Banner Interactive and Forums Fanfic and Fan Art Multimedia Login or Logout Show Info Share Support the Site Contact

Fanfic: House Play (or, you can't stop Stepford!)

Chapter 1: Curious Cupcake pan

House Play (or, "You can't Stop Stepford!")

author: Pepperstasia Beaverhausen
rating: You know how I roll. NC-17, fo' sho
categories: Bizarre MRR, slight humor, angst, spooky story, alternating Micki/Ryan POVs
spoilers: No. I might mention Lloyd, though. He's intergral; a total dick, but integral nonetheless
Author's notes/the disclaimer: I'll never get paid for this, nor would I want to. I'd feel like a cheap, P-Diddy-esque whore. The characters of "Friday the 13th: the Series" are part and parcel Larry B.(boy) Williams and Frank (the) Mancuso, Jr.'s creations and in no way belong to my poor ass. That being said, I was inspired by my love for the "Stepford Wives" (old and new versions) and by coming up with another object that doesn't require bloodletting to work the effects of the curse. You'll see. Add some sprinkles, and away we go!

I'm on the cusp of falling asleep when I hear it on the other side of the French doors. Ryan is masturbating. Great. I was really wishing for sleep after the day I've had; another psychopath just tried to rape/kill me (yet again) due to the quest of retrieving a cursed 3-piece suit, and I tell you, it's getting to be ri-goddamned-diculous. What is this, like, the *fifth* time, now? Times like these, I wonder why I do this.
I hear Ryan's bedcovers rustling and his muffled, labored breathing; it's almost like he's in the same room because it's so quiet and dark. I'm sure he thinks I'm sleeping. It's not like this is the first time I've heard this, either. He *is* a man, after all, and men have needs. My attitude towards this otherwise awkward occasion is casual. How else *could* he fulfill his 'needs'? We're not in the most conducive-to-sexual-activity occupation, and both of us have body counts from relationships past. Besides, I'm no saint. I do it, too. I can pretend not to notice the box of tissues discreetly under his bed. Ryan gives the slightest moan and the movement of his bedclothes accelerates. What does he think about when he's doing it? No, Micki old girl, bad thinking. You don't want to go down that road. Just because you think about him sometimes when it's your turn does not mean that he does it, too.
Complication is the name of the game, dear reader. When we first met, it seemed like you could place bets and win in reference to his attraction to me. Boy, has it ever evolved from *that*. It seems to me now that his freshman flirtation towards me abruptly ended when I dumped my fiancee. In fact, he goes out of his way now to pick up women in my presence and it feels like he refuses to look at me half the time during conversation. Meanwhile, over the many months we've been cohabitating, Ryan has evolved from an annoying, albeit semi-adorable boy to a bonafide man who's seeped into my psyche. Jesus Christ, he takes a while. You'd think he'd be done by now; it personally only takes me a fraction of the time to self-please. Don't think that hasn't piqued my curiousity. However, the facts remain that he's not really interested. I believe Ryan feels that I am no longer safe game now that I am unattached, because there were obviously no *real* feelings on his part in the first place. I am led to thinking that he was just trying to get a rise out of me in those initial times, a playful tease that's never meant to go anywhere. It's befitting of his character.
I finally hear the swoosh of a tissue as it's pulled from the box and mentally sigh to myself. Just because I've reached a casual acceptanceof our situation doesn't mean I'm made of steel. I'm a flesh and blood woman with needs of my own. If he'd kept at it any longer I would have been tempted to make short work of my own self-pleasing technique. Thankfully, this isn't the case, and I can drift off to sleep, at last. Oh, Miss Foster, you are a hopeless case, aren't you?

*****************************************************

"Rise and Shine, Puddintine!" I hear Micki's voice greet me as I stir into conciousness. I smell coffee and the sun on the backs of my lids is replaced with the lovely sight of Micki crouched next to me with a steaming cup extended my way. Best part of waking up. She's still in her black nightgown, too.
"Thanks." I say gratefully as I accept her offer. I have to look at the floor now, because it gets dangerous if I stare at her too long. Especially when I've just woke up and am still in my boxers. Bonus points because of that little black satin nightie; the combination is a journey toward embarrassment.
"Jack wants to see us downstairs, he got up early to continue researching a cursed cupcake pan from the mid '50s." she tells me, "Apparently, he's discovered a few things and needs to discuss them with us, A.S.A.P. Horse's mouth."
I cowboy up and dare to glance at her again. She's gotten so strong; last night some psycho had her tied up on a dirty mattress, got her half-naked *and* had a knife, and she *still* kicked him in the balls before I came up behind him and smashed him in the head with a fireplace poker. And the very next day she's waking me up with a smile and fresh coffee. Micki's such a far cry from the spoiled little rich girl that I first thought I'd met.
"Hey, how are you doing? After last night?" I ask her, noticing a small knife wound on her shoulder where that bastard had slashed her. Man, I'm so glad I kicked that asshole a few more times after he was down, "Do you think you're gonna be okay?"
Micki sighs, "I'll be fine. Hey, I got my vindication." she smiles smugly.
That's right, she did go to town on that fucker after I untied her. She was vicious; her blouse was shredded to nothing and she had no pants on, but she kicked the shit out of his face and ribs while screaming like a banshee with absolutely no shame. It was the scariest/sexiest sight I'd ever laid eyes on. I had to pull her off him and carry her back to the Mercedes while she continued kicking and screaming. I couldn't stop thinking about it. Micki, in her panties and almost a blouse, wailing on a man that could have killed her. I had to jerk off. I couldn't sleep unless I did; the imagery was too much to bear without a release.
At least I waited until I was pretty sure she was asleep.
"Just checking." I give her a smile and put my coffee to my lips, "Time to get dressed?"
"Yep." she says, standing up and walking two feet to her door, "I'll be out in a few; if you're done before me could you bring some coffee down to Jack?"
"No problem."
Minutes later, I'm dressed in Ryan's finest and heading downstairs with a hot cup o' joe for my pal. Jack is one of the best guys around.
"Morning Jack." I say as I place the cup down next to the Manifest. He's hunched over it at the desk with a pile of public records and articles on the other side, complete with specs and a magnifying glass. "Micki will be down in a bit. You wanted to see us?"
"Good morning, and thank you." Jack says, nodding, "I've tracked down the last owner of the Futura Deluxe 12-inch cupcake pan listed here in the Manifest, and the details are quite interesting. It was bought by a man named Spaulding O'Clare for his wife last year. They've since moved to a planned community called Blissful Grove, the first family in a now thriving neighborhood in Southern California."
"Tell me how this is interesting?" I interject.
"Patience is a virtue, Ryan." Micki says, making her way down the stairs in mustard leggings and a tight black sweater, "Did you say Spaulding O'Clare, Jack?" she asks as she sidles next to me.
"That I did, young lady."
"Is he the man that's married to Marissa O'Clare, the famous magazine editor?"
"One and the same. After Spaulding bought the pan, his wife automatically quit her job as CEO of Bella Magazine and started Blissful Grove with Spaulding and a few friends. They currently have 68 families living in their planned community, which promotes 'peaceful and clean living' and 'utmost harmony' according to their brochure." Jack explains.
"This doesn't make sense Jack; do you two know anything about Marissa O'Clare? She's a *real* workaholic and a complete ballbuster." Micki argues, furrowing her brows in confusion, "Everything I've ever read about her in the gossip and society pages alway led me to believe that she makes Anna Wintor look like Donna Reed. She made Spaulding take her name because hyphenated names were too pedestrian."
"He also worked under her as the news editor for Bella, which tells us a little something about his character." Jack adds.
"Doormat?" I offer, "Total pushover?"
Jack grants me another nod, "What interests me *most* is the lack of death in their town, seeing as they're in the midst of a cursed object. The census for their community in the past year shows zero deaths. No accidental, no natural causes from old age, and no murders of any kind."
"That is strange." I agree.
"What could this thing possibly do?" Micki asks, taking the words right out of my mouth.
"All very mysterious." Jack peruses the Blissful Grove brochure, "Also, what you've just told us, Micki, brings up another suspicion I was pondering. Is *this* Marissa O'Clare?"
He holds up the brochure and taps the picture of a woman that looks like a sexed up June Cleaver, next to a fairly nerdy bespectacled man in khakis and a golf shirt. The female gazes at the latter in admiration, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her billowy chiffon skirt. Micki snatches the brochure out of his hand and examines the picture up close.
"This can't be right; this is Marissa O'Clare, but she's either consuming the most Valium humanly possible, or something's going on in Blissful Grove."
"So what's our first step, Jack?" I ask, ready for the next mission. If all the ladies are as gorgeous as they are in this brochure, this should be an interesting recovery.
"Well, I've drawn up some false i.d.s and a marriage certificate, for starters. You two will go undercover as Mr. and Mrs. Christopher and Catherine Silverman and move into one of their starter homes on a pre-paid trial basis. You're a lapsed Jewish man and Micki, you are his successful and dominating shiksa wife."
Micki almost does a spit take and I begin to laugh, "What you mean, prepaid?" Micki questions him, "And what is a shiksa?"
"I sold the Jade dragons, putting up the $10,ooo deposit to get your foot in the door in the community. We can put a stop payment on it after we retrieve the pan." Jack tells her and reassures her in tandem, "Also, shiksa, dear girl, is a Jewish term for exactly what you are; a Caucasian, an Anglo-Saxon, or to use another Jewish term, a Gentile."
"What's a Caucasian?" I joke, "Kidding!" I add after Micki shoots me a look. Slipping into the role of the submissive husband isn't going to be much of a stretch for me. She already has me pretty whipped, and we don't even do it. That's when it dawns on me. We're going to have to pretend to be a married couple. How would we act? Do I have to kiss her? My stomach does a few somersaults. Keep talking, keep looking at Jack. "The plan is get close to Spaulding and Marissa, I'm assuming? Then we find out where they keep it, snatch, and Bob's your uncle, we're back at Curious Goods." I vocally put together the obvious plan. "Pan in Vault. Done."
"Best case scenario, yes.." Jack says, "You're leaving on a plane tomorrow to your new house. I called my friend Billy Waller in San Diego. He owes me a few favors. He also owns a furniture store and will send movers to meet you there with furnishings for your new 'home'. We should have this appear to be as authentic as possible."
Is there anything this man cannot do? Jack gets things done, and I am awestruck consistently.
Micki slips an arm around my waist, "Mr. Silverman, I presume?" she kids me. I am grateful for jeans and their ability to conceal.
"Hey wife, could you get me some cereal? I'm starving." I crack, causing her to shove me with the arm that had been on my person.
"Get your own damn cereal." she exasperates, rolling her eyes.
This is gonna be fu*-un*. (Introduce sarcasm. Nice to meet ya.)

 

Next Chapter