds and college girls in sexy costumes, toward solitude and quiet.

Rob used to love Halloween, the city blocks filled with milling, costumed revelers downtown, the freedom to cut loose felt behind the anonymity of a mask, the creative iconoclasm and pop humor partiers often worked into their costumes. It was part of the culture of the small city so dominated by the University of California branch located there.

Seven years since he had last joined the festivities, and he felt old, left behind. He wondered if the return to Chico had been a good idea, in spite of the opportunity.

He would turn 30 this year, and suddenly the celebrants were young and immature, prolonging adolescence while vaguely pursuing a college degree. The revelry itself no longer felt worth the over-crowded bars, the time spent cobbling together a creative costume, the next day's hangover.

When had he become a grump old man? Yesterday he had been the youngest participant in his new employer's executive planning meeting. John Martin, who had been his parents' neighbor during his youth, and Rob's older brother Brian had founded the start-up on the back of one simple, fairly popular app, designed to help college students coordinate their schedules.

Recently, expansion had forced them to hire some coders who had not been as good as their resumes and interviews promised. Rob had been hired away from his IT job in Boston to whip the coders and the code both back into shape. He had completed his course work for his Master's degree while working there, but still needed to submit his thesis for the advanced degree to be official.

The high school friends Rob had found, the ones who had never left Chico, left him feeling equally out of place. Half had married, had kids, measured their lives through report cards and soccer leagues and honor student bumper stickers. Most of the rest had never stopped the partying of their youth, striking him now as stuck between sad and pathetic.

This, his first Halloween back, he decided to leave town, to get away from the noise, the traffic and the crowds. He took Mr. Martin - John, twice now he had told Rob to call him John - up on his offer: to use the rustic cabin get-away the Martins kept in the foothills, high enough to be dusted with snow several times a year, low enough to rarely get snowed in.

Rob could use the time to double-check all the footnotes and citations on his thesis. For a break, he had brought his latest pet project too: a Creative Writing minor, Rob had seen an opportunity to build a second flow of money, separate from the pitfalls of the competitive App field, by writing and selling erotic ebooks. So far the money was minimal but growing as he learned the business end and built a base of fans.

He turned off the Skyway after passing through the town of Paradise, following a winding gravel road to the cabin. He was surprised to see a car in the driveway. His first thought was the cleaning service, but they wouldn't drive a tiny Miata roadster. The front door was closed but unlocked.

Inside the front hall, lined with knotty pine, his eyes caught a framed family picture: John Martin, his now-ex-wife Julie, and their daughter Sara. Rob had taught Sara to swim when she was little, in the Martin's backyard pool.

Three years ago he had seen her again, at his brother Brian's wedding, held in the Martin's lush and expansive yard. Sara had grown into a beautiful young woman, a taller and curvier version of the petite Mrs. Martin who had fueled so many ribald but naive conversations among his teenage friends.

The slender Julie's tendency to not wear bras in the yard and around home more than once had left a much younger Rob stammering, before finding an excuse to flee to his room. Even three years ago, just starting college, Sara had a fuller figure than her mother. Rob imagined she would have more trouble going without some support.

He heard no sounds of cleaning but found signs of the Miata's driver in the kitchen. A bottle of vodka was open on the counter, next to a carton of orange juice. A ring full of keys, including one for a Mazda, and a small Tupperware container completed the assemblage.

Rob heard a trace of music from elsewhere as he lifted the loosened Tupperware lid. He smiled, shaking his head: the plastic container held a small rolled plastic sandwich bag, a weathered metal tin that had once held Altoids and a pack of cigarette rolling papers. The baggie held the irregular green-brown lumps of dried marijuana buds.

Rob took a deep sniff, enjoying the pungent herbal odor so familiar to those raised in Northern California, before following the faint sounds of music. Those led him out the open sliding glass door and onto the raised deck.

John had mentioned the new deck, and the extra costs incurred to replace the old rotting wood one with a sturdy long-lasting composite. Rob noticed that there were no squeaks at all from the structure as it took his weight.

The thin sounds of music were louder, seeming to come from below. Rob looked down over the balcony, into the bare, grassless fenced yard below.

He pulled his head back immediately, stunned. Heart beating rapidly, he took a breath before risking a second quick glimpse.

A single chaise lounge was below him. The music came from a single small speaker on the small table beside the lounge. The table also held a glass with the orangish ice left over from a screwdriver, a disposable lighter and what Rob thought must be the small roach left after smoking a joint of the weed he had sniffed in the kitchen.

What had stunned him was what, or who, was on the lounge. It had to be Sara. The red-blond hair, and lush young body in a bikini, bathing in a patch of mountain sun, brought back memories of the Martins' daughter three years ago, in a form-fitting dress at Brian's wedding. It recalled the warm extended hug she had given Rob - 'My favorite swim coach!' - accompanied by a bright, genuinely delighted smile.

Fortunately, now, her eyes were squeezed shut. The tension on her lovely face, the rigid arch to her torso, were explained by the two hands shoved down inside her bikini bottoms.

Bare, extended arms squeezed together and displayed a pair of full, rounded breasts. Rob thought he saw a slight shudder to the soft flesh.

He pulled back from the balcony and snuck inside, short of breath and suddenly aware of the stiffened response in his cargo shorts. His mind raced with images, thoughts, urges.

He needed something to focus on. An anchor. Something. Anything. His mind kept returning to the slight, perhaps imagined, jiggles of those breasts, barely held by the twin triangles of a bikini, pushed high and together by two straining arms.

He grinned, his breath and heart slowing. He had been right: unlike her mother, Sara would definitely be beyond appropriate community standards going outside without a bra like her mother used to. He was right again: it was silly, and petty, but it gave him the anchor he needed.

Control regained, he wondered at the strength of reaction. He had been single for too long. IT as a profession and education had not brought him in contact with too many lovely ladies recently. Being reserved in nature, Rob hadn't found the big city of Boston fertile ground. Back in Chico, with many of his peers married now, Rob worried about never finding the 'right' one.

Julie Martin, short, blond, fit and slim, with a bright radiant smile, had been central to his youthful formative fantasies. Sara Martin, taller, with fuller chest and hips, fairer skin and a reddish hint to her hair, fit the type of woman who tended to catch and hold his eye and attention. Fit it to a T. Especially when he recalled her delighted, intoxicating smile at Brian's wedding. The forbidden nature of her being his new boss's only daughter had probably added to his almost panicked reaction now, combining with the guilty feeling that he was spying on her in a very compromised position.

He took a deep breath, nearly convinced his rationalization made sense. At least he had his body's reaction under control and his thoughts slowed to a manageable pace. He could consider the work that needed done again, the editing that he had retreated here to complete.

He heard a door downstairs, soft steps, before a bikini-clad beauty stepped into the room. Her skin glowed close to red from the sun, contrasting with the blue of the skimpy suit.

"Hi Sara. Aren't you supposed to be in school?"

Her shocked reaction was real. The glass in her hand slipped, shattered, sending shards of clear glass in a wide dispersed pattern surrounding her bare feet.

"Fuck. Robby?!" Her voice rose in surprise as she recognized him. "You scared the bejesus outa me!"

"Don't move, Sara." Her eyes widened at his command, brows coming together. "You'll cut your feet."

Her face relaxed as his meaning became clear. Eyes scanned the pattern of shards around her.

"Stand right where you are for a minute." He paused, looking at her. A flash of pale almost white skin showed where one breast had begun an escape from the top. It made the sun-kissed skin around it look all the redder. "I'll get a broom and get you out of that mine field."

Turning, he stepped to the utility closet, where cleaning supplies were kept. With a broom, he cleared a path through the shards, then followed the trail to her. "Put your arms around my neck."


He repeated his request, then explained it slowly, enunciating like he was speaking to a child. "Your feet are bare and the glass will cut them. I am going to pick you up and carry you out of the danger zone."

She gave him a doubting look, then sighed. "Okay."

He bent forward and down, one arm scooping behind her knees. She cooperated, clinging close. Her body, bare skin bombarded by the mountain sun, radiated heat.

He carried her clear of the glass, following his swept path, holding her in both arms.

After her weight was returned to her own feet, the hand she had wrapped behind his neck lingered on his shoulder. Her face was briefly puzzled. "Thank you."

She looked down, away from his eyes. Only when they left him did he realize what a striking pale blue there were. He couldn't - or didn't - stop his freed gaze from focusing lower then, to the escaped pale skin that made its sun-red neighborhood look even angrier.

A trickle of sweat, a single bright bead, shivered in the valley between her rounded mounts. He saw them again in his mind, squeezed together between her arms as fingers plunged under a thin bikini bottom. A trace of scent reached him, almost sweet, almost familiar. Musky and tantalizing.

Realization hit: the fingers lingering by his collar had been inside her moments ago. It took a concerted effort to return his attention to her, away from that scent and how she might react and taste if he seized those fingers in his own and sucked her intimate juices from them.

"For what?"

"For not getting all handsy." Her eyes came back up, nervous, bright. She shrugged, and her hand dropped from his shoulder. "Guys think they can just grope a girl. The less she has on, the less they ask."

She stepped back and they both looked down at her. "And you caught me not wearing much. I wasn't expecting company."

"Neither was I. Your dad said the cabin would be vacant." He kicked off his shoes, bent to pick them up. "Speaking of not wearing much, you'll need to put on some shoes. See?"

He showed her his rubber soles, a sprinkle of tiny glass shards glittering across the surfaces, even though he had stayed on the swept path. Stepping past her, he set the shoes in the kitchen sink before handing her the broom. "After you have your shoes on, start with this. The vacuum is in the closet."

He shrugged at the first hint of a protesting pout. "You broke your father's glass."

Her mouth dropped open. They both knew her father would not overlook the absence from his kitchen; details did not escape John Martin.

When her shoulders dropped, he saw a single tiny shimmy of both breasts, enough for the drop of sweat between them to break free, coursing downward.

She took the broom with a frustrated sweep of one hand. "Fine."

"Shoes first."

"Yes sir. Um. Are you going to tell Dad I was here?"

"I was wondering why you're up here. It's a big University party night, isn't it? Are you a...what, Junior? Senior?"

"I graduate in December." Her chin came out, proud. "Four years? Not this girl."

"Then it's your last Halloween as student. Par-tee!"

"Uh...This guy I was kinda dating turned out...mmm...My roommate's a bitch. Let's leave it there for now."

"Fair enough." He considered. "We can talk about what your dad needs to know later. I need to get some work done. I came up here for the peace and quiet."

"What're ya workin' on? I heard you're going to whip Dad's coders into shape."

"Editing mainly right now." He paused. "Don't get me off track."

She grinned. He couldn't help a warm feeling at her smile, and returned his own. "You. Clean. And do whatever it is you were doing before I got here."

He thought he avoided stuttering when he saw again an image of what she had been doing, and why her fingers had smelled that way. "I need to get a couple good hours of editing in. At least. Then we can talk, okay?"

"Deal." She spun in place, graceful, before stepping to the closet, bending at the waist, legs and back both straight. The position displayed her backside in the thin bottoms and looked too practiced to be an accident. Flirting seemed second nature. She pulled the heavy old tank vacuum out.

He hauled a once-black, battered daypack upstairs to the loft. Laptop. Printer and adapters. A stack of legal yellow pads, half scribbled full of notes, in case his 'right brain' had an urge to derail his thesis-editing plans to pursue more creative work. Ten minutes later, chair adjusted, laptop at the right angle, he remembered the printout he had shoved in with his clothes at the last minute. Downstairs.



Sara stood with her back to him, hips swaying a slow rhythm with each broom stroke. Hips that looked refined, lifted, on longer, more toned legs.

The same bikini covered only the publicly unacceptable, leaving everything else slightly burnt and bare, except for her feet and legs. The shoes she had found were sneakers, if sneakers include the bastard offspring of basketball shoes and high, chunky wedge heels.

Thigh-high versions of old-school striped tube socks covered curvy calves and thighs that had been elongated by heels - three inches? Four? - hidden inside athletic-styled high tops. He watched her bend over, almost double, to sweep the piled glass onto a dustpan. The narrow strip of fabric between her legs puffed out, stretched tight over her mound. He caught himself after he took a reflexive step toward the sight. Eons of biological programming had declared mating season open.

Instead, he fled back upstairs, one hand adjusting the stiffening shape in his shorts again. The carefully aligned chair and laptop did not help. He ended up staring at the same paragraphs, over and over, but seeing legs, elongated by hidden heels and accentuated by thigh-high socks; a bead of sweat running down between two full breasts; her mouth stretched open, head back, as her body arched below him at the suggestion of flitting fingers.



Sara held a glass in each hand. Orange juice, ice, and - presumably - vodka. "Wanna drink?"

She had lost the leg-lengthening shoes, but kept the high striped socks. They disappeared under the tails of an oversized button-down shirt of a heathered, nobbly knit. It was his shirt. He had brought it in anticipation of the chill Fall night.

He took the offered glass and a swig. She looked concerned at his grimace.

"Too strong?"

"I can take it. Thank you." His raspy voice exaggerated the harshness he had tasted.


"Nice shirt."

"Oh yeah. Thanks. It was starting to get cold."

"Welcome." He parroted her reply, watching her cross her arms, rubbing them with the opposite hand in a pantomimed shiver. It snugged his shirt over her breasts. The thick, soft knit couldn't hide the subtle shadows, the angles of draping, that revealed she wore no bra underneath. The padded bikini, earlier, had hidden any hint of nipple. Now, the hints were small but clear, the curves of breasts around them were still full, but without the artificial roundness of her structured swimsuit top. The sight brought him back to his earlier musings.

Slim fingers seized the collar, snuggling it to her cheek. The action pulled the tail high enough to reveal the top of the striped socks and strips of bare reddened thighs. "It's so soft!"

She inhaled, dainty nose pressed to the fabric. "And it smells good."

A thrill, a physical thrumming, passed through him, at her inhaling his scent.

"Whatcha writing?"

"Umm. I write short stories in my spare time." He had abandoned the thesis nearly an hour earlier.

She found the padded leather chair across from him and reclined. "Fiction? What kind? SciFi? Fantasy? Mysteries?"

"Let's call it fantasy, if you need a genre."

"Like wizards and swords and magic and stuff?"

"Possibly. More..."

"Wait. Fantasy? Seriously? Robby is the porn writer my dad keeps mentioning? His 'I met this guy who makes money selling erotica on line'?"

He took a larger swig, made a smaller grimace. Brian had spilled his secret to John. "That's me, I guess. But I probably shouldn't be having this conversation with you."

"I'm 21. I went thru puberty with the internet."

"Good points."

"But we don't need to talk about your porn, if you don't want to."


"Whatever. Let's talk about a broken glass, and this."

She fished a hand down into the breast pocket of his shirt. The one she wore. It stretched the thick material down tight across her shoulders. She winced. "I think I got a little too much sun."

A flash of white flesh peeking out of a bikini, striking against the surrounding red, passed behind his eyes. He raised his glass. "This should help numb it."

"Yeah, vodka and this." Her hand finally left the pocket, holding a disposable lighter and a hand-rolled cigarette shape. Another joint.

Autumn in Northern California meant, like the Tupperware on the counter, it was likely potent green bud.

She held one twisted end over the flame before sucking in on the other. She examined the glowing ember, drew in again. A small white cloud escaped her, swirling thick in the loft's air between them, before she offered the joint to him.

He hesitated, asked, "What's your dad think of the smoke?"

"You didn't know? He can't smell anything."

The idea of shared secrets with Sara seemed more reasonable with most of the strong drink gone. He drew a long, slow hit, holding it in while he passed the joint back. The exhale brought a warm, familiar rush to his brain.

They smoked in silence until only a long roach was left. Sara produced the metal tin, using it as an ashtray.

She spoke first. "Fantasies, huh? Whose fantasies?"

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