Page 2 of If I Catch You

The low riding hem of her white and black dress with the v-cut top shows off a perfectly enticing peek of cleavage. Her lips are painted a blood red color, the same color as the red accent on her eyeliner. It stands out stark against her pale skin, accentuating the delicate slope of her face. Her onyx hair is pin straight, with bejeweled accessories holding it away from her face.

In short, she’s a total fucking smoke show.

Saxon is so my type, it’s not even funny. Even in her teaching clothes, when she’s less ‘goth girl with a 401k’ and more ‘Wednesday Addams cosplaying Miss Frizzle’, she’s everything my dreams are made of. Since the first time I saw her in a bikini back in high school (black, of course, a perfect contrast to her soft skin), Saxon James has been the object of my every dirty desire.

But she is my best friend first and foremost, and I am so not the kind of guy who is friends with a woman only to get in her pants. Saxon is the most important person in my life, right up there with my family, so as much as I’ve fantasized about wrapping that silky black hair around my fist and watching her throat work as she smears that red lipstick all over my dick, I could never go there.

Not unless I knew for a fact that she wanted me the same way, and I’m certain she wouldn’t. It’s not like we’ve spent a lot of time discussing sexual preferences, but I see the kinds of people she dates. Gothy, pale looking men and women, the skinny type that look like they like to be bossed around, told what to do. Not big guys who like to throw their partners around, rough them up, hold them down and fuck them until they scream.

She doesn’t even realize that the haunted house she’s taking me tonight doubles as an adults-only kink club. Behind the walls of zombies and creepy circuses, there’s an underground scene of people looking to explore their deepest fantasies under the cover of darkness.

That’s the real reason I insisted on going with her tonight. God forbid the bouncer slip her the wrong admission bracelet and she finds herself in the throes of anything she’s not expecting.

As much as I’ve stroked myself off to the thought of it, I don’t know that Saxon would submit to me the way I’d want her to, and I’m not willing to risk a lifelong friendship with my favorite person over a fantasy and sexual incompatibility.

“Damn, bunny rabbit,” I wolf whistle as I stand. I spin my finger in a circle, and Saxon does a reluctant little twirl.

Jesus. Fuck. Those fishnets have those sexy ass lines up the backs of her legs. I inwardly groan, attempting to stifle down inappropriate lust that starts to course through me.

“You are so…wait for it…saxxy,” I smile, breaking my own tension with a dumb joke. There’s nothing wrong with a little flirting, and I am nothing if not a flirt with my girl. Predictably, she rolls her dark brown eyes at me.

“You’re a freaking dweeb, Brendon,” she says as she yanks her black quilted bag off the hanger by the door.

“Yes, but I am your freaking dweeb, Sax,” I say as I pull up the cotton mask I have around my neck over my mouth. It’s a lame attempt at a costume, but the creepy, scarecrow-like mouth on the front gives me a demon farmer look, which is good enough for a guy in his late twenties on Halloween.

She looks back at me, giving me a once over before turning towards the door and checking her bag for her keys.

“It’s Halloween, bunny. What good would I be next to my little emo bestie without a creepy mask?” I say as I crowd in behind her, leaning across to turn the knob of the front door. My chest gently collides with her upper back, and I could swear I hear a hitch in her breath. A tiny gasp at the contact, though I’m sure I’m making it up. I’ve gotten myself all worked up over the holiday and the kink and the goddamn seam on the back of her stockings. My head is fuzzy. Thank all the gods that we’re walking tonight. The crisp air will do me and my overactive imagination some good.

Outside, we stroll slowly down the dimly lit street, dodging kids dressed up as superheroes and goblins swinging pillowcases full of sugar. On the corner, we pass a group of teenagers slyly passing what could be a cigarette but is likely a joint between four of them before tucking into a path through the woods that will lead us right out to the edge of the McMann’s farm— a neighboring property to my family’s— where the pop-up haunted house is located.

“I hate to think that my perfect little seven year olds will one day grow up to be bratty teenagers smoking weed and smashing pumpkins instead of begging for candy on Halloween,” Saxon says as she shivers. She’s been teaching for six years, so even her oldest former students are only around twelve years old. She hasn’t had to see her any of her little kidlets turn into fully defiant teenagers just yet.

Saxon shivers again, and this time I realize it’s from the cold and not just the thought of her students growing up to be delinquents like we once were. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and tuck her into my side in attempt to keep her warm, but she goes a little stiff. It’s nearly imperceptible, I only notice because I know her so well.

“You okay, Sax?” I ask as I squeeze a little tighter around her shoulders.

“Yep,” she says in a clipped tone. “Just ready to get this night going.”

“Alright, then.” I say, not quite convinced. Like I said, I have no idea what is going on with my best friend, but as we pass into the clearing and the sight of fog and strobe lights mixes with the sounds of low, creepy music and deep screams, I’m determined to make her forget her troubles and enjoy her favorite night of the year.

3

SAXON

My feet are itching inside my trusty old Docs, and it has nothing to do with the wool socks I have tucked into them. From the moment Brendon and I stepped into the woods, my senses have been on high alert. Those woods have been our playground for our entire lives, there was no need for a flashlight or a phone screen to guide us from our little suburban neighborhood to illuminate the trail. We know the path like the back of our hands, the light of the moon was more than enough to guide us to the McMann’s property.

It also served double time as the perfect, shadowy backdrop to the illicit fantasy I’ve spent a week prepping myself for. My brain knows that it’s not happening tonight, that I was only walking a path I’ve walked thousands of times with Brendon.

But my body? That horny little slut was ready to run, to hide, to be wrestled to the ground. Brendon wasn’t doing anything out of the usual. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, something he’s done more times than I can count. He pulled my body into his side, a place I fit so comfortably it’s like there’s a Saxon shaped divot made just for me on his hip. He chatted and made jokes and tried his best to get me out of the funk he could obviously tell I’ve been in.

It didn’t matter. Every cell in my body hummed. They’re still going. With every gust of cold autumn air, my heart beats a little faster. The scent of Brendon— like fresh hay and woody cologne— has my nipples puckered into tight little peaks under my dress. That mask covering the lower half of his face is like a page ripped straight out of my dirtiest fantasy. A masked man, one I could identify only by his eyes, overpowering me. Taking me. Making me his. As we draw nearer to the haunted kink house, my stomach coils into knots and every brush of my stockings against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs sent a rush of arousal right between my legs.

Now, as we stand in front of the bouncer, holding our wrists out to receive our bracelets— the general admission, red striped ‘no hot kinky play for you’ variety— I’m on fire. I see a couple ahead of us entering the house, their bracelets a bright green color that I so desperately wanted for myself tonight, and I whimper under my breath out of frustration. My skin is crawling, my pussy is wet and aching, and I’m so goddamn disappointed to be missing out.

And Brendon has no fucking idea.

The music is loud, a haunting melody of minor chords overlaid with classic Halloween-esque contemporary music. Right now, a slowed down rendition of “Living Dead Girl” by Rob Zombie flows through the speakers as various sound effects clang around us. The whirring chainsaws and cracking thunder provide the perfect cover for the sounds of hedonistic pleasure occurring behind closed doors. As we pass the bouncer and near the threshold, Brendon takes hold of my hand. I know it must feel clammy, given the adrenaline swirling around with my own repressed sexual tension in my veins, but if he notices, he doesn’t care. He gives me a squeeze and leans down to speak directly into my ear.

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