Rachel J Thompson
I was just finishing a cigarette when Jason Vorhees finally showed up. I dropped the butt into a rusted old Folgers can beside me and leaned on the porch railing to watch as he parked beside us, killing the engine on his rumbling F150. Late afternoon sun twinkled off of his dirty, cracked windshield so that I couldn't get a good look at him yet; just a vague, hulking shape behind the wheel.
He got out of the truck and turned to face the cabin we'd rented. I couldn't see his eyes behind the iconic hockey mask, but could sense when his gaze locked upon me, holding as he withdrew a machete from the passenger's seat.
I'll admit, it was enough to send a chill racing down my back.
"Holy shit," I said. "You look amazing! Wait, wait!"
I lifted my phone and Jason was nice enough to pause as I snapped a shot of him that was going to look fucking fire on my Instagram. I craned my head and called back towards the cabin, "Hey hon, he's here!"
I spun and framed up another shot, my face in the foreground, affecting an exaggerated look of terror with my hand on my cheek while Jason lurked behind me.
My husband, Matt, came out of the cabin to join me, fiddling with his camera as always, and breaking into a huge grin when he saw the figure on the lawn. "Oh man, brother, you look incredible! Come on up, want anything to drink? We've got a few Whiteclaws, some IPA, whatever you want!"
Jason approached, moving slowly, boots clomping on the porch steps like fists on a coffin lid. He was massive up close, towering over both Matt and I, and I could appreciate all the fine detailing that he'd put into his costume. It looked screen-ready, the tatters of his jumpsuit dark with mud and splashes of rusty blood. For the mask, he'd gone for a look that was probably somewhere around Friday the 13th part 7 or 8, the formerly white plastic now the color of rotted bone, with a small chunk near the bottom broken off to reveal a hint of jawbone. His skin was a mottled, appropriately corpsey grey and looked to have been airbrushed. He'd even added some dry, ancient wounds on his thickly muscled arms with either latex or silicone.
"Hey, I'm Amy," I said and stuck my hand out.
The towering, murderous figure tilted his head slightly, arms at his sides, staring down at me with what I thought was approval. It was hard to be sure without a face or a sound, or really any movement at all, but why the hell wouldn't he be? I was barely into my thirties, took great care of my body, and my Crystal Lake Camp Counselor outfit was the perfect balance of innocent and sexy--the cropped t-shirt stretched tight across my tits and revealing the flat, toned expanse of my belly, and the pair of Daisy Duke style jean shorts didn't leave a whole lot to the imagination. I looked like the perfect, most scrumptious little victim. Hell, I'd even put some waves into my hair, teasing the mahogany locks into a style that would have fit right in at an early 80's summer camp.
After a few moments of him possibly checking me out and ignoring my outstretched hand, I lowered it, remembering that Matt had mentioned that the guy--who's actual first name I didn't even know--had said in their emails that he preferred to remain in character if that was cool. It would have been nice to get some indication that there was an actual human underneath that getup, but I respected his process. I'd certainly dealt with a hell of a lot weirder than someone wanting to get all Method with their modeling.
This photoshoot had been Matt's idea, something that he'd cooked up one night while baked, excitedly babbling about how we could do a whole series of horror movie inspired sets from Friday the 13th to Halloween to Nightmare on Elm Street, how great they'd look in both our portfolios, how he could play around with stylized lighting setups, and how just maybe this could lead to someone hiring him to work on a short film or something. As a lifelong horror fan myself, he hadn't exactly needed to twist my arm to get me on board, and I rather liked being Matt's go-to female model.
"Okay!" Matt said loudly, breaking the tension. He slung the camera strap over his neck and rubbed his hands together excitedly. "I'm pretty much setup inside, so what do you say? All set, hon?"
I peered up, trying to catch a glimpse of the eyes behind that scarred mask, but he'd darkened them with makeup and, coupled with the fading sunlight, there was no trace of humanity. Just twin pools of black regarding me with empty, passive interest. Like he wasn't some model that we'd found on one of Matt's Facebook photo groups, but the real deal.
"Yeah," I said, telling myself to keep the sense of unease, to use it. It would certainly make it a hell of a lot easier to look terrified on camera. "Yeah, let's go."
We shot inside first, meaning to run some setups in the cabin's living room and the upstairs bedroom so that it'd be fully dark when we moved outside later. Matt started with just me, looking all cute and innocent and vulnerable, getting me to pose on the couch and snapping off a few quick shots mostly to test that his lights were properly synced to his shutter.
I grabbed my bag from the coffee table and pulled out the joint that I'd brought along with a lighter.
"And just what are you doing?" Matt asked with a grin, still firing off tests and adjusting settings as I exhaled fragrant smoke.
"Getting into character," I said. "Gotta do something to draw Jason's wrath, right? Unless you've got someone here for me to have sex with."
Matt laughed and shook his head. I offered the joint to Jason, who shook his head slightly. More for me. I took a few more puffs and then put it out before I got too high. Aside from the expected relaxation and munchies, weed always made me a tad horny, and with all the setups that we had planned, it was going to be at least a few hours before we were done with Jason and I could have Matt to myself and rip his clothes off.
After maybe a half dozen more photos, Matt lowered the camera, frowning in contemplation, then broke into a goofy grin and rooted his phone out, saying, "Oh man, just wait you guys. Just wait for it..."
A moment later, the shrieking violins of the Friday the 13th title song blasted out of the cabin's speaker system, making me utter a little shriek and then laugh, my cheeks glowing with embarrassment. Jason, standing out of frame near the kitchen, hadn't moved an inch.
Matt apologized and used his phone to remotely bring the volume down until we had a proper level of cinematic ambience and then we got down to the shoot proper. For my first frames shared with the legendary, unstoppable butcher of Crystal Lake, we had him coming through the front door, his enormous frame silhouetted by the blood-red embers of the dying sun, and me sprawled out on the floor, clawing my way towards the camera in hopes of escape.
A few dozen snaps of Matt's camera, him moving, suggesting small changes--move your right arm up slightly, look more to the left, good, now look at me--and then we moved upstairs, repeating the pattern. An idyllic start, the arrival of a masked killer, and finally me on the ground, emoting terror as he raised his blade.
It was all going well. Quite well. Matt occasionally flipped the camera around, proudly showing us some of the shots, and even on the tiny LCD screen, they looked great. The cabin that he'd found had great lighting--Matt really only added one or at most two of his big light panels to any scene--and it turned out that I looked pretty fucking cute while screaming in mortal peril. The real star though, the one who absolutely made every frame, was Jason. Or whatever the hell his name actually was. His incredibly detailed costume, size, and sheer presence really took things to the next level, and by the time that we were ready to move outside to get some exteriors down by the lake, we were pumped. At least, Matt and I were. Jason was stoic and silent as ever, just taking his direction and trailing behind us slowly in true slasher fashion.
At the edge of the cabin lawn where we'd parked, there was a small break in the undergrowth that wound down perhaps fifty yards to a small lake. Not much more than a glorified fishing hole, but there was a gorgeously weathered wooden dock studded with big log support poles, and the owner had even added a sort of homemade "street light" that shone down with a buttery glow.
The weed was doing its thing, and I was feeling good and loose, enjoying the feel of the night air on my skin and the way that my tight daisy dukes rubbed ever so gently against my clit when I moved just the right way. And--much as I probably wouldn't admit when sober--the whole Jason thing was kinda doing it for me. There was something undeniably erotic in it; a pretty girl on the ground in a posture of submission, her posture seeking mercy from the hulking monolith standing rigid above her. Of course, the filmmakers had always known this, hence the runaway success of the slasher genre, but actually being the woman in the shot was a whole other level.
Basically, Matt was gonna get fucking rocked later.
We set up on the dock and after the preliminary, establishing shots, Matt suggested that we do a few with me on my knees with the machete at my throat, like Jason had come up from behind and caught me off guard.
It was the closest that my co-star and I had been thus far, and when he stepped behind me, bringing his weapon around my collar bone and gently pulling my head back against him, my heart gave a quick, excited flutter.
"Oh, yes," Matt said. "That looks great. Hon, can you kinda look up at him?"
I tilted my head back, finding that blank mask hanging over me like a moon in the black sky. He lowered the blade and the flat edge of it passed gently over the curve of my breasts, sending a sudden, electric chill through me and making me gasp. I'm not sure that Matt caught it, but Jason appeared to, tilting his head knowingly.
"Turn towards him a little? Maybe like you're begging for mercy?"
I did as my husband directed, and saw that I wasn't the only one getting turned on. Jason was sporting a noticeable bulge in his dirty, torn costume. My state of arousal, which had already been steadily climbing, suddenly rocketed up several notches. I realized after a few seconds that I'd been staring, biting my lip, and made myself look up, trying to remind myself to be professional and that, oh, by the way, my husband is standing literally a few feet away.
"Okay, are we set?" Matt asked, apparently oblivious.
Jason, still peering down at me, gave a slight nod of approval.
My heart hammering, not knowing what exactly I intended to do, I reached up and touched the machete, my nails gliding along the cold metal, tracing up towards the hilt before drifting to the side and alighting on outline in Jason's pants.
Matt's camera, which had been clicking a furious, constant staccato, suddenly went quiet. Jason gave me another nod and grunted in approval. It was the first sound that I'd heard escape him all night.
I looked back briefly at my husband. He was still watching us through the viewfinder, finger poised over the shutter button, his mouth open, his entire body tense. Waiting.
I wasn't sure how far I wanted this to go, but knew that I had to see it, even if just for a moment to satisfy my curiosity. Moving slowly, giving Matt plenty of time to speak up and put a stop to things, I drew down the zipper on Jason's pants. I pulled at the fabric and his cock sprang free, nearly hitting me in the face.
I drew in a sharp breath, barely suppressing my desire to utter an awestruck holy shit.
It was easily the biggest I'd ever seen--long and murderously thick. I don't have much experience guesstimating at sizes, but suffice to say that with this kind of weapon between his legs, I wasn't sure he really needed the machete.
Unlike the rest of his body, his groin, lower stomach, and upper thighs weren't airbrushed grey, and the warm, rich tone of his skin made the thing stand out even more. It had been a long time since I'd been eye-level with a slab of manhood that didn't belong to my husband, and from my vantage, I'd guess that Jason was close to double his size, both in length and girth.
It hovered in the night air before me, wavering slightly.
The soft snap of Matt's camera drew my attention. He'd just taken a picture of me, his wife, on her knees mere inches away from another man's thick tool.
Jason's big, powerful hand slid around the back of my head and guided me closer, until I was pressed against his hipbone with his penis jutting straight out beside my cheek. With the flat edge of the machete, he tilted my chin upwards so that I could see the blank, cold mask hanging over me.
Matt took another picture. And another.
My heart was hammering, pulsing in my throat and between my legs, my clit achingly alive and demanding attention.
Still looking up, my face a mix of awe and lust, my lips brushed his shaft. I pressed against his iron flesh, kissing one of the thick veins that supported this beast.
More shutter snaps from Matt. A quick, excited burst.
I turned my face slightly so that I could look into his lens, staring both at my husband and the eventual viewer of these photos as Jason Vorhees powerful hand entwined in my hair and guided my mouth along his length, leaving dusky pink traces of lipstick on his skin.
When I reached the tip, Jason turned his hips towards me, pressing his cockhead into my mouth, bulging my cheek.
"Shit!" Matt said, and for a moment, I thought that he was going to call everything off, but when I looked, he was fumbling nervously with his camera, a sheepish look on his face. "S-sorry, fucking battery..."
He dug into the cargo pockets of his shorts and pulled out a fresh one, trying to replace it with shaking hands. I noticed that he was hard as well, sporting a visible tent as he watched me, my lips wrapped around another man.
My hand crept between my legs, pressing the damp fabric of my jean shorts against my aching pussy as Jason's hips began to move in slow, gentle thrusts.
Matt took a flurry of pictures, moving around us, bending and stooping to capture every angle as I lost myself in the moment, focusing solely on my scene partner, pumping him deeper, wanting to take it all but knowing that I couldn't possibly. Already, my jaw was beginning to ache and his thrusts were coming perilously close to the back of my throat.
Jason pulled himself free with a wet pop and looked down at me, his broad chest heaving with excited respiration as he raised the machete with one hand and grabbed the hem of my shirt with the other. Carefully, he slipped the fabric over the blade and pulled. For a moment, nothing happened, and then my shirt began to part. I tilted my head back, letting my hair spill down over my shoulders and finding Matt's camera, gazing into it and biting my lower lip as Jason cut my top off, freeing my breasts. He turned to the side and swung the machete in an overhead arc at one of the wooden dock supports, the blade biting in with a thock and quivering as he turned back to me.
Bending and placing his hands onto my shoulders, Jason began to guide me backwards until I was lying on the cold, rough boards facing the sky. His hands went to my breasts, squeezing and kneading them, his calloused fingers pinching my nipples, making me arch into his touch and moan.
After a moment, he traced down my belly to unbutton my jeans. The constant whisper of the camera shutter stopped and Matt cleared his throat.
"Uh...hey maybe we should take a little break, or--"
Jason's head shot up and Matt stopped, momentarily frozen under that silent, unreadable gaze. He didn't speak, didn't move further, but the message was clear: Don't.
Silence. Just the buzzing song of nocturnal insects and the faint rustle of wind in the trees.
Jason unzipped my jeans and tugged them down along with my soaked panties, leaving me naked. His hands went to my knees and I parted my legs for him, heart beating faster than ever, sensing the inevitable moment rushing towards me as he rested his engorged member against my swollen lips. Knowing that this man was going to fuck me while my husband stood by watching and that I so desperately wanted it, needed to feel it.
The sound of the camera resumed, clicking faster and faster until it was just another insectile whine, a part of the night.
Jason positioned himself, rubbing his cockhead along my wet slit, and then pressed forward. He was much, much larger than what I was used to--not even the toys that we kept in a box under the bed and pulled out when we were feeling particularly frisky could come close--and the pleasure of him entering me mixed with guilt and a sudden, sharp fear that it would hurt. It made me feel lightheaded and swimmy, my chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths as he slipped into me, inch after delicious inch.
It was surreal, almost like a dream, looking up at this hulking, masked figure from the movies as he loomed over me, penetrating me, already pressing deeper than Matt could have hoped.
"Oh God," I gasped. "Ohhh..."
Jason pulled back and then rolled his hips forward, settling into a steady rhythm. I wasn't going to last long. He was hitting all the right buttons, and in a matter of seconds, my cries of pleasure filled the night, moaning wordlessly as he fucked me, driving me down into the rough, unyielding wood.
Matt was circling us, snapping away frantically. I caught glimpses of him now and then, but mostly, my eyes were closed as I focused on the sensations.
As I was coming down, Jason lifted me, turning me over so that I was on my hands and knees. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head back while simultaneously plunging into my pussy, burying himself to the hilt and making a strangled, half-sob escape me.
"H-hon?" Matt asked, concern in his voice. "Are you okay?"
"Oh yes..." I gasped. "Oh, I'm so much better than okay..."
I trailed off as another orgasm rocked me, radiating out from the center of my being in great, powerful waves that made my arms and legs quiver and go rubbery. I would have collapsed had he not held me up, his grip on my hip and my hair firm.
His pace increased, his breathing growing quick and labored. With no warning, he pulled out, releasing me and letting me fall sideways onto my hip. In a flash, his huge, slick cock was in my face, and I opened my mouth just in time to catch the first hot blast as it lashed across my tongue. Jason groaned and stroked himself, painting me with his seed. Covering my face and neck while Matt snapped off bursts of pictures like machine gun fire.
When he was done, Jason took a step backward, his chest rising and falling with great, satisfied gasps, and then he turned and began to walk up the dock towards the cabin, leaving us in stunned silence.
I looked over at my husband, who was leaning against one of the support beams, his camera finally lowered, his face ghostly and drawn in the pale glow of the overhead light.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," he replied.
He considered this, licking his lips. "I...think so? You?"
I smiled and gave a weak, shaky laugh. "Yeah. I might be walking funny for a day or two though."
He nodded and I wondered what he was thinking. How he felt looking down at me, naked and dripping.
"Are...we okay?" I asked.
To my relief, he nodded. A trace of his old grin resurfaced and he gestured at me with the camera. "I think some of the pictures I got might not really work for Instagram though. Just a thought."
I laughed and grabbed the torn remnant of my shirt, meaning to use it to clean my face until Matt told me to wait. He raised the camera and focused on me, zooming in to my sticky, messy face. I grinned, I pouted, I leaned towards the lens and regarded it like a lover. I scooped a trail of cum from my cheek into my mouth with two fingers and sucked them clean. If the sudden, frantic increase of Matt's camera clicks were any indication, he particularly liked that bit.