In retrospect, we should never have been trick-or-treating that Halloween night. Less than two months into our senior year in high school, we were way too old to sport costumes and beg for candy. Yet there we were, weaving through the neighborhood, trailing behind droves of younger kids. Amy was in her Cinderella gown and I in my pumpkin carriage garb.
We deliberately hunched over or stood on a lower step to make ourselves look smaller after we rang each doorbell. Occasionally an adult would grouse, "You kids are too old for this!" When they did, we would simply say "Sorry!" and turn off in another direction. No sense playing "tricks" in retribution, especially since we had both turned eighteen on October 2, and if there were any criminal mischief, we could be charged as adults.
Though Amy and I were completely unrelated, some of our friends called us "twins" -- not only due to our shared birth date, but because we had grown up as inseparable as twins. We were like brother and sister, only without all the bickering.
That fateful night was the first time since we were pre-teens that we had trick-or-treated. Perhaps the start of the final year of high school had stirred in us a longing for the simpler days of childhood. Perhaps it was the Halloween dare from one of our friends from school. Whatever the cause of our setting out on this All Hallow's Eve, Amy and I found ourselves having the time of our lives.
"Scott, this is even better than when we were kids!" Amy laughed in my direction. We were nearing the end of our neighborhood, the comfortable suburban sprawl where we had grown up as next-door neighbors. "You wanna keep going out of the neighborhood?"
"I dunno," I said. "It'll be getting dark soon." Unlike many Halloween evenings in our past, there was no rain and no chilly autumn wind. It was a dry and balmy eve, part of a nice stretch of renewed October warmth that once upon a time would have been referred to as a not-so-politically-correct "Indian summer."
"Come on, Scott – let's get a look at the old fart who's moved into the old Weatherby plantation," Amy chirped. "It'll be an adventure."
I wasn't too keen on using trick-or-treating as an excuse to gawk at some stranger who'd just moved into our town. "Parents of little kids won't be bringing them up there, Amy -- there won't be any camouflage. He'll call the cops. We'll be busted as overage candy-holic tresspassers. It'll be a waste of time," I complained.
"We won't know if we don't try!" Amy retorted. "Besides, part of Beth's dare was to get some candy from the 'ogre' that now inhabits the place."
"You know I've never been one to fall for being manipulated by other people's dares, Amy. I agreed to trick-or-treat with you because it sounded like fun, not because of a dare," I stated in my firmest brotherly older-twin tone.
Amy turned her lower lip down in a disappointed pout. A slight gust of warm wind pushed a few tendrils of her long, straight blonde hair up in the air into a somewhat silly-looking spike. Her eyes, a shade darker than a chlorinated swimming pool at dusk, were fixed on me in a silent challenge.
Had her Cinderella gown not puffed at the sleeves and hips to create an image of austere royalty, she might have resembled a little lost waif. My resolve weakened. Despite my belief that I was in the right, I fell into my usual trap of wanting to make her happy. She truly was the "little princess" -- not just the Disney brand, but the youngest-girl-in-the-family variety.
She could see in my moment of hesitation that my resolve was beginning to waver. "Okay, let's go -- but we're back here before dark," I ordered. The frills in her Cinderella sash crinkled between us as she gave me a quick hug.
"Don't worry," she quipped, "Nobody's expecting us, and nobody's going to miss us if we're late."
"Tardiness is not the point. I'm talking about safety. We don't want to be outside the neighborhood in the dark, on the shoulder of the main road with no street lights, possibly becoming the deer in somebody's headlights," I quipped.
Amy smiled her cutest waif grin. My heart always skipped a beat when she showed by that smile that I had done something to please her.
She had paid the price to get those well-aligned teeth. I remembered well those years of self-doubt that she had endured while sporting a set of god-awful silver braces. At first, I had done my share of teasing, but I soon stopped when I could see that it was really bothering her.
"We'll save some time by not stopping at every house. I'm really intrigued to find out what Beth was talking about with the old Weatherby plantation house. She made it sound really mysterious. We can just go there and come back home before the twilight fades," Amy suggested.
She grabbed my hand and started out of the neighborhood. My pumpkin outfit was beginning to weigh me down, but Amy's tug gave me just a tad of momentum as we headed up the hill. Houses on each side became more sparse as we made our way the three-quarters mile or so up to the Weatherby place.
As we turned off the road and walked up the gravel drive, the mood changed and our pace slowed.
"The place looks spooky to me," I asserted honestly.
"Yeah, it does," admitted Amy.
The brown brick house was massive and sprawling, with Gothic columns two stories high. Only one entrance faced the road. The entrance was on a raised porch, and a yellow bug-light spilled rays of golden light from just beside the entrance door. A few tattered Halloween decorations adorned the window beside the door.
I didn't see any lights on inside the house, nor did I see a doorbell to ring. "Maybe they went somewhere," I remarked.
"Maybe they just have thick drapes," Amy countered. "Scott, you knock on the door to see if they're home. I'll stand beside you with the candy bags."
I stepped first on to the porch, Amy making way for my expansive pumpkin carriage suit. The porch was made of wood, and as I made my way to the door I was vaguely aware that the floor of the porch reminded me somewhat of a giant picture frame.
"Go ahead," Amy encouraged. I had a queasy gnawing deep in my belly. Something just didn't feel right to me. Then I saw what appeared to be a giant door knocker, about three feet to the left of the door rather than on the door frame to the right.
Amy plastered a princess smile on her face, readying herself for the inevitable "Trick or treat!" if anyone happened to be at home. I reached for the door knocker and pulled it down hard.
What happened in the next few moments is difficult to remember, much less describe. At the split second that I slammed the door knocker, I heard Amy scream behind me. The porch gave way and dumped Amy and me into a room below, sort of like a cold cellar or wine cellar with concrete walls. Though we dropped about eight or ten feet, a thickly padded over-sized double mattress on the floor below kept us from serious injury.
Even so, I was momentarily disoriented. I checked on Amy, who was unconscious beside me. I checked her breath and vital signs -- she appeared to be okay. Maybe she had just fainted – there was no sign of head trauma or concussion.
I looked around the room to see more clearly where we were. It dawned on me that the illumination was not yellow, but rather a sterile white fluorescence from beside the lone door in the room. I looked skyward, expecting to see the porch light and tattered wood above us, but the floor of the porch was completely intact, forming the ceiling of the room!
It was then that I heard the Voice. "No, the porch did not collapse," I heard the Voice say. It was a voice like the one from the old Halloween spoof song, "Monster Mash": distinctly British, somewhat creepy, and with a hint of humor.
Amy was starting to come around, and I knelt down to help her up.
"Where are we?" she asked. She looked shaken but not badly hurt.
"Not sure," I said, "but we're not alone. Someone rigged the porch to drop us down here. Maybe it was the door knocker that tripped a trap door. We're somewhere below the porch."
"That's correct, my lad," said the Voice. "You two are now my guests. I trust you will stay at my pleasure."
That last part sounded ominous. The hint of humor was gone.
"Scott -- I'm scared," Amy said. Her ruby lips were starting to quiver. A tear leaked from her left eye and rolled down her cheek.
"Don't worry, Amy -- we'll be okay," I promised hollowly, having no idea that this was indeed the case. "I'll take care of you," I continued. I intended to do everything in my power to live up to that last promise.
"Who are you?" I bellowed to the Voice.
"My friends call me by my first name," replied the Voice, "but I prefer for my subjects to call me Master."
At this, I was experiencing a strange mixture of fear and anger. I tried the knob of the door, knowing instinctively that it would not turn. The hinges were not visible, obviously being on the other side of the door, so there would be no removing the door from the hinges to escape. I tried jamming my shoulder into the door, but quickly realized that it was of steel construction.
"Son of a bitch," I muttered, partly at the Voice and partly at the pain in my right shoulder from jamming it into the door.
"You need not try escaping," said the Voice, "you will not leave here until and unless I desire you to do so."
The threat was neither oblique nor veiled. His previous mention of "subjects" could have been a coy joke, but it was now clear that Amy and I had been kidnapped. Amy tried to suppress her fear, but her shoulders were heaving with unshed tears.
"What do you WANT?" I asked loudly. My head was spinning, trying to figure out possible options for Amy and me to get to safety.
"If you don't want anyone to suffer adverse consequences," the Voice commanded, "you will obey me completely and immediately. Do you understand?"
"Y-y-yes," stammered Amy. As I began to reply, the Voice interrupted, "Yes, WHAT?"
Fear shone in Amy's eyes. "I don't know what you mean," she shouted shakily.
A blast of noise like a ship's foghorn filled the room. Amy and I covered our ears to dampen the pain.
When the ringing in our ears had stopped, we heard the somewhat agitated Voice state plainly, "Yes ... MASTER!"
"Y-y-yes, Master," Amy complied, "I will obey completely and immediately."
"And what about you, my lad?" asked the Voice.
I looked up on the wall where the sound of the Voice was being piped in by a large loudspeaker suspended from the ceiling, the underside of the porch floor. The loudspeaker was likely the same source as the foghorn blast we'd experienced moments earlier. Attached to it was what appeared to be a miniature video camera, pointed directly at us. It moved in tandem with our movements.
I knew for Amy's sake that I'd better not make trouble, at least not while we were trapped. "Yes, Master," I replied meekly.
"Very well," answered the British-accented monster, "I have some tasks for you to complete. Young lady, I would have you attach the young gentleman to the wall."
Shocked, I looked around the room to see what the Voice could be talking about. I spotted a set of handcuffs dangling from a steel ring that was implanted in the concrete wall. The cuffs were situated just above the headrest of the mattress that had broken mine and Amy's fall into the room.
Amy took the key from the handcuffs. The camera followed her movements. "Is this what you mean?" she queried.
"Quite perceptive of you, Miss," answered the Voice.
"Come here, Scott," she stated flatly. I moved toward her and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Are you okay with this?" she asked. I nodded my assent. She crossed my arms and applied the handcuffs. Securing them, she removed the key and raised her costume to drop it in her pocket. True to her modesty, Amy wore a pair of cutoff blue jean shorts under her Cinderella outfit. After depositing the key, she shook the dress back out over the shorts.
"Very well, miss," congratulated the Voice. "Now, you are to remove the lad's costume."
Amy looked at me with concern in her eye. I nodded my assent.
"Yes, Master," she said.
She sat beside me and started by removing my boots. Then she undid the clasps on my ridiculous orange pumpkin carriage costume. Since my wrists were attached to the wall, she had to pull the costume down over my torso and off over my feet. I wore a tank top and boxer shorts under the costume.
"All of it," said the Voice.
"All of what?" asked Amy.
"Remove all of the young gentleman's costume," replied the Voice.
The pupils of Amy's eyes widened. "Like, what do you mean?"
The foghorn blast filled the room again. Because my wrists were constrained, I couldn't cover my ears. Amy's hands were at her ears, but her eyes showed overwhelming indecision. I desperately needed the pain in my ears from the continuing noise to stop. I caught Amy's eyes with mine, and nodded to her to proceed.
"Yes, Master!" she shouted. I wasn't sure whether the Voice would hear her over the blast of the blaring horn. However, the noise stopped momentarily.
"That's much better, Miss," answered the voice calmly.
Amy leaned toward me. "I'm sorry, Scott," she whispered. She first began to remove my tank top, but it would go no further than the handcuffs. "I'm going to have to rip it to satisfy this psycho," she whispered.
"Go ahead," I replied. She managed to find a seam on the tank top and ripped along the stitching to get my tank top off. Then she looked vexedly at my boxer shorts.
"Complete and immediate obedience, Amy," I chided her, "Don't just stand there."
"Okay, Scott, but remember that he made me do this," retorted Amy.
She slid my boxer shorts down and off my feet. Whether from fear or anger or whatever cause, my dick was shriveled to the smallest it had been since I was a kid. Feeling ashamed, I told Amy, "Don't look so disappointed."
I could tell immediately that I'd hurt her. Regretting my hasty words, I mumbled an apology. "Sorry, Amy -- I'm just a little self-conscious. Don't mind me being a jerk."
"I'm used to it by now," she retorted, and the gentle smirk on her face told me that all was forgiven.
The Voice interrupted, "Your tasks are not yet complete, young lady. It is now time to remove your costume."
Amy's expression reflected horror. "All of it," continued the Voice.
"Y-y-yes, Master," conceded Amy. Her shoulders slumped in the same way that they had done back in the sixth grade when she lost the last round of the state spelling bee. Amy was not only smart, but she was competitive. This time, she knew that she'd been beaten. "The perv is going to rape me," she whispered to me as a tear rolled down her cheek.
"Let's not jump to conclusions," I admonished hopefully, recognizing full well that there was nothing I could do to help with my arms cuffed to the wall.
I watched her with mixed emotions -- protective brotherly feelings warring with a stirring yearning to see my little buddy Amy in the raw. I'd occasionally fantasized about it, but tried to quell such desires because I didn't want to endanger our lifelong friendship.
I was sure that Amy's fear extended beyond the possibility of being raped. It was also grounded in her modesty. As difficult as it was for her to see me in my shriveled state, it would be manifold times more difficult for her to strip naked in front of her quasi-twin.
To her credit, she rose to the occasion before the Voice was tempted to send his foghorn blast ringing through our ears again. She lifted the Cinderella dress over her head and tossed it to the side.
The dress having been cast aside, she stood before me (and before the Voice on the other end of the camera) in her cutoff shorts, white bra, white camisole, and faux-glass slippers. Due to the length of the dress, she wore no panty hose.
"Promise you won't laugh, Scott," Amy pleaded in a hushed tone. I could tell that she was serious.
"I would never do that to you," I replied sincerely.
For the next several moments, her actions seemed to play in slow motion through my mind.
She unfastened the metal button at the top of her blue jean cutoffs and unzipped the zipper. Her hips swiveled as she shimmied the shorts down her toned, tan legs and over the slippers.
She kept the transparent slippers strapped to her feet. She wore demure white cotton panties underneath the shorts.
The camisole came next. She slid it upward over her head and off her arms. Now she was adorned simply by her white bra, white cotton panties and clear Cinderella slippers.
"Amy, you have nothing to be ashamed of," I encouraged her. She blushed, one of the few times I remember seeing her blush during our lifetime. It was a lovely hue, revealing volumes about the person that she was.
"Well, here goes nothin'," Amy tried to joke. Her bra had a clasp at the front, and in one swift movement she unhooked the front and whisked the shoulder straps aside. As she tossed the bra on the heap of her dress, I suddenly had a view of the most perfect set of tits I could have ever imagined. Not too big, not too small – just right, like in the Goldilocks story. Amy would have made a good Goldilocks, too – my blonde-haired, blue-eyed waif. I couldn't erase the thought from my mind that each of her breasts was a perfect handful. Or mouthful.
Much to my chagrin, my shriveled cock began to stir at that moment. I hoped that Amy wouldn't notice. Besides, her mind was surely on other things. The Voice had said, "All of it!" and she still had one more strategic article of clothing to go. And it wasn't the slippers. There was plenty of embarrassment to go around.
I was proud of myself in the next few moments as I concentrated on the varied features of Amy's lovely teenage face. I began to relax at the familiarity of her strong chin; her cute button nose; her ruby lips; her fresh-scrubbed, makeup-free complexion with the occasional freckle. I longed to see her beautiful smile return.
Returning from my reverie, I saw her toss the white cotton panties on the heap with her bra, camisole and dress. The first thing that caught my eye was the glass slippers still adorning her feet.
The next (and more shattering) object of my attention was the neatly trimmed blonde bush at the juncture of Amy's thighs. Nothing had prepared me for the vision of my lifelong buddy and neighbor as a petite but statuesque young goddess, standing completely in the buff before me.
My penis was quickly developing a mind completely its own. It had gone from shriveled state to rising member status at the sight of her breasts. Now, at the sight of her exposed most private place, it was standing at full attention.
There was no way she could miss it, and no way that I could cover it, given my handcuffed status. As I sat on the bed, I tried lifting one leg over the other to hide my boner. I saw the surprised expression that took over Amy's face as she stole a glance and then quickly looked away.
The Voice shattered the silence, and momentarily took the attention off my raging hard-on. "Young man, you must now lie horizontally on your back on the bed," he commanded.