Halloween Favor

"Sam, Sam? Stick with me for a couple more minutes, will you?" Anne was smiling. "I don't know where you just went, but I'm prepared to bet you didn't hear the last several things I said."

"No, um...sorry. I was thinking about...stuff."

"I'm sure you were. Hang tight for another few minutes, and then the two of you can hash this out between you, okay?" Another nod from Sam. "Good. Like I was saying this is our Halloween set, and we're planning a kind of sex and violence take on Little Red Riding Hood. Sam, you'll be the Big Bad Wolf. We have a wonderful make up designer, who will kit you out with fur, fangs, claws, the works. We'll begin with the Wolf in bed, complete with flannel nightie and mob cap. Little Red will come in, set down her goodie basket, ask her three questions—eyes, ears, teeth, you know. Then the Wolf will spring out of bed, tear off the granny clothes and grab our heroine. The story will proceed along our established lines: the maiden mauled, stripped, bound and ravished, but instead of ending with solo shots of Red tied to the bed, we're going to see the Wolf eat her all up, or start to anyway. We've got a special effects guy here, who will rig us up some convincing gore." Seeing Sam's start of surprise and distaste, Anne added: "It will be a little extreme, but the whole thing is a fantasy, and I think it'll be fun, in a horror-movie kind of way. The idea actually came from one of our members. What do you two think?"

Sam turned to Karen, expecting her to share in his misgivings. To his surprise, Karen looked both excited and aroused. Her pale skin was pink, her lips were moist, and Sam could see her breasts rise and fall with her shallow breathing even underneath the terrycloth robe. "Anne, it sounds perfect!" she gushed. "Let me just talk to Sam for a couple of minutes, okay?"

6.

Anne smiled. "I'm going to head out back to see how things are progressing. Karen already knows this: we shoot in the guest house out back. Come and find me there when you're through." She turned and walked out through the sliding glass doors leaving Sam and Karen alone in the living room. For a while neither spoke. Karen was looking to Sam for a reaction, but Sam simply didn't know what to say. Finally Karen broke the silence.

"So, what do you think?"

Sam began with a question that had been in the back of his mind for a while. "Karen, why do you even want to do something like this? It can't be good for your career."

"You mean my acting career? It's funny; I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now, but the Bottle's just not the right place for this kind of discussion. I'm getting out of it. I think I'm done. I want to go back to school; get my doctorate in history."

"Seriously?" Sam was shocked. Not only had he pegged Karen for a show biz lifer, but he'd had the impression that she was doing pretty well. "I don't get it; you work. That's more than most people in the business can say. How come you want out?"

Karen smiled up at him, and now she looked a little sad. "The truth? I'm not all that good. I mean the camera likes me, and I can kind of do soap-opera sexy, but...okay, you remember that production of Cat I produced for myself a few years back?"

What Sam remembered most vividly was Karen's lithe body slinking around in a short white baby-doll nightie. "I thought you were great in that." he said.

Karen snorted. "You thought my tits looked great in that fucking nightgown. And you were right. They did. But my work...I don't know. I couldn't hold onto the dialect. My emotions were kind of all over the place; I shouted for no reason, cried for no reason; it was all just kind of a general wash of quasi-Southern...I don't know, angst or something. Of course that director was a complete waste of space, but still... You know who was terrific? The guy who played Brick. He moved to Texas, I think, to be with his girlfriend. Funny, I can't come up with his name. Anyway, I think I've been drifting away from it since then. I'm 32 in a month. My agent—such as he is—keeps sending me for t-and-a stuff, and the competition keeps getting younger and their boobs keep getting perkier. I don't know. I guess I want to be good at what I do." She paused for a few seconds, looking past him. "I was good at history, I think. Anyway, I'm going to give it another shot. That's why I hooked up with Anne. Grad school ain't cheap. She's promised me that if this works out, I can do as many of these as I like. The money is pretty good; at least it's a start."

Sam considered her for a little while. "And you don't find the idea of this demeaning or anything?"

"I thought I would, but I have to say, when I first started looking at the site, I really didn't have room to be anything other than majorly turned on. I wouldn't have said that I was into the rape-fantasy thing, but for some reason, this stuff really gets me going. The other thing is...how do I put this? I made my peace with a certain amount of exploitation a long time ago. Have you seen any of those films I did for Actionator?" Sam nodded. Karen grinned: "Thought so. So you've seen me stripped naked and tortured. You've seen me getting it on with Carter, that chick with the enormous fake boobs who plays the head of the mercenaries. You probably saw me shoot a bazooka in a string bikini. Those things made a bunch of suits I never met a fair chunk of change. With Anne, I know that I'm working for a woman I like, doing something that I find...what?...interesting. I don't know. I guess, no; I don't have a problem with it. The big question is: do you?"

"You mean will I do it? I don't know. Are you okay with me doing all that stuff to you? I mean...look, I'm sorry to bring this up, but it's got to be a part of the discussion. You didn't want to date me, because you said it would change our dynamic and—I guess—fuck up the Bottle for you. Wouldn't this do the same thing?"

Karen sighed. "Yeah. Maybe. I'm sorry, Sam. I know I'm not being consistent here. The other model bailed this morning, and you just kind of appeared in my head. I thought: if I'm going to do this, I want my first time to be with Sam. You just seemed like the right guy. I really like you. I do find you attractive. And, yes, I know you have a thing for me, but I also know you're a decent guy. I'm sorry, does this all sound horribly manipulative and bitchy? I told you you probably wouldn't like it."

Now it was Sam's turn to sigh. "I don't know. I don't know if I like it or not. I have to tell you part of me is incredibly turned on by the idea of...of...getting my hands on you, even if it's just pretend. You've got to know that, because...well I do have a thing for you, but this...this isn't worth losing you as a friend, okay? If you can deal with the fact that I'm...how to fucking say it...I don't know, leching on you a little while this is happening, then okay. I'll do it. One condition though."

Karen looked at him. "What?"

"You're doing this to raise money for school, right?" She nodded. "Okay. Keep your fee, and let her pay me the five she was going to pay the other guy." She started to argue. "Karen," he said, and there was an edge in his voice, "this is non-negotiable."

"Sam," Karen's voice caught, and for a moment she couldn't continue. Then: "Thanks, okay. Just, thank you so much. And I can deal with the leching if you can."

"Cool." said Sam quietly. Then: "Let's go find Anne. I've actually been fantasizing about ripping your throat out ever since you called me at five-in-the-fucking morning."

7.

Sam could not have imagined the day becoming more surreal that it already was. Looking at his watch as he and Karen made their way into the back yard, he was astonished to find out that it wasn't even 11:00 AM. He wondered if he'd make his shift that night. He wondered if he'd be able to stand up if he did make it. Then he decided fuck it. He was making $500 for the day already. He told Karen to go on ahead, called a couple of the other bartenders, and found somebody to cover for him. Then he headed for the guest cottage.

And that turned out to be something of a euphemism. The fucking place had to be 1800 square feet. And the layout was unusual. Like a large loft, there were areas rather than rooms, although a single partition, running perpendicular to the long walls closed off perhaps a fifth of the available space. The rest of the space was a sound stage in miniature. The set on which they would shoot occupied one corner of the room. Dressed and textured flats had been arranged to represent the walls of a rustic cabin. A rough wood table with chairs, and a wrought iron queen-sized bed filled much of the rest of the space. Several lighting trees surrounded the set, and a tall, cadaverously thin young man in black horn-rimmed glasses stood in front of a tripod with a disproportionately small camera perched atop it. Karen had disappeared, and Sam stood for a moment, at a loss, when Anne stepped out from a door in the far wall.

"Sam," she called, "over here. Let's get you into make-up." As he approached, she gestured through the open door. "Thank you so much for doing this, Sam." she said as he passed her. "All this may seem a little unfamiliar, but at the end of the day, I hope you'll have had some fun with us."

"Me too." said Sam, uncertainly. "You've got quite the little studio back here."

"Money may not buy you happiness", replied Anne with a grin, "but it sure helps with the infrastructure. Come on back here."

The walled off portion of the cottage was divided into two dressing rooms. The one he was standing in had plenty of natural light coming from a long window across the back wall. The room contained a vanity with a lighted make-up mirror and sink, a comfortable looking couch facing a good-sized plasma tv, and a door, behind which he found a bathroom with a toilet, shower stall and oversized tub. As they entered, a short, plump woman with green hair, several piercings in each ear and one through her left eyebrow, and intricately tattooed bare arms, stood up from what looked like a toolbox the size of a small refrigerator. She wore a black tank-top, miniskirt, leggings, and motorcycle boots. She appraised Sam carefully, examining his face and body with the detachment of a clinician. "So this is BBW 2.0?" she asked. Her voice was pure Brooklyn. "Howzit goin'?" she said, extending a delicate hand at the end of a beefy wrist. "Brenda. Make-up."

"Hey," said Sam. "Sam. Uh...the Big Bad Wolf, I guess."

"You guess? You wanna be sure before I glue all this shit on you." She laughed. "Nah, I'm just messin' with you. It shouldn't be too bad. We ain't actually doing all that much."

"Brenda, dear," said Anne, "he's all yours. Can you give me an estimate?"

"Call it an hour fifteen. Gotta let everything set."

"Well, be as quick as you can. This one's going to cost me a fortune. I swear to God, if I ever see Frank again, I am going to shove his head so far up his ass he can give himself an at-home colonoscopy."

"You'll have him when you have him," replied Brenda flatly, "but I may be able to cut a couple 'a corners." And to Sam: "Okeey, first things first, take off your shirt and siddown in front of the mirror, Honey."

"Um...my shirt?" Sam wasn't particularly body-conscious. He had broad shoulders, a little definition in his arms, and if he didn't have a six-pack—or a two-pack for that matter, he didn't have much of a gut either. Oddly, the site material which Anne had showed him had somewhat reconciled him to the notion of exposing his cock—both sets had featured the guys' dicks at some point—but neither of them had taken off their shirts. At least he didn't think they had.

"This is gonna be some complicated make up," Brenda explained. "Not as complicated as it might have been, but still, I don't want you fuckin' anything up by pulling that tee you're wearin' off over your head. I think Costumes has you in some kinda ripped work-shirt. And I'm guessin' the granny robe is rigged as a tear-away. Now get your fuckin' shirt off and sit down in the fuckin' chair, savvy?" This last was said with a smile, but Sam obeyed quickly. There was some tension in the air from the late start, and he had no wish to add to it.

Sam sat, his back against a bath towel, and Brenda came and stood behind him, studying him in the mirror. "Your face is better for this than Frank's, thinner. Hair's better too. Frank has this feathered 70's thing going. Thinks it makes him look like Shaun Cassidy or some fuckin' thing. I think he looks like some shaggy-ass golden retriever. Anyway..." She chatted away as she began her work, touching his face lightly, holding up hair samples, swabbing him with some kind of cleanser. She stopped for a second, and met his eyes in the mirror.

"Here's the thing. You gotta be a monster, but you gotta be kinda sexy too, so I'm not going with heavy prosthetics. First of all, we don't have the time, and second of all, you've never worn 'em. Some guys' skin reacts badly to the latex; one guy got kinda claustrophobic...anyway, don't worry about that. Mostly it's gonna be make-up, spirit gum for the hair...you ever wear spirit gum?"

"Um, I don't think so."

"Okay, no bullshit, you're gonna hate it. It's uncomfortable and it stinks like 95 just south of Philly, but it holds shit in place, and once it dries, it's not so bad. Anyway...I got some Halloween store fangs for your uppers. I'm gonna leave your lowers free 'cause it's fuckin' impossible to talk around those fuckers. I got some claws for your fingernails. You got dark hair which is good, and you got enough on your forearms so we're not gonna worry bout that. What I want you to do is sit back and relax. Try to move your face as little as possible. You wanna listen to some music?"

"Sure, what've you got?"

"Little bit of everything." said Brenda, offering him an I-Pod. "Check the playlists, or you can do Pandora."

Sam found some classic rock, leant back in the barber's chair, and fell into a half-conscious doze. He was periodically aware of brushes, sponges, and the occasional pencil. Every now and then, there would be a harsh, astringent smell, and he would feel the skin on his cheeks or jaw-line tightening. Spirit gum, he assumed. At one point Brenda roused him enough to fit long doubled fangs over his upper eye-teeth. He fell entirely asleep for a few minutes not long after, and woke with the damn things digging painful divots into his lower lip. Eventually he lost track of time completely, and was surprised to hear Brenda's cab-driver voice breaking through an indistinct erotic dream.

"Wakey, wakey, Sleeping Beauty. Have a look in the mirror."

Sam looked, and started violently.

"Not too damn bad, if I do say so myself." commented the make-up artist.

And it wasn't too damn bad at all, thought Sam, as he took in his lupine self. He looked, he thought, like a cross between a vampire, Hugh Jackman in X-Men, and an Airedale terrier. The skin on his face and neck was a few shades darker and browner than his natural pinkish tan. He looked hard, and saw that she had blended the make-up into the top of his chest, just below the line of fine dark hair which ended at the bottom of his throat. The join was all but invisible. She had applied small latex points to the tops of his ears, but beyond that, as promised, no prosthetics. She had extended and filled out his eyebrows so that they now arched into a bestial scowl, and she had built facial hair down from his sideburns until it covered much of his cheeks. There was stippling rather than actual hair on his lips and chin. She had built up the ridge of his nose with putty; the end was darkened, and the nostrils painted out to make them look wider. His lips were a deep brownish purple over a blood red base, and his teeth—fake fangs included—were stained with brown and red. His eyes were lined red at the bottom and black beneath the tear line and on the lids. How could she possibly have done all that while he was asleep? He looked down his body, and saw that she had used a brown shadow to accentuate what muscular definition he had in his arms and chest. Finally, she had given him claws: grey-black fake nails, not very long, but with what looked like wicked points. Sam was impressed. He wouldn't want to meet himself in a dark alley.

"Brenda," he gushed, "thatsh fuckin' amashing!"

"You like?" she was obviously pleased with the praise. "I tell you what: I didn't think it was gonna look half this good. By the way, don't sweat the slushy esses. Fangs'll do that to you. You wanna talk a little slower, and open your mouth a little wider. It'll feel a little weird, but you won't sound drunk. And hey, I don't think you're gonna be doin' much talkin' anyway, savvy?"

"Can I get up now?"

"Yeah, sure. I think Wardrobe's waitin' to get you into costume. Hey Tom!" She shouted past the partition, "Get yer shapely ass out here. BBW's all yours!"

"Coming right up, Bee-yoch!" The reply was delivered in an improbable bass-baritone. The door to the make-up room opened, and a giant of a man appeared carrying some tattered clothes on hangers. Tom was 6'7" if he was an inch, coal black, completely bald, and muscled like Hercules. He wore levis, an airbrushed t-shirt—skeleton design with rhinestones set in it—and those shoes with toes. He looked at Sam and grinned: "Look at this cute little fuzzball! Honey, where you been all my life?"

Brenda snorted. "Sam, this is Tom, these are Tom's dreamy biceps, and this is Tom's really fuckin' disappointing homosexuality."

"Jealous much?" Tom cocked an eyebrow as he asked.

"Oh, only every fuckin' day of the week." sighed Brenda. "Look, could you just close your eyes? I'll suck your cock; you'll never know the difference."

"With those big titties pushin' up against my thighs? I don't think so!"

This is that "shit or go blind" thing again, thought Sam to himself as he tried to work out where to look. Brenda took pity on him: "Tom, this is Sam. Go a little easy on him; he's an internet-porn virgin, and it looks like we just fried his last fuckin' synapse."

"Point of the exercise," grinned the big man. "Alright. Hey Sam, nice to meet you. And thanks for stepping in on such short notice. I've pulled some stuff for you from our truly limited stock. See if you can make these jeans work. The waist is really all that's important, 'cause I am going to distress the shit out of the rest of them."

The waist was fine, as was the plaid flannel shirt—sleeves torn off—which was all he was given to cover his torso. Then Tom produced what looked like a Victorian night shirt; a long white garment, slightly yellowed to suggest age. "Ok, now this is your granny nightgown. It goes on over the head. It's probably going to be big, but hopefully not too big." Sam slipped the shirt over his head. Tom continued. "Now I've rigged a Velcro seam here under the left sleeve—you right handed?" Sam nodded. "Good. Now, when you're ready to have your wicked way with Little Red Riding Slut, just reach over with your right hand, grip the fabric just a couple inches under your left nipple, and pull it back across your body. Got it?" Another nod from Sam. "Ok, give it a try."

Sam did as he was told, and with a ripping sound, the night shirt fell from his body. The left sleeve opened completely along with the seam under his arm, and the weight of the fabric pulled the thing right off his right arm as soon as he lowered it.

"Oh yeah, baby!" crowed Tom, "Not only is the sistah gorgeous, but the bitch is good, at, her Work!

"Tom, that is no shit fabulous!" agreed Brenda. "Harry Potter in there is going to cream his jeans."

"There's an image without which my life would not have been complete," replied Tom. He stuck a mob cap on Sam's head, and arranged it inside of the prosthetic ear tips. "Like that?' he asked.