Orgasm Diary September 2020
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The Thing (2020) free porn video
THE THING (2020)
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading Fiction Mania stories, then stop
reading now.
Author's Note: A silly, cheeky tribute to John W. Campbell, John
Carpenter, and Bill Lancaster. Any overlaps in copyright I cede to them.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is
purely coincidental.
RT
"Who could that be?" asked Norris.
He and the others watched the red car race toward the mansion. It veered
crazily along the narrow driveway. Suddenly, it smashed into a large oak
tree. Flames flickered. The tree started to burn. The lawn started to
turn brown.
"The magnolias!" cried Clark.
"Holy shit!" yelled Childs.
"Get the fire extinguishers!" shouted Blair.
"Magnolias? There's a burning car and your thinking of the fucking
magnolias? What about the lilac tree?" shouted Fuchs.
"I don't want anything to do with this," muttered Nauls who slunk away to
the kitchen.
-----000-----
"Mac, it'll be ok. Nothing to it. The clouds will clear up a tad," said
Bennings.
Mac looked out the window at the blue sky. It was sunny and a pleasant 20
degrees Celsius outside. Mac looked at Bennings who shrugged his
shoulders.
Mac said, "Fine. You say the car came from that dark, creepy, strange
mansion on the other side of the evil-looking, imposing, and really high
mountain. I'll check it out. But I'm not taking Dr. Cooper with me!"
Dr. Cooper looked at Mac bashfully. "You don't have to, Mac. But I really
do like riding in that big F150 with you.... You know." His voice was
meek: just like, he thought, Mac had always liked it.
-----000-----
The front doors of the grim-looking mansion were open. The two men
entered. What they saw staggered them.
There was the usual detritus of a Bacchanalian femdom fest. Empty
champagne glasses. Chocolate wrappers discarded carelessly on the floor.
A stray pink stocking. A broken fur-lined handcuff. Soiled panties. A
large dildo under a couch. Helium filled balloons stuck to the ceiling.
And Celine Dion playing in the background.
"Where is everyone?" Dr. Cooper asked to no one.
"Fuck," said Mac.
"Not yet. There's more searching to do here," replied Dr. Cooper to deny
himself immediate gratification. Mac looked at him in astonishment.
The two men proceeded upstairs.
"Mac, over here!" Dr. Cooper cried. "Look!" He pointed to a large, human-
sized wardrobe filled with French maid outfits. On the sides of the
wardrobe was stenciling. The stenciling was in script, human script, not
alien script. The script was in all caps, bold, underlined Arial 256 font
and spelt: 'Harkton Maids Academy No. 2871-F'.
"Whatever it was, those dirty dozen doms let it out," Mac muttered.
"Pardon?" asked Dr. Cooper.
"Are you wearing your hearing aids?" Mac asked with exasperation.
-----000-----
"Mac, over here!" Dr. Cooper cried yet again. "Look!" He pointed to a
small, frail, tiny, puny, scrawny, skinny French maid sprawled on a
child's bed in the maid's room.
"This stinks!" Mac observed.
Dr. Cooper nodded his agreement. "Chanel No. 5," he opined.
Mac looked around and found what he was looking for immediately next to
him: a switch. He lightly hit the French maid with it. Nothing. He hit
the French maid with full force. The French maid whimpered in delight.
"Now what?" asked Dr. Cooper.
-----000-----
A few hours later:
"We found this," Dr. Cooper said to the assembled others once he and Mac
returned.
Mac flung open the wardrobe doors. There were gasps and cries of horror
as he unveiled what they had brought back.
All the other men stared in astonishment at the wide variety of
exquisitely sewn, lace trimmed, satin, nylon, and light cotton assortment
of French maid clothing. And the dozens of 6-inch heels. And the many
varied hosiery: sheer, control-top, toeless, opaque, matte, sheen, and so
on, and so on, endlessly so on.
"We also found this," Mac declared, as he turned on the video and
streamed it on the big screen that was awesome for watching football,
soccer, and basketball (but not golf...).
The images were unusually disturbing (except on FictionMania): dozens of
French maids cleaning the other mansion, from top to bottom, from head to
toe, inside and out, from left to right, and there and back again.
Vacuums. Swiffer dusters. Javex. Cleaning rags. Brooms. Mops.
"I need to study this," Blair quietly said as he gently fingered the
wardrobe.
-----000-----
"This," Blair pointed to a large, heavy, metal bolt on the doors of the
wardrobe, "is masculine. All of us understand it. It's large. It's heavy.
It's metal. And dark grey; don't forget dark grey. Masculine.
"But what we have here," Blair said to the others as he opened the doors
and pointed to the contents, "is not masculine at all."
He paused because he knew that pauses in short stories --- like pauses in
novels and literature, like pauses in plays and movies, and like pauses
in life, real life --- served no purpose except dramatic ones. Here, he
simply wanted the attention that a drama-seeker like himself deserved.
Rightly deserved. Despite what his overbearing mother, his loathsome
older sisters, and his despicable ex-wives had told him.
"That's sissy," he softly whispered in his professional opinion as he
slowly wrapped a garter belt around his wrist.
"I don't want anything to do with this," muttered Nauls who slunk away to
the basement.
-----000-----
A few hours later:
"Hey! Everybody! Get down here fast!" Windows shouted at the top of his
voice. The others raced into the room. They let out a collective gasp:
several of the French maid uniforms, pantyhose, and heels were missing.
"Who had the key to the wardrobe?" shouted Garry.
"You were the last one!" retorted Palmer.
"No, he did!" yelled Norris, as he pointed to Blair.
"That stuff wouldn't fit me even if I wanted it!" countered Blair.
"The best outfits are gone!" shrieked Fuchs. Everyone shut up at his
remark and stared hopelessly at the cedar-lined, spacious interior of
this delightful Baroque wardrobe.
-----000-----
A few hours later:
"This is a big fucking problem," Mac forcefully said in his baritone
voice as he surveyed the horror.
Everyone had gathered yet again in yet another room in the mansion.
There, they had seen with their own eyes the immaculate, shiny floor, the
polished veneer furniture, the dust-free bookshelves, and the shining
windows.
"There's a sissy on the loose," Mac said grimly. "And it's cleaning this
place. Pretty soon, our very masculine manly of most masculinity
manliness weekends for men only is going to be sissified."
"I think we should call our wives and ask them for help," begged Herbert
who was not a character in any written, staged, or filmed production of
'The Thing'.
"Are you fucking crazy! They'll never let us live this down if we do
that!" shouted Garry.
"What if you're wrong?" countered Childs.
"Then you're wrong! Again! You're always wrong. You've been wrong since
high school," said Dr. Cooper, remembering that sordid incident with
Childs back in grade 10 behind the boys' locker room.
-----000-----
"Look here," said Blair, holding up a pair of frilly panties. "I found
these in the hamper. Very mysterious. Very mysterious."
"They belong to my wife. She wore them yesterday before she and the
others went to the City for the play," remarked Norris.
"Oh, sorry." Blair's comment was a meek excuse.
Norris knew that he had just caught Blair in a sissy act, but he didn't
want to alert him to his suspicions. Not yet anyway. It could wait until
night. With a smoldering fire. With fluted champagne glasses. And Celine
Dion playing in the background.
-----000-----
"Noooooo!!!" The loud cry pierced the tranquility of the lovely mansion.
Everyone raced to the source: the kitchen.
"Fuck!"
"Oh no!"
"I don't believe it!"
"Will this horror ever end?"
They gazed upon the disaster.
All the chips, peanuts, cashews, Doritos, chicken wings, French fries,
doughnuts, coke, beer, vodka, whiskey, Scotch, marijuana, THC, CBD, and
brownies --- all the good food --- was put away neatly in several boxes.
The boxes collectively were squarely lined up with the tiling on the
floor. Precisely centred on top of each immaculately taped box was a
piece of 8.5 x 11 paper with one inch margins. On each piece of paper
were listed in an unknown sans serif 14 pitch font the box's contents.
Worse, on the kitchen island were several trays of washed and sliced
vegetables and fruit, recyclable bottles of sparkling mineral water, and
low calorie biscuits.
"I don't want anything to do with this," muttered Nauls who slunk away to
the garage.
-----000-----
"I've devised a cunning test to find which of us has turned into a
sissy," Mac said.
"What's the test?" asked Garry.
"Does it hurt?" asked Blair.
"Oprah is on in 15. Will we be done by then?" Bennings asked.
"Shut up! I'm about to tell you all about the test. Now fucking shut up!"
Mac was getting mad. He started pacing around the room. "Sissies like to
clean. Real men have wives for that. Real men don't clean," he began.
"I have a Filipino maid and no wife. Where does that leave me?" Palmer
asked.
"Shut up and smoke some more shit," Mac replied. "So, what I figure is
this test by which we see a sissy forced to come out of hiding. To reveal
themselves. To show themselves. To demonstrate---"
"Get on with it!" Someone shouted.
Mac moved to the door to another room. "I reckon a sissy can't stand a
mess. A sissy can't help but want to clean up a mess. It's in their
nature. It's who they are. It's what they---"
"Get on with it!" Someone shouted.
"So, I created the biggest mess possible in this next room," he pointed
to a door, "and left some vacuum cleaners, brooms, mops, feather dusters,
rags, and buckets --- and Lysol for COVID-19 --- all over the place in
that room. And I left the TV on the NFL channel. I figure no sissy can
resist the temptation to clean the place and to switch channels to the
Shopping Network."
He looked at each of his friends in the eye. Several of them looked back
at him. With anticipation. With hunger. With lust. Frankly, it started to
creep Mac out.
"Anyway, we can't have any sissies in this group. We all wear jeans,
plaid, baseball caps, and work boots. No sissies." He grew serious. "We
all watch football." He grew even more serious. "We eat greasy pizza."
He opened the door.
-----000-----
All his friends threw themselves into the room and picked up some
cleaning utensil or tool and started sissy-handling the chaotic mess
straight away.
They were done in minutes.
Mac stared at them. He was flabbergasted.
"All of you?"
They collectively shrugged their shoulders and murmured: "sorry, bud,";
"it's just that way,"; 'easy and quick actually if you put your mind to
it!"; "my wife is happy when I do it,"; and so on, and so on, endlessly
so on.
"For how long?"
They collectively grunted and groaned: "wedding,"; "moving in together,";
"after I met her mother,"; "third date,"; and so on, and so on, endlessly
so on.
Mac hung his head. He kicked the floor. He sighed.
He stood defeated, alone, surrounded by his friends.
"Is it any fun?" he asked, resignedly.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
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