Welcome to PAD's compost heap.
Stephenie Meyer owns the expansive and exclusive Twilight garden.
I'm just happy I found a place on her land I can take root.
For my dear mentor, Bornonhalloween, on her sacred day: For all you do, this romp's for you.
A Halloween Tribute
It's Halloween, and per tradition, Edward, the major hottie he is, and I, his sexy speech girl, commence upon our jack o' lantern carveathon. Each year I anxiously await this event, envisioning the aftermath of frowning, winking, sneering, laughing, and frightening pumpkins abounding and surrounding us, which we happily light to entice all those bitty munchkins, goblins, and ghouls who meander to our house for tricky treats—tricky because I know Edward. I know that he also has a scare or two up his sleeve, or in his pant leg, or under his shoe, or tucked in his hat. Well, you get the idea. He loves eliciting responses and lives to hear little girls squeal at his pranks—present company included, of course, although for an entirely different reason.
Swathed in only our swim attire for this unseasonably warm, Indian summer day, we busily settle into our stabbing, slashing, and sculpting madness marathon.
Hours later—and a whole lot of fooling around in between—a runway of orange, glowing, ember-y, innards lay strewn across a bright blue tarp, basking in shimmery sunshine. It is a modern artist's marvel—a study in complementary colors. Slick, stringy strands and slippery, slithering seeds slide effortlessly through my clenched clutches as I knead the gutted gnarled contents through my dexterously deft digits.
It's a sensory, sensuous, sensual, and sexual experience, and our outward, untoward gazes inform us of these unsavory thoughts at the same time. So no care is given to our outdoor surroundings as we just lunge toward each other, embracing our exhibitionism, figuring what the hell; we're already a mess anyway.
Still gloved with latex hands, we claw and paw, grasp and squeeze, pull then push and find ourselves splayed and needing to be done—quickly. Sweet ginger kisses turn into teasing tangled tongues, and tweaks, twists, plucks, and pinches nearly do us in. The sharp snaps from the removal of Edward's gloves inform me that he's serious and ready to begin making me scream. And he certainly doesn't disappoint when he pokes, prods, pats, and presses those parts of me in tune with my vocal chords, which bellow out a scale in the key of middle C.
After a few rounds of him using his fluttering fingers, making me utter even higher octaves, I find the strings of my bikini along with his own board shorts amid the stringy, strands strewn. I'm elated and give his sparkling green eyes my delicious grin because I note that his board certainly has not been left behind in his shorts.
As he steadies his projectile, getting ready to batter me, I give my hottie some sexy speech:
"You already have your knife, and I'm lying here like a spoon. I think there's still one utensil missing from this place setting."
"Oh, baby, I definitely intend to bring my fork to your table."
And "Fork me!" He does. His missile sends me sailing into my yonder. My whole body is sliding over a slippery bed of seeds each time he pounds and pushes, and when he throbs and thrusts, I wriggle and writhe right with him, back and forth on our seesaw of slipperiness. Soon, he's got me where he wants me, and I find my nirvana as he's finding his. So when he repositions himself and gouges it into my pumpkin, "Yes!" let me just say he's an exceptional sculptor who knows just what to do with his knife—with all of his tools, actually.
As we find that place together, we're roiling, riling, and churning as he turns, and twists, and scoops, and scrapes within me. When he lets loose, he gushes with a river so mighty I'm sure he's carved-out new crannies in my canyon. But I could care less because he's in that same place as me: happily blissed-out in pumpkin land. When I regain my faculties I realize I'm every bit as much of a mess as the fluorescent, fleshy, orangey remains on the cerulean canvas, but I love it almost as much as I love him. And his glorious grin says he feels the same way, too.
Still beaming and looking as guilty as sin, he takes my hand to pull me upward while steadying me, and without warning, he hastily throws me over his shoulder.
While he carries me dangling, my giggling, giddy, daydreamingness already has me planning and plotting not only our pre-turkey day dabblings, but also our Christmas canoodling and New Year's yawing—in addition to our normal romping of course.
"Ow!" He smacks my ass.
"Time to get clean, pumpkin girl, and because I lack internal control, I plan to lather, rinse, and repeat that process many times over, then do things to you which are way beyond inappropriate because I like keeping some parts of you as soiled as possible."
And just like that, he's worked me up again, but I wouldn't have it or him any other way.
Happy Birthday, Bornonhalloween!
And may you have many, messy more!
Happy Halloween to all others!
A/N:
A Gourd Story
A little over a year ago, once upon a desire, I found myself as a lowly gourd seed laying loose on parched soil in the vast land of Twilight. As luck would have it, I was swallowed up—by God knows what animal, through means I care not to comment on *shudders*—and deposited into a new and wondrous place: Born's Pumpkin Patch.
Born was amazing! (*elicits fangirl squee*) She was an Atlantic Giant, which is the most impressive kind of pumpkin there is—one so impressive, Born's shapely shell could probably be turned into a coach worthy of carrying a beautiful princess on her knees, along with the princess's journal, to her handsome dark prince so they could live kinkily ever after.
The warm greeting Born extended was like nothing else I'd ever experienced, and although I was a different species and nowhere near as special as Born, she not only welcomed, but also allowed me to happily participate with and play among the other pumpkins in her patch.
Times were always great and a lot of fun as we listened to and lauded Born's wonderful tales of romance, and humor, and *blushes* naughtiness. Born was also a very wise and powerful pumpkin, too, who always encouraged our thoughts, begged our opinions and rec'd our ideas to others. So it wasn't unusual one day that she and I conversed, as members of the cucumber family usually do.
"Have you seen the pickle on that one? Mmm Mmm. That is one, fine, unbridled gherkin with great possibility; if let to grow, it would certainly be worthy of earning a blue ribbon at the county fair."
"Or having someone's lips wrapped around it." *giggle snort*
"Actually, I kind of have a thing for that long, attractive, English cuke over there. He makes my leaves wilt every time he dances in the sun, turning in my direction. But that impressive loofah—two rows over—is also pretty good-looking, too, all long and warm and thick. I'm sure he's also great to rub up against."
"Oh, I don't doubt his potential, but have you noticed his stranglers creeping away from our patch to no man's land towards farmer Marcus's property?"
"Yikes! I hear he's really rough on his produce, but then again, maybe the loofah's seeking a life not as boring as the one he's in now."
"I don't know, Born. I think he's heading towards a slippery slope. He might as well just throw himself off the cliffs if his vines leech over there next door. I fear he might end up just like the others: like the ones who got away, never to be heard from again. Word throughout the patch says Marcus not only crates his harvest, but also uses tethers and ties. I hope that loofah understands what he's getting himself into."
"Oh, I'm sure that loofah has thought about his own desires. Sometimes just considering the fantasy is worth the risk if one's heart is no longer happy in the place that it is in."
We continued with our quipping and other philosophizing until Born made a serious suggestion.
"I think you should try to break free from your vine."
Believing she was kidding me, I initially dismissed the idea until she he explained that I had what it took to start making it on my own. Inwardly, I was panicking, wondering what I could possibly do to fend for myself when out in the wild world of Fandomland away from the safety of her words and protection.
"There's no way I could ever survive. I don't live the life of a superhero. I don't even know how to break free. I want to stay here forever. I don't need to seek things like the pleasure of the president. I have everything I need right here."
"PAD, I think it's your time to roll on . . . seek new challenges . . . meet new people . . . tell your own stories. I think you'd be good at it."
After great consideration, a lot of procrastination, a little more nudging from her, and some help from the others in the patch, I broke free. As I left, I waved goodbye and promised to steer myself clear of dirty steaming tubers, a.k.a. hot potatoes, and promised to write but only after first polishing my skills by taking Comp Sem 101 with Born's beta, the incomparable, Chayasara.
I was now free to find my voice, free to share my stories, free to meet new people, and free to face new challenges. But even with all of that freedom I knew I'd still miss her and my other friends, so she assured me that I was always welcome to come back and visit anytime.
And for that I could not be more thankful nor more blessed to have a friend as wonderful as she. Happy birthday, Bornonhalloween. You'll always mean the world to me for giving me mine.
Humbly on my knees, with love,
PAD
P/A/N:
I hope I have done her and her stories justice.
Just for fun, see if you can find all of her story title references found at and in her own . Also check out her collaborative stories with ThreeHotPotatoes also on FF.
Thank you, Chayasara, my indescribable beta, who feeds unending encouragement to
not only me but also my ego. I would not have completed this if it were not for her. (Incidentally, she was also a gift from Born.)
Thank you for reading this tribute.
Please scoot over to Born's profile and wish our girl a happy day.
Feel free to leave your thoughts.
Thank you for reading.
PAD