The Grim Reaper's Mate

Chapter 10

Halloween night is not only for candy but also for s*x.

George Shelby sat in a bar on Halloween night having a drink and minding his own business. He hated Halloween. Sipping a beer, he impatiently waited for the stroke of nine-o-clock, when all the trick or treaters went home for the night to examine and eat their collected cache of candy. Then, finally, he could return home, relax in the comfort of his easy chair, and watch a ballgame in peace without kids ringing his doorbell every five seconds. He just hoped they didn't egg his house, as they did last year, because he wasn't home to pass out candy.

In a fairly empty bar, with so many available barstools not taken, denoting her out of his peripheral vision, he watched a good looking woman enter the bar and saddled up to the stool beside him. It had been a while since he's had any female companionship, especially one so attractive, and the scent perfume summoned him, as if it was the irresistible music of a snake charmer. Hoping to pass the time with some innuendo filled and sexually suggestive conversation, until it was time for him to leave for home, he looked at her to see if she'd return his look and he looked away, when she didn't. Not wanting to stare and show his obvious interest, he didn't want to bother her, if she wasn't amenable to some conversation and flirting.

At first glance, she was good looking enough to warrant him taking his focus off the televised ballgame to pay more attention to her. A judgmental and purely arbitrary built-in s*x meter that all guys are born with and that lowers in their selectiveness rating, as the s*x meter needle climbs higher with each drink they consume. Since this was only his first drink, she was already an 8 on a scale of 10. No doubt, by his third drink, sounding all his horny alarms, she'd bury the needle and be off the meter.

In the dim light, he figured she could pass for thirty-something but, on second glance, he pegged her for forty-something. Still, a good looking broad, even though she was some fifteen years older than he was, he wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers, that's for sure. Upon closer examination, casually glancing over at her, but without staring, she had a face and a body that reminded him of Ann Margaret, when she was younger, twenty-something. Back then, when she was popular with Bob Hope tours and Elvis, Ann Margret was his Dad's favorite female celebrity. Whenever she appeared on television, to the consternation of his mother, he was forced to watch her with his Dad always commenting on how gorgeous she was.

In his late twenties, George was always horny and, depending upon how much alcohol he consumed, was horny enough to do any woman eighteen to fifty. Definitely, without doubt, if given the chance, he'd do her. He's done worse. Now that he looked over at her again, he's never down better. After breaking up with his girlfriend last year, it had been a while since he had s*x. Suddenly feeling lucky, with an eeriness in the Halloween evening air, maybe tonight was his lucky night. He never had s*x on Halloween. Appropriately, trick or treat for him, if tonight was his lucky night.

Even though it was Halloween, the witches night out, George didn't know that she was a witch. How could he know she was a witch, even suspect that she was a witch? For sure, all the witches he's ever seen portrayed on TV and in the movies, that is, except for Elizabeth Montgomery and Nicole Kidman in Bewitched and again Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock in Practical Magic, as sisters, respectively as Gillian Owens and Sally Owens, look nothing like the evil witch in the Wizard of Oz and nothing like an Ann Margret look-a-like. There was just no way he'd remotely suspect this woman a witch.

She looked much like any other bored housewife or divorced, older woman, who hoped and wanted him to put the moves on her for a quick roll in the hay. Besides, there's no such a thing as witches, was there? He just thought that if he played his cards right, he may get lucky with an older woman, an understatement. Without doubt, she was there willing and ready to make all of his s****l dreams and desires come true. After not having s*x in a while, not having a woman to take care of him in his s****l needs, he had a whole laundry list of dreams and desires he'd love to play out with someone as good looking as the woman sitting next to him at the bar.

With the spell she had already cast over him and in the way that she looked and acted, there was no way for him to know that Maureen, if that was even her real name, was in her eighties. In hindsight, everyone else in the bar saw her for what and who she was, a flat-chested, octogenarian, wrinkled, old woman. Only, unable to see the real her, whispering her words of her love curse and putting him under her spell, as soon as she walked in the bar, how was he to know that she was an eighty-something-year-old witch? Figuring, no doubt, that maybe she was his grandmother, everyone in the bar wondered why else would he be so intent on picking up this old hag of a woman and taking her home with him.

If it wasn't for Halloween night with people thinking she was in costume, no doubt, she attracted little attention other than a few looks, stares, and comments. She was frightful. She was scary. She was everyone's perception of what a witch would look like, if there was such a thing as witches.

Reminiscent of the movie Shallow Hal, where Jack Black, playing Hal, is hypnotized into believing that Gwyneth Paltrow, playing 300 pound Rosemary, is not only much thinner than she is but also hot. Much in the same way of Shallow Hal, this witch cast a spell over George to make him believe that she was much younger than she was, and George thought she was a real beauty. After the affair was over and done with, along with the spell, seeing her for who she truly was, he'd forever shuddered to think that he had s*x with an eighty-year-old woman. Gross, that is, unless you're an eighty-year-old man. Then, there's congratulations in order for not only getting it up but also for making it through without falling asleep.

After having s*x with her, trying his best to forget her, every time he now thinks of Maureen, he thinks of that bathtub scene with Jack Nicholson being kissed by the ghost of the old, naked woman in The Shining. After they had s*x and she revealed herself to him, now that he knew that Maureen was a witch, now that he knew she was eighty-something-years-old, instead of thirty-something-years-old or even forty-something-years-old, the best s*x he ever had was ruined by that image of the old woman with all the moles on her back in The Shining. He still has nightmares. After this Halloween s****l affair with a witch, he's going to need therapy. Only, thinking that he was drunk, no one would believe him that a witch put a spell on him to make him have s*x with her.

"Hi," she said, when he looked over at her longer and for the third time without saying anything.

"Hi," he said suddenly feeling his eyes bulging out of his head and not believing he hadn't noticed this about her before.

When he turned to take a closer look at her, he couldn't help but notice, an understatement, that her big breasts overwhelmed her bra. As if they were a hot lava flow pouring out of a volcano that covered a bulbous mountainous range, he couldn't believe his eyes. Her mostly unbuttoned blouse barely covered her enormous boobs. He felt his eyes pop out of his head and smoke come out of his ears, as if he was Stanley Ipkiss, played by Jim Carrey in The Mask, when he first saw, Tina Carlyle played by Cameron Diaz.

As if his eyes were tiny binocular camera lenses, they captured and recorded the sexy image of her ample breasts to use later, when he'd surely be m**********g over her and her rack, that is, if he struck out with her and nothing more happened than the sexy exchange that he'd hope they'd have now. He couldn't remember the last time he saw a woman blessed with such a wonderful rack, who wasn't dancing around a pole with dollar bills tucked around her waist. Hoping to spend some quality time with her enormous t**s and with her, of course, he gave his best effort to bed her. Only, unbeknownst to him, already the lucky or unlucky man chosen, depending upon which viewpoint his or hers, she was the one who was intent on bedding him.

Even though she was older, a forty-something-year-old woman that looked like a thirty-something-year-old woman, never expecting that someone who looked as good as she did would be interested in someone like him, a man so young, so vulnerable, so naive, and so horny. At first, he wasn't looking at her to pick her up, but just to have some sexy conversation and flirting fun. Now, that he noticed her huge breasts, he was looking at her because she was so damn beautiful and sexy and he was so damn lonely and horny. His c**k pulsated by the mere sexy sight of her abundant breasts and by the imagined thought of having s*x with her, while touching, feeling, caressing, and sucking her big, round, firm, t**s.

Seriously, how could he not look at her? As if she were two giant breasts and she was, he was totally enamored by the sexy sight of her. How could he not be taken by her and by her nearly totally exposed breasts? Especially in the way that she was dressed or undressed, she reminded him of a better looking Elvira but, instead of flowing, long, black hair, she had long, flaming red hair, piercing blue eyes, and full ruby red lips that wanted to make him kiss her.

Only, it wasn't her hair, nor her eyes, nor her lips that first caught his attention. What captured his lustful focus was her massive breasts. With her half unbuttoned blouse, she displayed her deep, cavernous cleavage that curved as round and as high, as if she had two of Jennifer Lopez's ass cheeks stuffed in her bra.

Looking as if they were knobs on a radio that he suddenly wanted to tune and to turn up the volume, the impression of her big n*****s that pushed against the thin material of her blouse made his mouth automatically take the shape of a goldfish at meal time. Much like a vast mountain range, her cleavage ran so long and so deep that he suspected, if he put his mouth up to her boobs and said, "Hello," there'd be an echo.

"Buy me a drink?"

Much like in that movie, Love Potion No. 9, when Sandra Bullock, after drinking her invented concoction, whispers her words in the ears of unsuspecting men to make them want her, the witch's voice ran through his head like honey.

"Sure," he said snapping his fingers. "Bartender. Another round, please," he said putting twenty dollars on the bar followed by another twenty and another later.

He was a little nervous. Always the aggressor, he never had a woman hit on him before. He had hadn't been with an older woman, that is, since he was with Mrs. Cheryl Landers, ten years ago, when he did yard work for her. He was just a kid, then, barely 18-years-old. She was a real cougar that one, forty-something-years-old. She couldn't wait to get him naked and get his c**k in her hand, in her p***y, and in her mouth.

As wild as a mountain lion on steroids, never has he had animal s*x like that before or since. She took all the skin off his back and his ass with her long, fingernails, but he didn't care, that is, until later than night home alone, when he was sore, red, and swollen. Ah, but the memory of her was well worth whatever pain he had to temporarily endure.