Intercorpse: An Erotic Halloween Adventure

This erotic novel puts you in control of the plot. In pursuit of the story’s quest, make choices that throw you into encounters with a variety of sexy friends and foes. Some choices lead to an end in which you live sexily ever after, while others will leave you desperate for a do-over.

Intercorpse1000Halloween

“You are going to die before the dawn arises after this Halloween night,” the fortune-teller intones. Beads of sweat appear along her hairline, and you notice that her roots are mousy brown underneath the garish red tresses that are wrapped in a purple bandanna. Her face looks like it’s trying to contort into an expression of grim foreboding, except it appears that she’s had too much Botox and all she manages to do is to slightly widen her eyes.

She’s staring at your palm and pointing to a line that curls around your thumb. You squint at the way the line fades, then forks out into two places before blending into a network of lines slashing across your wrist. She drops your hand all of a sudden, dusting off her own as if you might have infected her. “I’m sorry to give you the bad news. But I don’t believe in sugar-coating the facts, dear.”

“I paid you $20 to tell me I have less than 24 hours to live?” you snap, pushing out the chair.

The fortuneteller stands as well. “Here,” she says, handing you a $20 bill. “I won’t take the money of a dead woman. Spend it on something fun for yourself, because there’s no avoiding fate. Leave my tent now, there’s a dear. I need to sage the visions of death out before my next client. Can’t have the stench scaring away business, now.”

She shoos you out. You stand in front of her tent in the middle of the dusty road that travels through the Halloween carnival you thought you’d visit on a lark. You scowl at the sign on her tent– “Mystic visions by Selena.” You feel cold even though the weather is unseasonably warm for October. “Excuse me,” a woman says in a harried tone, and she bumps you from behind with a stroller occupied by two screaming babies. In your disoriented state, for an instant you see the aspect of two howling hounds from hell occupying a sinister black boat, and then you give yourself a mental slap and make yourself move.

You walk home, entering your small rented cottage. You’d planned a fun night out at a party thrown by the neighbors down the block–they’re a bit of a conservative crowd, but you’ve been trying to curb your wild side and become a responsible adult. You also have had a big crush on Marty, who lives two doors away from the party, and he’s going to be there. Still, when you stare at your reflection in the mirror, mechanically reaching for your make-up to get ready for the party, you don’t really see yourself–you’re seeing the fortune-teller’s face and hearing her voice echoing in your head over and over. You are going to die

You shake yourself. You’re being superstitious and silly! Of course I’m not going to die, you tell yourself. That fortune-teller was some bitch having a bad day. She probably tells everybody they’re going to die. I should report her to the police. Why should I let her ruin my night?

But even as you pull on your costume–you’re dressing as a sexy cat tonight–you can’t help but feel that she’s already ruined it. How can you avoid freaking yourself out about this?

Well, you could just throw yourself into tonight as if it’s your last night on Earth. You could put off becoming a responsible adult until tomorrow. Tonight is for being wild and getting as many fantasies to come true as possible.

You yank your leather miniskirt on over your hips. It’s a size too small and hugs every curve. You pin a furry cat’s tail onto the smooth leather that clings to your ass. You don a tight black strapless bustier top and finish off your outfit with fishnets, six-inch heels, and cat’s ears that poke up from a headband.

After a quick dinner, you head out to the party. It’s early evening and you head for the white two-story Colonial house down the street. Strains of jazz music are blaring from inside, and you hear the laughter of children and the shouts of “Trick or Treat” echoing from around the neighborhood.

You are going to die echoes in your head.

Everybody dies, you tell it firmly, and you push the thought away, striding purposefully into the house.

  • Continue in the house

 

In the house

You enter the foyer and look around. This is one of the biggest houses on the block. To your left is the living room, where a clown is making balloons for a small group of children, blowing them up long and twisting them into dachshunds and helicopters to the accompaniment of squeals and claps of tiny hands. Someone in the kitchen is shouting, “The donkey’s over there, you dolt!” and then one of your neighbors comes out laughing. He waves at you and calls, “Grab yourself a drink and join the fun!” and then he trips and falls on his face. You can hear more voices upstairs in the great room. You take a beer from the cooler next to the door, wondering if Marty is here yet.

You take a second look at the clown in his satin suit. His face is painted white, red rimming about his mouth, and he sports a rainbow-colored curly-haired wig and a large red ball on his nose. Beneath all the makeup and garish disguise, you can tell that this clown is young and has a muscular frame. You glance at the bulge barely concealed by his puffy pants and your inner cock-size radar pronounces this considerably above average in size.

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, you think.

  • You like the looks of this clown and decide to see if he’s got a long balloon for you too.
  • You decide to go upstairs and look for Marty.

 

Find the rest on Amazon.com

 

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