The Mask

He knew how to dress himself at least. Peacocking, Lucy Pinder thought men called it. In his snazzy yellow suit, with a similarly banana-themed hat and flashy lipstick-patterned tie, he looked like he could be a Vegas high roller, just with a green fright mask on. Oh well—a mask beat a skin condition.

“Hold it right there, toots!” he said to her. “You can’t park that caboose here! And that mouth, the hoochie-coo, them humina-humina-huminas—the white zone is for loading of cock and cum only! I’ll need to fill you up with some post-haste and get you moving out of here before you’re written up!”

What was she supposed to say to all that? No one had ever propositioned her that way before. At least he had a sense of humor…

Still, Lucy flushed red, as red as the clingy dress she wore wrapped around her full breasts and wide hips like Saran Wrap. And the Mask was staring at that Saran Wrap like he was looking for a meal inside it, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull as he looked at her taut breasts and tauter hips. 

He looked like a real he-man, ready for a new conquest. Desire in his every look, passion in his every breath. Lucy was used to reducing men to puddles: it’d been years since someone had come on to her so strong. And he looked like he was capable of following through in her three holes, like Tiger Woods approaching a golf course—or Tiger Woods approaching her.

Lucy took an involuntary step back as the Mask’s eying of her become even more ecstatic, overzealous. He advanced on her. “Now see here, young lady,” he said in a British accent as thick as her own, pulling out a day planner and flipping through it before her eyes. “It’s six days, seven hours, three minutes, forty-two seconds since I’ve rogered a woman! Add to that three days, twelve hours, eighty-eight minutes, banana seconds since I’ve rogered myself! Do you know what it does to a right honorable chap when he goes that long without fucking or sucking or beating or jacking or fucking or sucking? It gets him all toffed up! Rather stiffens his upper lip! Pip pips his cheerio, not to mention hellos his ‘ello ‘ello ‘ello! Do you want that, Lucy? Do you want to be responsible for a poor lost soul going around, pronouncing ‘hello’ with an H?”

The Mask clicked his teeth together. The pupils of his eyes had become the international symbol for women. Lucy looked good to them. Ravishing. Like a T-bone steak looked to a dog, or a shark, or a vegan being honest with himself.

“Just look how hard you’ve gotten me!” the Mask said, and pulled down his zipper.

Lucy fainted as a spring snake jumped out of his fly.