Something Wiced This Way Cums

Thank you again to my editor, Neuroparenthetical, for their continued assistance in helping these stores come to life. I cannot overstate how important they have been, and how deeply I appreciate the effort they put towards editing my work. Tremendous thank you, once again.

Halloween should be a statutory holiday; that is how much I love the spooky season. Furthermore, we should get an entire week off of work to celebrate properly! Perhaps I'm biased; my birthday lands on the 31st, so I've always felt like Halloween is

my

personal holiday.

Every year, I would organise a costume party with dozens of our closest friends to make sure that my birthday was supported by the black and orange decor with which I adorned our house. I always loved celebrating the day with so many people, but truthfully, I only needed two— my husband, Mike, and our son, Owen.

Mike had always been forced to dedicate the day to me. He knew what it meant to me, so he was happy to play along, as time wore on it became clear that he wanted to celebrate in other fashions. One year, he had suggested that we abandon the party entirely and opt to attend some convention for horror movies, a genre he was quite fond of. I put my foot down so fast that I almost broke an ankle!

I would always go all out on decorations for the holiday - not just to impress the crowd, but simply because I enjoyed it. I loved riding the line between "haha yucky" and "reprehensibly grotesque." For the former, imagine a large witch's cauldron, its mouth billowing forth thick plumes of translucent fog. For the latter, picture a "painting" of an elderly couple just inside the front door. As each guest passes by it, the figures decay, their skin melting off to reveal two hideous, rot-covered skeletons underneath.

At the time, Owen was in his fourth and final year of university. He had missed three of my birthday parties in a row, and I was devastated to hear that the streak would continue. His absence had been a hard pill to swallow, even though I'd known it had been for the best. He'd needed to study, and without a sanctioned break from classes it was too much hassle to get him home.

I hated being away from him for so long, as I was sure most mothers would with their only child. My life felt empty without him in it. The first year that he'd been at university, I had endured the loss with a brave face. That became decidedly harder with each passing year.

Owen was smart, charming, and full of wit. He had a bubbly personality that made him a joy to be around, and made every day a little brighter for everyone around him. Perhaps, since I was the woman who had birthed him, it was arrogant to claim that he was exceptionally handsome atop that, but pride did not stop it from being true. My son had a ferociously gorgeous body that frequently earned double takes from women twice his age. My friends had often joked that, if he hadn't been my son, they'd have already had their paws all over him! The idea made me sick with jealousy.

The year that he'd left for university -- where I'd figured hordes of hot, young women would throw themselves at his feet -- I'd been forced to confront those feelings. The truth was that I wanted him all to myself— no sharing. I waited anxiously for the day he would break my heart by bringing a girl home.

I was not stupid; I knew he had likely been with dozens of women while away at school. A young man like him surely attracted women like a "BOGO" sale at HomeSense. The way I saw it, until he formally settled down, he was still mine.

It was Halloween afternoon, two thousand and twenty three, and I was back at it with aplomb. Peeled grapes dipped in black food coloring on one end were to be my edible eyeballs; I thought the effect was solid. I finished them just in time for my husband to inform me that Owen, for yet another year, was not going to be able to attend my party.

"You okay, Carrie?" Mike asked.

He was already in costume, and to be honest it felt a little strange to receive emotional comfort from Ghostface of

Scream

movie fame. The two hollow, black eyes perched atop a drooping, elongated mouth strongly resembled the figured in the Munch painting that almost shared the name.

I nodded, hoping that the cumbersome mask on his head would help me hide my sour mood from him. "I thought this year would be different. He promised

last year

that he would try to make it this time!"

Mike rubbed my shoulder reassuringly. "He did try, Care-bear. You know that."

I chewed the inside of my cheek. "Mmhmm. I know. It just sucks!"

Mike took off the mask and stared at me over the frame of his thick-rimmed glasses. "But..."

I sucked in a deep breath and straightened my posture. "But I'm not going to let it ruin the party. I'm gonna be fun!"

Mike raised an eyebrow. "How

much

fun?"

I rolled my eyes. Using my butt like a bumper car, I playfully nudged him out of my personal space. "Way more fun than that boring horror movie documentary you wanted to watch tonight!"

Mike scoffed. "They're

not

boring. The one that's on tonight is a behind-the-scenes look at how they filmed

Friday The 13

th

!"

I chuckled. "Let me guess; at night?"

It was Mike's turn to roll his eyes, but he added a sarcastic laugh to accompany it. "Very funny, dear. Does that mean I

can't

sneak away with Peter for a few minutes to watch it?"

I stomped my foot. "I ask for

one day

a year to be mine. Do you really need to spend it watching television with your friend?"

"No, I guess not." Mike gobbled down one of my freshly peeled eyeballs, earning himself a well-deserved scowl that he ignored completely. "People are going to show up soon, you know.

I put the grapes into the fridge, thinking ­- perhaps naively - that they needed time to set in order to retain their "eyeballness." The only thing left to do was slip into my costume and wait for our guests to arrive.

In years past, Mike and I had employed couples costumes. Princess and a dragon, Mario and Peach, Fred and Daphne... we'd done them all, so that year we had decided to drop the act and just wear whatever we wanted. For my husband, the eternal horror movie nerd, that was Ghostface.

In direct opposition to the spooky costume he'd chosen, I decided to finally slip into the thigh-high stockings of the woman - specifically the character - that my son had compared me to multiple times: Kitty Foreman from

That 70's Show

.

Years ago, I had walked in on my teenage son watching the television show with a big, goofy smile on his face. I had asked him why he was grinning ear to ear, and when he'd been too shy to answer — gawking silently with cheeks like two bright, red apples — I'd known that it was thanks to the gorgeous, mature woman on the screen. Ever since I'd learned of my son's fondness for the character, I'd felt inclined to dress up as her for Halloween. Mike had never wanted to go as Red, however -- the bald cap was the deal breaker -- so I had never had a chance to go as his doting, blonde-haired, giggle-prone wife.

Much like Kitty, I was not a very tall woman. We both had soft facial features and a big of pudge to our tummies. I knew that, if I could just get the hair right, I would be her spitting image. To my delight, I somehow managed to wrangle my blonde curls into a near-perfect imitation of the iconic, golden waves that epitomized her character for so many years. It took almost a full hour, giving me a new sense of admiration for housewives of decades past.

To complete the costume, I donned the frilliest, most outdated apron I could find, the front of which was embroidered with a pair of cute, happy ducklings. It definitely looked like it could've been housewife wear from fifty-odd years ago. I laid it over a light blue collared shirt whose sleeves I had rolled up as though I was elbow-deep in a baking marathon. Top to bottom, the outfit looked like something straight out of my grandmother's closet!

I put on a fluffy, dark red skirt that went down to my knees. Underneath it, I tugged on the tightest nylon stockings that I could find, and slipped into a pair of dazzling red heels that I had bought at the mall. If I was going to embody an old- school housewife, I wanted to go all in. A touch of ruby red lipstick completed the outfit.

My breasts were too large to fit properly into the apron. It was a size or two smaller than I preferred, but it was the only article I'd found that looked like it genuinely belonged in a prior decade. For the sake of the costume's integrity, I forced my floppy, oversized tits into its stranglehold. In order to get the loop around my neck, I had to pull it so tight that my cleavage practically came spilling out of the neck hole.

I was a modest woman, but I knew that I looked pretty damn good. I just wished that Owen could be around to appreciate it. The state of my tightly compressed boobs was a sight that any ordinary mothers would have hidden from her son. The idea of him seeing me like that — with the breasts he had nursed from squeezed into a too-tight top — filled me with wicked, sinful glee.

Before I could decide whether or not I truly wanted my guests to be confronted by my half-exposed bosom, there was a knock on the front door. There was no turning back; the party had officially begun.

It took about an hour for everyone to show up. By the time the final guests arrived, the early arrivals were already knee deep in bottles of wine. There were many old friends, most of which we had known for half our lives. Just as it was every year, I was surrounded by love on a level that was unmatched by any other day of the year.

We laughed, we danced, and we ate. Mike manned the barbecue, churning out burgers and hotdogs just as fast as people could scoop them up. It was still warm enough outside that most folks only needed a cozy bonfire to keep the evening chill at bay. I had always run a bit on the colder side, though -- favouring woolly sweaters over the thin, collared shirt I had on that night -- so I stayed indoors despite the allure of the fire on the lawn.

Most people did not recognize my costume, but those who did were floored by how accurately I had recreated the famous look. I did not let on how flustered I was by their sincere compliments, but I was thrilled to hear that I looked as good as I felt. No matter how many of them fawned over me, however, it wasn't quite enough to make me forget about the one opinion I would have valued most of all.

I floated between the various groups of partygoers, ensuring that I stopped by the kitchen to refill my wine glass as soon as it ran dry. Admittedly, I indulged in rosé with a heavier hand than I intended. I was upset that Owen would not be in attendance for the fourth year in a row. It was a touch too far to claim I was drowning my sorrows, but I definitely poured my drinks a little bit taller than usual.

I was well into my fourth glass of the night when the doorbell rang, cutting through the serene melody of "The Monster Mash" like a whistling arrow through the treetops.

Mike shot me a knowing look from across the room and gestured towards the door with his eyes. In my heart, I knew who it was before I even took a single step towards the door. I did not want to get my hopes up, but wishing and wanting and

knowing

had already mixed themselves up together inside of me.

I flew to the door with wings on my shoes, my heart aflutter. I threw it open, stumbling as I did, to find my magnificent son standing on the other side.

He opened his arms with a bright, cheerful grin plastered across his face. "Happy birthday, Mom."

I almost broke down into tears. The rosé had made the slope slippery, but seeing my son's beautiful face grinning at me — shallow dimples engraved into each of his cheeks — pushed me straight down it.

I squealed with delight, leaping into his arms for a hug. "My baby is

home!"

Owen was the same height as his father, which was roughly a head and a half taller than me, but he more muscular than the two of us combined. He carried me like I was nothing more than a feather.

I spilled wine all over the floor, but was too enthralled with him to care about the mess. "Oh my

god,

Mommy missed you so much!"

Owen blushed. "Er, thanks, Mom. I hope I'm not too late."

"Never, honey." If I had known he'd been coming, I would have stayed up all night waiting for him. "Now, let's get you a drink!"

Owen regaled me with stories of his time at school. We had kept in touch by phone over the semester, but being face to face made me want to hear every story a second time just so I could watch him smile as he retold them.

It was a good thing that I had already made my rounds and greeted everybody. Once Owen had arrived, the rest of the partygoers seemed wholly unimportant in comparison. All I wanted was for the house to be empty so that I could have some quality time with my son. Instead, we settled into a far-off corner of the living room, wine in hand, so I could interrogate him about his dating life. It was not subtle, but it had to be done. I

had

to know.

"Nobody, yet," Owen admitted, staring into his half-empty glass.

I was eager to believe him, but I couldn't let him know that. "There must be

somebody

you've got your eye on, honey."

When I'd asked, his gaze had darted in my direction as though the mere mention of

"somebody"

had flicked a switch in his brain. His eyes landed squarely on my exposed cleavage, and lingered there for a second or two before his good sense told him to stop staring.

Owen shook his head and looked back down into his glass of wine. He sucked in a deep breath. "I don't like any of the girls at school, I guess."

"Well, they're simply foolish if they don't like

you

. You're a very handsome young man, honey."

He chuckled. "If you say so. I'll have to put 'my Mom says I'm handsome' in my dating profile."

I feigned offence, holding my hand over my heart with my mouth agape. "Are you implying that those little girls

don't

think that I made the most handsomest man in all the land?"

He rolled his eyes with a hearty laugh, cutting through the chatter of the crowd around us. "I think Dad deserves some credit, too."

I mimicked his eye-roll, but with double the intensity. "Fine! I suppose it was, technically, a team effort -- but let's be real: you got all your good looks from Mommy."

Owen tilted his head to the side with a quizzical look. "That's the second time you've done that."

"Done what?"

He scoffed, unwilling to believe that I was ignorant to his meaning. "You called yourself 'Mommy.' That's new."

I waved him off and took a healthy glug from my wine. "Oh, hush. It's cute! Why, you want Mommy to stop?"

"I guess not. It

is

kind of cute, but I haven't called you that in years."

"And years, and years, and years, and—"

"Alright!" Owen interrupted me. "Message received,

Mommy

."

I bit my lower lip and giggled gleefully. He had no idea how much it enchanted me to hear that name again. "So, do you like my costume?"

He scooted back so that he could look me up and down, soaking in every detail of my outfit with wonder in his eyes. His stare at my vibrant red heels, but as his gaze wandered further up my body, his cheeks became flushed with blood. By the time he stumbled upon my bulging breasts, his blush was giving my ruby slippers a run for their money.

He gulped dryly. "How many words do I get?"

I batted my eyelashes. "Just one."

"Incredible."

That made it my turn to blush. "That's a pretty good word, I think."

"You look

exactly

like her, Mom. It's crazy."

"But you don't look anything like Eric," I said, referring to Kitty's on-screen teenage son. "Did somebody forget their costume?"

Owen winced, knowing he had committed a terrible

faux pas

. "I didn't bring one. Dad and I organized this at the last minute, so I didn't have time!"

As if summoned by mention, my husband trudged into the living room and slumped down next to us on the couch. "Good thing he doesn't need a costume to bob for apples!"

A small part of me was annoyed that he had interrupted alone time between my son and I, but I swallowed that pique, put on a happy face, and turned to Owen. "What do you think, honey? You wanna go chomp some fruit with Mommy?"

Mike raised an eyebrow, but did not object to my resurrection of the old name. "I got the tubs all set up. You've got a crown to defend, Care."

He was right; I was undefeated at apple-bobbing, and I was ashamed to admit how thoroughly I enjoyed the title. It was an innocent way of demonstrating, to anyone who might be watching, how talented I was with my mouth.

We walked into the kitchen, where Rich and Maria Jansen - a couple that Mike and I had known for years - were already competitively diving into the tubs with their mouths open. They were dressed as a punk guitarist and a tattoo-covered groupie, respectively, the latter of which had already rescued two of her three apples from the tub.

Maria rose with the final apple clenched in her jaw, claiming victory over her shaggy-haired husband. The audience applauded her victory, and she did a performative bow to thank the crowd for their support.

"Thank you, thank you!" she said, basking in the glory.

I was not keen to be upstaged at my own party, especially during a game at which I was truly formidable. I had a point to prove, and I knew

just

who my opponent was going to be.

I nudged Owen with my butt. "You'd better roll up those sleeves, honey."

"You and me?"

"Me and you," I replied with a wink.

Mike loaded three new apples into each of the tubs. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it looked as though he'd dug into the bag in search of the biggest ones he could find, then dumped them into

my

tub. To be fair, Mike was probably thinking that Owen hadn't played in years; my poor boy needed some kind of an edge just to avoid being completely humiliated.

I hovered over top of the water, holding myself above the surface by gripping the edges of the tub. I was ready to dive in like it was an Olympic sport! I glanced over at my son. He was in the same position I was, eagerly ready to leap face-first into the water. Like mother, like son.

"On your mark..." Mike counted down. "Get set... Go!"

It all happened so fast. I aimed at the apple closest to me and plunged towards it. I submerged my face in up to my ears, opening my jaw as wide as I could. I bit into the crisp apple, piercing the skin so a tingle of its tart, tangy juices flooded my taste buds. I lifted my head from the bucket and spat the first apple onto the floor.

I heard my husband chant, "One more!"

One more?

I thought.

Did he forget how to count?

Hubris, thy name is Carrie. It turned out that it was Owen who was receiving his support, and he had earned that fickle favor by clearing two apples from the tub in the time that it had taken me to remove one. By the time I realized what had happened, I had been beaten at my own game.

The crowd clapped for Owen. If I had been a sore loser, which I totally wasn't, I would have been a little annoyed. He'd shown up after four years just to reveal that he had

clearly

been practicing the sport of apple-bobbing every single day, rather than studying like he should have been. Like I said, totally not a sore loser!

Owen pinched the front of his soaking-wet t-shirt and pulled it away from his muscular torso. Tiny beads of water rolled off of his chin, clinging to his skin as they ran over the cliff of his firmly chiseled jaw. The dozens of cascading droplets that plummeted down his neck were funneled into the gap between his prominent collar bones. I longed to dip my tongue into that shallow pool and place a sloppy kiss against his wetted skin.