A Devil Of A Party

(A Halloween Contest Story)

Dear Reader:

First, this story is very graphic. Much of the sex is rough and described in detail. If this isn't your cup of tea, please read no further. Second, if you continue, please post your vote for the Halloween contest. And if you can't vote, then comment. And if you can't comment, then favorite. And if you can't favorite, then just enjoy!

* * *

It started, as these things often do, as a stray comment in a not-so innocent conversation. It took root in a fertile imagination, back in the dark recesses of a human mind, where evil impulses often grow. It sent its tendrils into the light, most withering under the heat of good conscience and moral fortitude. But some survived, the stronger branches, to find a home in the place where ideas take shape, where risk and reward are measured, and where the balance between the two can sometimes, under the right conditions, be tilted towards one or the other.

* * *

"Turn on the light!" he cried out as he scrambled back into place behind her, positioning the head of his cock just outside her meaty lips, scored with red marks where he'd twisted the sensitive flesh. He blinked as the lights came on, and then knew that the eyes beyond the fabric could see everything, would witness as he deflowered this maiden and made her part of Satan's own stable of sex sluts. With a cry of elation he crammed his cock into her cunt, the wet walls opening to accept him. He grasped her hips violently, his claws marking her flesh and began fucking her so hard her breasts beat a spastic tattoo as they slapped wildly together...

Tom Sorenson woke with a start, grasping the sheets in his hands. His cock throbbed beneath the sheets, his erection almost painful in its insistence to be relieved. The dream had been so real, so incredible, that he knew he had to write it down. And make it happen. But first. He looked over at his wife, topless as usual, asleep beside him. She awoke at his touch and, seeing his erection in the dim moonlight, knew exactly what he wanted. Well, almost...

"Let's have a Halloween haunted house," Tom Sorenson declared a little later, at what could only be considered the most inopportune time ever.

"My mrownt mryke mowllowwen mlarts," his wife Sarah replied, her voice muffled. Understandably so, as her mouth was currently filled with Tom's hard cock, which she was endeavoring to swallow whole, or so it seemed to Tom as the head of his cock scraped along the back of her throat. In fact, it was amazing that she'd been able to reply at all, given how much of his dick occupied her mouth. Still, eight years of marriage had taught him a thing or two, and translating cock mouth was one of them.

"I know you don't like Halloween parties. But I was thinking this one could be different. A haunted house. An adult one. With adult activities. We could do some pretty kinky things," he added, knowing that she was feeling pretty kinky at the moment.

"Mwont maft mwowr mrroufs," she replied, shifting her position so that her heavy breasts brushed along the tops of his legs. He looked past her head, along the smooth slope of her back and fixed on the rounded globes of her butt. He'd fuck her doggystyle tonight, he decided, already imagining the feel of her soft ass cheeks in his hands. And maybe spank her a little, softly, so as not to wake the children. Just enough to get her motor really running.

"Nah, not at our house. I was thinking at Phil's. He's always up for something different. And I bet he knows the right people around town to invite." Phil would make it special, of that Tom was sure. And memorable. That was a Phil trademark.

Sarah mumbled something that might have been agreement, or might just have been the wet smacking sound of her lips skimming along the length of his shaft. He was about to ask her to repeat her answer when she turned her attention to his sensitive cock head, rasping the flat of her tongue across the sensitive mushroom cap, and causing the familiarly electric sparks of pleasure to crackle down his shaft, burst through his groin and travel down his legs, causing his toes to literally curl in response. Then all further thoughts of entertaining were lost from his over-stimulated brain.

* * *

Phil Diamond made his living as a producer. His neighbors called him a Hollywood producer, which he allowed, because it was technically true. He did produce Hollywood films. Some were even rated mildly enough to be viewed in the nation's cinema multiplexes. But most were not.

His neighbors also thought that being a producer was a glamorous profession. He didn't disavow that perception either. But while they imagined high level calls with A-list celebrities and high-powered agents, in truth producing proved much more mundane. A producer got things done. Most often, that meant getting on the phone and convincing other people that what you needed was more important that what they'd planned to do that particular moment. Sometimes it meant getting a truck of chairs from one place to another on time. Or arranging for a car to be available to be blown up. Or suggesting that a city planner look the other way while a key scene was filmed in a public park. A producer was a planner, a gopher, a fixer. A producer was the one you turned to when all seemed to impossible and impassible, but things still needed to be moving forward.

Phil got things done. To get things done, you needed to know what motivated people. What would make a delivery man give up lunch to get a package from A to B, right this minute. Phil knew what people wanted. He knew what motivated them. He always seemed to know that Mr. Package Delivery Guy was an aspiring screenwriter who just wanted someone to look at his script. And he always knew a director's assistant who would look at said script in exchange for an introduction to an up-and-coming new director. Who wanted to fuck an A-list star. Who wanted to get back the Oscar she sold to her PA in a fit of pique. Who wanted...

Well, it went on and on. And Phil knew what they all wanted. He knew their heartfelt and secret desires. He got them what they wanted and got things done. He was good at it. He was, as some of his peers would whisper during cocktail parties, spooky good. Nobody knew as much as Phil. And, some said, nobody could.

One thing Phil didn't do, which all the rest of the producers did, was take meetings. Or grab lunch at the latest hot Hollywood eatery. He didn't do it because he liked to work behind the scenes. He also didn't do it because he lived about eighteen hundred miles from Hollywood. More or less specifically, he lived in the Midwest. He lived in a subdivision not unlike most others, a bit outside a metropolitan area, with winding streets named for geographic landmarks that had long been paved over: Red Oak, Fox Run, Cypress and the ever popular Rippling Creek.

His house, though, was a bit different than the others. Larger, for a million dollars bought a lot more floor space here than in Orange County. And set apart from the rest, at the end of a cul-de-sac on which he'd bought all the other property, so that it really just served as an extra long driveway to his home. He'd bought the home not just because of its distance from the Hollywood hills, as he could've gotten that most anywhere. But because of the view outside the rear of the house, backing up as it did on a strong, swirling river, and beyond that a deep and dark forest, the kind that repelled even the most intrepidly adventurous child, tangled as it was with brambles and thorn bushes and poison ivy. It suited his mood. And sometimes, his purpose.

Phil gazed back at the river, awaiting the phone call he'd been warned would arrive soon. A haunted house. Yes. And what better place to hold it than Phil's house? He lived alone. By himself in a home with six bedrooms. Separated enough, and hidden by the trees, to keep nosy neighbors away. Yet big enough to host a crew of haunters plus a good number of guests. The idea intrigued him. He was Phil, the producer, the guy who got things done. And he hadn't fed, really fed, in a long time.

* * *

Tom was confused. He'd jotted down his ideas that morning, waking up with surprising energy for a man who had spent an hour of the previous night fucking Sarah with reckless abandon. So violently had he taken her that he'd spewed his jizz bomb along the length of her body, splattering her stomach, tits and face with molten jets of sperm. And then, after she'd licked the remaining juices and cum from his deflating member, he'd told her to rub his cum into her skin, instead of letting her clean herself. It wasn't like him to be so domineering, but she'd played the good sport because he didn't act that way very often. Plus, he suspected she liked playing the victim role every so often.

When he'd shown his ideas to Sarah, she'd responded with a comment that they were clearly "the perverted wet dreams of a juvenile mind." When he'd objected to that description, she'd retracted her statement and re-submitted it as "the perverted wet dreams of an adolescent mind." He hadn't felt vindicated. Though, to be fair, she'd just finished washing the remainder of his spunk from her body. So maybe she wasn't the best source for critical judgment.

He felt sure he was onto something though. An adult-oriented haunted Halloween mansion. It was just the thing to shake up the neighborhood. Everyone was getting far too proper. With all the bad economic news, and the sour taste in everyone's mouth from the latest city election, there was lots of tension between neighbors. This would loosen them up a bit. Still, some of his ideas were a bit extreme. But they'd be watered down before the day of the party. After all, just putting together a haunted house was a lot of work. And there wasn't a lot of time between now and the party date. Even with a bunch of people helping, they'd be cutting it close.

So Tom felt confused when Phil reacted so positively to his list of ideas. "This is a damn creative idea you've got here," Phil said as he read over the list. "Every one of these. I can see the possibilities already."

"You don't thing they're too, you know, extreme?" Tom asked, wondering if Phil really understood what he'd been getting at.

"Not at all. Yeah, some of 'em are a little ambitious. But the challenge of pulling it off makes it all worth it. Besides, you wouldn't have written them down if you didn't want to do 'em this way, would you?"

There wasn't much Tom could say in answer to that. There'd been several times when he'd been tempted to censor this list. After all, how 'adult' was too adult? But everything had been so crystal clear in his head, it had seemed, well, 'wrong' to deviate from the original idea by even the least bit.

"So, you'll host the party here?" Tom confirmed. "Sarah and I can provide some mixers. And we'll make it Bring Your Own, so you don't have to shell out a wad of cash to keep our drunken lot intoxicated. And we can get a bunch of people to help decorate and be performers."

"Normally, that would sound great," Phil replied. "But I've already got a bunch of ideas, and I was thinking they'd work best if it was all a big surprise. You know, kind of like a premier night once all the special effects have been added. You don't mind if I just take this and run with it, do you?"

"Um, no, go ahead. It's your house, after all. Like I said, Sarah and I will help in any way we can. You sure you want to take on all this work?" Tom asked, a little puzzled by Phil's enthusiasm.

"It's not a problem at all," Phil assured him. "It's what I like to do."

* * *

It grew, as these things do, underground, snaking through the detritus of the human soul, nourished by the dank things dropped into the darkness and the moldy scum that inevitably occurs there. Out of sight and out of mind, it grew quickly, pushing through the crust, finding food where it could, twisting over and around any obstacle placed in its way. To witness its growth, one might even believe that it had a mind of its own...

* * *

"Loooove what you've done with the place," Sarah announced, her words dripping with exaggerated sarcasm. For two weeks they'd tried to get Phil to let them into his house and help with the decorating and preparations. And for two weeks he'd refused any assistance from them, and from the rest of the residents in the neighborhood. And if he'd used a professional decorating service, no one could understand how. Not a single truck or delivery had been made to his home. Or so said the older residents who had nothing better to do than keep tabs on all their neighbors.

But now, just two hours before the start of the festivities, Sarah and Tom were standing in the foyer of Phil's house, admiring an interior décor that appeared to be ripped from several eras, tossed into a blender and vomited throughout the rooms. What had once been a sleek, contemporary and often sterile environment was now a baroque nightmare.

Blood red, royal blue and black velvet cloth hung from every wall and covered the ceiling, creating a cave-like surrounding that tricked the eyes and muffled the ears. Huge crystal chandeliers with fake, flickering candles provided a fuzzy yellow light that was quickly sucked up by the draperies. Off to the left, in what had once been the living room, the walls were similarly covered, with wall sconces providing a dim illumination. All the modern white furniture had been removed, to be replaced with Victorian chairs, sofas and fainting couches that looked uncomfortable and forbidding. To the right, what had once been a glass topped dining room table was now an oaken monstrosity, with intricately carved high-backed chairs surrounding the polished surface.

Rather than the musty smell that would normally be associated with such décor, there was a sweet, almost cloying odor in the air. Phil smiled knowingly when Sarah commented on it. "That's a very special incense that I picked up in my travels. It opens the mind to possibilities and frees the spirit from inhibitions. Later on you'll see what I mean," he added mysteriously.

The long hallway was decorated in a similar fashion to the front of the house, with only an occasional spotted mirror or ancient portrait to break up the fold upon fold of velvety fabric. As Phil led Tom and Sarah down the hallway to their room, they strained to see how he'd decorated the other rooms, but all were dark inside with a gauzy material hung in the doorways.

"It's all very..." Sarah paused to find the right word.

"Foreboding?" Tom inserted, running his hands along the heavy fabrics.

"Foreboding," Phil repeated. "Yes, that's what I was going for. I could've gone the horror route, with rotting wood and blood-streaked walls and all that. But it's so overdone. This," and he waved his hand to encompass it all, "is so much more elegant. It takes your fears and twists them, relying upon imagination rather than blood and gore. In fact, it may just be..."

"Aaaaayyyyeeee!" He stopped abruptly as Sarah gave an ear-splitting shriek. "Sp-sp-sp-spiders!" she said, her voice quavering and her finger pointing at the ceiling. Indeed, the cloth across the ceiling was swarming with the eight-legged pests, crawling this way and that not far over their heads.

"Yes, they are wonderful, aren't they?" replied Phil, not the least bit disturbed by her reaction. "They're from a friend of mine, who breeds special crops of them. These have make no webs and like to stay in high places, so they're great for scaring guests but won't be a nuisance."

Rather than showing delight at the genetic modifications, Sarah pushed her way down the hallway, clinging to the wall and keeping away from the largest mass of spiders overhead. Tom followed with just a little less trepidation. It wouldn't do to show a fear of spiders to any guy in the neighborhood. Even if you were supposed to be afraid.

When Tom and Sarah got to their room, they were surprised at how mundane it looked. Both had been expecting something much more elaborate. Instead of a room that approximated something from a horror movies, the room was as welcoming as a tween age girl's. A large, comfy looking brass bed jutted out into the middle of the room, with white Victorian tables on each side. An old-fashioned full-length mirror stood next to the bed, and a small upright dresser tucked in the corner. If not for the extra dark shades covering the windows and the electric candles flickering on the bedside tables, the room could've passed for the master suite in any of the local bed and breakfasts.

Phil read their consternation right away. "Don't be fooled by the way it looks. Sometimes the most horrifying things happen in the most innocent of places."

Sarah studied him closely. That was a strange way to put it. He'd seemed almost happy when he said it.

"Anyway," Phil continued, "since you have the most makeup to apply, I thought you should be the first to get here and get set up. Everything you need is in this bag," he said, dropping a fat bag it on the bed. "Tom, your costume needs a bit of assembly, so I'll help you put it on. And Sarah, after you help with Tom's costume, we'll get you into yours."

Tom drew the pieces out of the bag and inspected them. The mask was grotesque to look at, but at least had wide eye holes and plenty of room for his mouth. He thought he could probably breathe pretty well through the large pig nose that protruded from the middle of the face. The next item looked like raw meat, though it was made from pliable rubber. He held it to his chest. Yes. It was clearly kind of wrap to make his torso look more gruesome.

He then pulled a pair of boots from the pile. "Horseshoes?" he asked, puzzled by the soles on the boots. "I thought the devil had cloven hooves."

"Actually, that's a common misconception. The devil has feet just like you and I. He walks around the earth much like his adversary, only for quite a bit longer than 33 and a third years. Besides, you're not dressing as the devil. You're dressing as a demon. Big difference."

Tom cast Phil a searching look, which turned questioning when he rooted out the next piece of the costume. "And this is...?" he asked, picking it up by the top edge.

Sarah giggled as Tom held up a 10-inch hollow dong with a flesh-colored strap hanging off the sides. "Oh, demons are usually quite well-endowed. So I put it in there in case you need some extra equipment." He said it so matter-of-factly that Tom and Sarah exchanged a startled glance.

Phil noticed the glance and smiled inside. That was what he liked about the Midwest: the residents were so naïve, they didn't even notice they were naïve. Which made the feeding all that much more enjoyable.

Though he was overtly helping Tom into his costume, Phil spent much of the time observing Sarah. She'd dressed for the party in very convenient and casual clothes, sure that she'd be donning a costume. Unbuttoned almost halfway down, her white blouse parted nicely to give Phil a good view of her voluptuous cleavage. Not that he wouldn't be seeing more before the night was over. But every good meal needed an appetizer to whet the palate.

He applied Tom's makeup slowly, taking pride in his craft and giving the incense a chance to work its magic. When it finally came time to turn their attention to Sarah, the nubs of her nipples were already visible beneath her blouse, and she was unconsciously shifting her hips in a slow, erotic rhythm. She was almost ready.

"Sarah, your costume is almost no costume at all. The story of a demon ravaging a virginal maiden is as old as humanity itself. And it really didn't matter what a maiden was wearing. A demon could penetrate anything, even a chastity belt. Some demons never touch the flesh at all. Their specialty is a very literal mind fuck."