It was a dark and stormy night. I was reminded of that fact by a beagle glaring down at me, hunched over like a vulture, perched on the porch of my destination. I pulled my raspberry beret down snugly for protection from the bitter New York wind.

I glanced at the decaying house before me. The years had not been kind. Whereas it once stood majestically on a hill radiating beauty now it was an eyesore; the real estate equivalent of Kathleen Turner. Still, it was precious to me. Full of wonderful memories of my childhood. Until recently it was my Nana's home where I was raised after my parents died in a freak butt plug accident. I still vividly recall Nana telling me, "Get your lazy ass off the couch and help me, girl!" 

 I survived such child abuse and my life was enriched by her life lessons. She taught me the value of the arts. I remember doing my nails while watching her push a heavy, cumbersome Hoover vacuum over brown shag carpet with strains of Korean music filling the air. That served as my introduction to Seoul music for which I remain eternally grateful.

In the distance, the sound of heavy hoofbeats faded into the cold night. The evening fog swirled around the streetlights. Vultures circled. Wolves howled.

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It occurs to me I should have begun at the beginning but where's the fun in that? First, I'm Esmerelda Estrada although better known by my screen name; Portia Porsche, a diva in the adult entertainment field. My specialty lies in the BDSM sub-genre  such as the iconic flick  'Blazing Paddles.' I have returned to the bucolic town of Slumber Holler where I grew up before leaving town as part of the Jehovah's Witness Protection program.
                                                                                                   
My reason for returning was a sad one. My beloved grandmother's lawyer called yesterday revealing her sudden demise. He also served as executor of her will. I was relieved she didn't leave me her extensive Hummel figurine collection but I was surprised to learn she left her Slumber Holler home to me under one condition. Since the house is allegedly haunted I had to spend the night there alone. She must have watched 'Ernest Scared Stupid' before adding that codicil.

That brings you up to speed as I inserted the rusty skeleton key in the antiquated lock. Once inside, the memories enveloped me like Nana's hand-stitched quilt. The scent of the elderly was far less comforting. The place appeared untouched since I left eighteen-years-ago. A vintage black-and-white TV set sat like a museum piece in her living room. My dusty VHS player was next to it. Her authoritative 'TV Guide' collection was strewn across the floor like bodies after a frat house kegger. Luckily the antique Motorola might come in handy since I brought a copy of my only black-and-white porn, 'Citizen Caned.'

Sorrowful memories of my lost grandmother had me crying like my mother when she discovered my career as a thespian lesbian. Fortunately, I remembered reading that masturbation is the best cure for depression. I think it was in Mother Teresa's autobiography. I grabbed my belongings and climbed the stairs to my former bedroom where many years ago I discovered the intricacies of a sexual soliloquy. I even petitioned the local historical society to honor that occasion with a shiny bronze plaque. The assholes declined.

I had planned wisely, packing DVDs to fit any mood. With it nearing Halloween one choice was 'Eyes Without a Face'; the iconic French horror movie not the iconic Billy Idol song. I also brought one of my earliest flicks, 'Sinderella" where I was paddled repeatedly with a glass slipper by my evil stepmother, the legendary GILF Nina Hartley. Next, I crept into my former boudoir where my posters of the two Debbies (Harry and Gibson) were still proudly displayed along with my Rugrats bedspread.

Crossing my fingers I examined my old dresser. Inside its faux walnut drawer, I found my favorite toy-of-yore; a lavender Spencer Gift vibe. Apparently I didn't rinse it very well since it was stuck to the bottom of the drawer like a Gorilla Glue commercial. One bent crowbar later I gave up, sweaty from exertion... and not the good kind of sweat.

But, since horniness is the mother of invention my perverted Edison burst forth. I plucked a pink tapered candle from a bloody candlestick for use as an old-school toy. Lying my head on my Britney Spears pillow, my legs opened immediately. They were so wide Dr. Fauci dropped by to dub me a "super spreader event." My talented fingers then began strumming my emerging clit like a ukulele on Maui. 

Soon I was squirming as if I had an intense urge to urinate; a skill I perfected in my fetish film, 'Islands in the Yellow Stream.' Then parting my slippery petals I inserted the smooth candle deep within myself. I mentioned myths of this house being haunted for which I had an unpleasant memory. Once, about twenty years ago I laid on this same bed pleasuring myself with eyes closed.

As I recall, the air suddenly turned cool, colliding with my muggy, hot puss creating a thunderstorm in my room. Opening my eyes I was fearfully aware of a ghostly male apparition floating above me. Watching! I next noticed a large translucent appendage protruding between its legs. Apparently, I wasn't the only one scared stiff.

I awoke the morning after my wraith encounter slimed in ectoplasmic ooze. I was terrified and confused but who are you gonna call?

Such memories inspired me. I began fucking myself with the ferocity of a frustrated virgin after the prom. Such enthusiasm resulted in the well-lubricated candle slipping from its intended target into my wrinkled rose causing more gasping... and gaping. I was so taken aback I left it buried there for an hour. Upon finally climaxing my cheeks tightened and launched the candle twenty-feet across the room. A new record!

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All Lush readers are aware of two things: First, I suck and secondly, masturbation works up an appetite. I climbed from the bed on trembling legs and dressed for my sojourn to the nearby Slumber Holler Diner. Donning my Yankees hoody and omnipresent beret I strolled down Ichabod Lane, crunching through fallen Autumn leaves then entering the nondescript diner, surprised at the total lack of patrons.

A friendly thirty-something buxom waitress motioned me to sit at any of the empty booths while offering a laminated gravy-stained menu. I sat and studied my lackluster food choices.

Hovering over me she said, "I love your beret."

"This old thing? It's just something I picked up in a second-hand store." Ordering a grilled cheese sandwich and bowl of tomato soup, I asked, "Is the emptiness due to Covid?"

"I wish," she replied while looking through the large window at the quiet street. She then dashed toward the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder at the entrance. Her cute, jiggling butt took my mind off my hunger. The solitude of the dingy diner was unsettling as was the vibrating egg I inserted as a fashion accessory. When Gloria (her name deduced from a plain nametag) returned with a burnt sandwich and tepid soup I feigned approval.

In no hurry for this disappointing repast, I asked, "May I ask what you meant by saying you wish the lack of business was the result of the pandemic?"

She reacted with amazement. "Are you truly unaware of our legend?" After shaking my head she continued in a hushed voice. "This is the third year our town has been beset by horror."

"What happened? Did Kanye move in?" I asked.

"I wish," she repeated. Now performing her tale with the gusto of a hack actor putting 'ham' back into Hamlet; her arms flailing and voice booming. "We were just a sleepy little town until 2018 when a surly, ominous stranger rode into Slumber Holler on a mighty steed..."

"Wait! Did he ride in on John Steed? Please tell me Mrs. Peel was with him." 

"No, you damned fool! His demonic-looking horse, snorting, and red-eyes glaring. The stranger rode through town grabbing our fairest maidens and absconding with them. They were never seen again."

Being versed in Washington Irving I asked, "The Headless Horseman?"

"I wish," she once again replied. "Our horror is known as the... (dramatic music and pause)... Dick-less Horseman!"

"Dickless?" I asked. "That explains his surliness. Is his name Ken by any chance?"

Her face promptly lit up. "Speaking of names, I just realized yours. You're that... uh... actress Portia Porsche. I've seen all your videos, even your musical with Mike Hunt."

"Oh, you mean 'Schlong of the South'? The one where I sang 'Semen Keeps Falling on my Head'. It's nice to meet a fan," I said while shaking then caressing her hand. "Does anyone know where yon maidens are taken?"

"The word on the cobblestone street is the demon takes them to Hell," Gloria explained. "Satan always preys on the innocent."

"That explains why I've never met the gentleman. Besides, I don't believe in Hell. It's a myth designed for frightening the gullible." Gloria grabbed her full chest and stumbled backward like Fred Sanford suffering yet another heart attack.

With wide-eyes, she asked, "Are you an atheist?"

"Quite the contrary, I'm a good Catholic girl. I go to mass twice every year religiously. I even have a rosary constructed from anal beads for special ceremonies."

Gloria leaned closer, her D-cup brushing both my hair and shoulder. Even though no one was near she whispered, "That's enough theology. You must be incredible in bed."

"I'm pretty damn good in a kitchen too. You do have a kitchen here don't you?" She giggled adorably making my pussy weep like Sylvia Plath. She then took my arm, guiding me to the kitchen. "All I'll need is a large spatula, some olive oil, and a stale French baguette." She blushed causing my knees to buckle.

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Suddenly the diner door ferociously crashed open, the wind pushing in a vortex of dead leaves. This commotion was followed by a menacing figure in a black Low Rider duster topped with a huge Stetson pulled over his brow, partially concealing his face. Gloria's face turned ashen as she crossed herself frantically while screaming, "Mon Dios!" But, this demon ignored her and grabbed my arm, yanking me outside without even mentioning my darling beret. How rude!

His well-endowed horse was awaiting nearby. Dickless tossed me like a cheap salad over it and away we went. I was going to ask our destination but he didn't strike me as much of a conversationalist. I watched for clues. I didn't have to wait long because the beast took a quick exit onto the Highway to Hell. I began singing until the Dickless wonder slapped me... and not in a good way.

The next clue was an enormous billboard with a thought balloon over Satan's head saying, "if you were a sinner you'd be here by now." I was beginning to rethink my stance on Hell being a myth. Perched atop his head was a red cap with "MAKE HELL SWELL AGAIN" stenciled upon it. Abruptly the mighty equine slowed and pranced onto a ferry on the River Styx. The ferryman immediately began crooning 'Come Sail Away' as the ancient boat flowed gently into a cave from which a large colony of enraged bats flew out, reeking of meatloaf.

Inside that dank cave, its walls were lined with posters advertising a Helen Reddy concert featuring Eddie Van Halen (a Hellish image for sure). Shrill shrieking like the eels in 'Princess Bride' echoed in the cavern. The Horseman dismounted and escorted me to a large ornate door with Ozzy music blaring. The Horseman squeezed my hand and offered surprisingly helpful advice.

"This is the Big Man's office but don't be frightened; his bark is much worse than his bite. If it gets awkward mention the director, Roman Polanski. The Prince of Darkness is a huge fan. But, speaking of films I loved you in 'Fingers in the Dyke.'  A true masterpiece!" He then kissed his fingertips like a pretentious French sommelier.

Opening the heavy door slowly, I peeked inside to see Satan sitting behind a smoldering Ikea desk. Upon seeing me enter he stood. His buff, naked, crimson body exposed. His penis appeared to be twitching angrily like a Graboid from 'Tremors.' I kept my distance. 

With his pointed tail swishing through the fetid air he spoke in a powerful voice, his pitchfork used for emphasis.

"Welcome to the happiest place under the Earth, Portia. I like to greet all new arrivals to calm any fears they might have. You will find Hell to be a most pleasant place. It's a tad warm but so is that godforsaken Australia but no one ever criticizes the koala-eating Aussies." A crying baby nearby seemed to irk Beelzebub. He turned and screamed so loudly it rattled the Nixon photographs lining his wall...

"Rosemary, shut that crying brat up! Daddy is working!" Then turning to me again he continued, "I tell ya, those two make my life a living Hell!" He then began guffawing at his so-called joke while slapping me on the back. That spot immediately began to burn like a ghost pepper enema.

He continued cackling and said, "That was a good one. Wait until I tell Benny Hill!" Then he once again turned to scream, "What's that little punk doing now?" He finally got Rosemary's response... "Don't talk about Cletus like that. He's your son who loves you very much. That's why he's been singing 'Cat's in the Cradle' for the last five decades." Satan and I both shivered at the thought.

He sadly escorted me to the door explaining, "I'm sorry to rush you, but I've got a Covid tour bus arriving any second. Business has been booming since Trump selected Dr. Seuss as his chief epidemiologist. His idea of green eggs and ham as a potential cure was surprisingly ineffective." 

Exiting I was again startled by a satyr with eyeballs in his palms trying to sell tickets to his labyrinth. "No thanks, Pan," I said while brushing past him. The Horseman promptly showed up like a demonic Uber driver (aren't they all?) 

"Aren't you burning up in those winter clothes?" he asked with surprising compassion. His Covid mask continued to conceal his face and my staring seemed to make him uneasy, but he made a valid point. The sauna-like heat had my thong wetter than usual... and not in a good way.

The Horseman continued, "The girls I transported from topside might have some more appropriate clothes you can wear. They're staying at Dante's Inferno Inn. Oh, your grandmother is there as well."

In shock, I asked, "My Nana is here? But why? She never sinned in her life!"

"Before you were born she was involved in some unpleasantness. She shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. Now, climb on Ms. Porsche and I'll get you out of those clothes." (Like I haven't heard that one before!) Mounting behind him, we cantered down a long hallway full of the stench of rotting flesh, singed hair, and horse dung which made me suspect a Hardees was nearby. 

"How long will I be in this hell hole?" I enquired of the genitalia-challenged horseman.

"Why my dear slut you are here for all eternity... Unless..."

"Unless what? Don't leave me hanging like a flaccid ten-inch cock. Oh, don't take that personally." He seemed unaware of my social faux pas to my immense relief. 

"If you best Satan in a mutually-agreed-upon challenge. If you do he must release your soul. It's called the 'Charlie Daniels v. Georgia Rule."

"Like chess maybe?"

Hell's minion answered quickly. "Fuck no! Anything but chess! Mr. Big hates Bergman movies. He says they are too cheerful. He requires something intellectually challenging."

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"Okay, Tic-tac-toe it is." We rode the rest of the way in silence until arriving at the garish Inferno Inn. A large red neon sign loomed over us welcoming Sean Connery and Alex Trebek. A burning ring of fire greeted us at the registration desk. The line before us moved as slowly as Pennsylvania counting mail-in ballots. Naturally Dickless was in room 666. He immediately opened a closet, offering an adorable floral sundress to me.

After taking and admiring it I asked, "Dicky-poo if I beat the devil do you think he might release the villagers you kidnapped?"

"It's a moot point because they don't want to leave. You see I have a particular set of skills they have grown very fond of. Now, I think I'll change as well, but don't watch it. I'm very self-conscious," the Horseman explained. 

I complied with his wishes for almost twelve seconds until from the corner-of-my-eye I noticed him awkwardly undress. The voyeur experience proved to be surprising on many levels. My first revelation was his legs were expertly shaved. Evidently he had just returned from Brokeback Mountain. His purple thong did little to dispel this notion. When he tugged down said thong I was left slack-jawed. As advertised he was sans penis but he was packing a vagina! With something the size of Peter Dinklage's pinkie positioned above it.

It was then he noticed me staring. He chastised me immediately for peeking. "Bitch, I begged you not to look at my oversized clit. I have a rare biological condition known as Clitoris Maximus.'

"But why do you pretend to be a man?" I asked with a voice full of concern.

"That's a long story but..."

Promptly, I interrupted. "I wish I could hear more of your fascinating story, but for now I need more info about these skills you mentioned."

She smiled and removed her western shirt, revealing her perky titties taped tightly to her chest, enhancing her masculine appearance. I was discovering why she enjoyed 'Fingers in the Dyke' so much. 

"Consider this Exhibit A," she said while pulling a cherry stem from her mouth; tied in an elaborate knot using only her serpentine tongue. I learned the same skill for my movie 'Oral Origami', Kurosawa's only attempt at porn. Even as impressed as I was, I am basically a giver.

Kneeling before her I kissed her prominent clit before capturing it with my lips. Sucking on it I was reminded of slurping a slimy oyster. The thought caused me to gag... and, not in a good way.

The gag reflex gave her the wrong impression. "Suffer, bitch!" She ordered while humping my face. Her orgasm followed, spraying my face like Old Faithful. Immediately freezing on my face, icicles forming on my chin.

"Uh oh! This can't be good," Butch said while scurrying about the room. Suddenly so cold our breath was visible. "Get dressed, Portia! We must go. Hell is freezing over. Trump must have conceded."

Finally, my own living Hell was over.