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  Kevin The Strange HQ

  St. Louis, Mo

  www.kevinthestrange.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Kevin Strange

  Cover art Copyright © 2013 by Carrion House

  All persons in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental or for the purposes of satire or parody. This is a work of fiction.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the USA.

  Cotton Candy

  Kevin Strange

  Senica pulled the teddy bear head down over her face. It felt surprisingly heavy and thick, almost like a real fur hat would feel. But this one was bright purple with faux fur, a dayglow pink nose and coloring along the inside of the ears. Catcalls followed as she posed and preened, giggling.

  “Sluuuut!” one girl yelled out.

  “Work that little ass!” another said.

  She'd received the strange text earlier that afternoon. Her literature professor at Clawson and Sampson Junior College for Girls had sent out a mass text to her entire class that asked them all to meet him in their classroom at 8pm sharp.

  As if this text wasn't odd enough coming from her teacher on a Saturday night, Mr. Pillinghast had been on a personal leave of absence for the past two months after the sudden death of his wife.

  Weirder still, when the girls showed up at eight, Mr. P. was nowhere to be found. The door to the classroom, however, was unlocked. Senica and several others had let themselves in, only to find the room empty.

  What they found inside proved to be the strangest of all.

  Strewn about the room were dozens and dozens of little plushy stuffed animals; in the chairs, atop the desks, lying on the floor. The various kittens, puppies, birdies, reptiles, and assorted farm animals looked as though they'd been haphazardly tossed into the room with haste.

  But even more bizarre, lain across Mr. P.'s desk were a dozen life-sized dayglow colored plushy animal costumes complete with oversized heads that fit in such a way as to leave a person's head sticking out of the animal's mouth as though they'd been swallowed whole, with only their face remaining visible within the animal's open maw. Along with the heads came matching full body costumes, paw booties, and gloves.

  The girls had squealed and fought over the outfits, but Senica had managed to get ahold of the big purple teddy bear before anyone else. Purple was her favorite color, and she still had a huge collection of plushy teddy bears at home from when she was a kid.

  Monica, Senica's best friend, put on a pink fuzzy cat head. It had pointy ears and big, cute, googly eyes that shook every time Monica shook her head. The remaining girls, ten in all, grabbed up the rest of the costumes consisting of bunnies, birds, puppies, mice and various other cute plushy animals.

  “I wonder what Mr. P. wants to talk to us about,” Jamie, a preppy cheer leader with long auburn hair, said to Senica once the group had settled down.

  “I don't know. But I hope it's to tell us he's coming back,” Senica said, sniffing the purple paw on her right hand. It had a faint sweet smell that she couldn't quite place.

  “Fuck that,” said Kelly, a punkish girl with a mohawk of long black dreadlocks that hung back in a ponytail. The sides of her head were shaved and tattooed. She was the best poetry writer in the class, but her poems were always morbid and way too sexual for Senica. “Mr. Humongous is a waaay better teacher!”

  His name wasn't really Mr. Humongous. The girls called him that because he had an unmistakably huge bulge in the front of his trousers when he lectured the class.

  “You're just saying that 'cause you want to suck his big fat cock,” Monica said, making lude blowjob motions with her hand and tongue. The others burst out into giggles. Kelly's face flushed red but she did not deny the accusation, instead choosing to cover her embarrassed face with the big floppy ears from her puppy costume while she giggled uncontrollably.

  “I hope he gets here soon, my boyfriend's coming over later,” Amanda said. “Did anyone see his car in the parking lot?”

  “Nope,” Senica said. “Just a weird ass rusted out RV. Maybe Mr. P. has been living off the land.”

  Amanda shuddered, visibly. “He always did give me the creeper vibe.”

  “Hey, what's this?” another girl asked after the laughter died down. This one wore a bright yellow tutu with a large poufy bird tail trailing out behind it, her tiny face almost hidden within the huge beak of her bird hat. She picked up a thick manuscript from the desk that had previously been covered by the costumes which the girls now wore. The cover read, simply: Cotton Candy.

  Senica snatched the manuscript from the other girl's hands. She plopped down in a chair next to the huge window overlooking the main campus gathering area below. In fact, the entire building which housed the English department was one big window. Some eco-friendly Greenpeace architect had designed it in such a way as to harness as many glass panels as possible in order to conserve electricity. Two walls and the entire ceiling of the classroom were windows from top to bottom, side to side. The moonlight was not quite high enough in the sky to illuminate the entire room, but there was enough for Senica to comfortably see what she was reading.

  Monica and the other girls crowded around her, their curious questions filling the air.

  “What is it?”

  “Who wrote it?”

  “What's it about?”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Senica said, annoyed. She turned the page, scanned it, turned to a few more, then gasped.

  “Whaaaat?” Monica whined, dying to be let in on Senica's new little secret.

  “It's written by Mr. P.”

  The girls started to giggle again.

  “It's addressed to us!”

  The girls shrieked and tried to pull the manuscript from Senica's hands.

  “Back off!” she said. “I'll fucking read it out loud. Jesus.” Senica loved being the center of attention. She loved even more holding this kind of power over the other girls. Excited, she turned back to page one and started reading out loud. First she read in a comical voice imitating and exaggerating the uptight and impersonal academic tone of their professor, but soon enough, as the story became more and more bizarre, she dropped the mocking act and simply read the story for what it was. This is what she read:

  ***

  Girls,

  I apologize for the unorthodox method with which I've chosen to contact you after my unfortunate time away from the classroom. I assure you, there is absolute and sound reasoning for my calling on you this particular day at this particular time. But, in order for you to fully understand this reasoning, you must understand what awful fate has so recently befallen your dear teacher.

  What follows is absolute truth. Of that fact, there is no question. This manuscript is a chronicling of the events of the past two months of my life and, I must warn you now, they are not for the weak of heart. The description of my ordeal will be raw and extremely graphic. I simply know of no other way to express into words the morbid, carnal, and bizarre parody that has become my life. Lest you misunderstand my intentions, though, let me reiterate the fact that I did not write this chronicle as a confession of sins, but rather as a simple distraction from ever-increasing and obsessive thoughts that I cannot bear to act upon. Thoughts which are still, even now, driving me slowly mad. Read further at your own risk.

  ***

  My First Life ended with the sudden and unexpected death of my dearly beloved wife Susanna. As some of you know, she and I were married for forty-three years. Susanna
was everything to me. My anchor. My conscience. She is the person who pushed me to pursue academia as a career. She made the decision for us to focus our lives on our careers rather than having children of our own. Our place, she often said, is to help the children already in this world. Enriching the lives of hundreds versus those of two or three biologically inclined was, to her, a humanitarian gesture of the highest order. That was Susanna. Selfless, altruistic to a fault. Always practical and calculating the best odds. It's no wonder she became a math teacher.

  The aneurysm took her from me swiftly and without pity. Only ten minutes before, we'd texted about dinner. Then I got the phone call. Life is a merciless mistress.

  After the funeral, I was lost. It was weeks before I could even sleep in our bedroom, in our bed that we'd shared for four long decades. It did not, I'm ashamed to say, take that long before the itch started in the recesses of my subconscious mind.

  Susanna, for all of her saintly qualities, unfortunately did not possess any semblance of a sex drive. I did not allow her frigidness to bother me. She was too good a woman to hold such a trivial thing against. I pleasured myself manually in the shower whenever the urge presented itself, which, in all honesty, it rarely ever did. That is, until Susanna died.

  When I said she was my anchor and conscience, I was not speaking merely in a romantic or metaphorical way. I felt an intense freedom after her passing. A freedom that scared me down to my deepest core.

  Susanna decided to become a vegetarian, so I became a vegetarian. Susanna loved classical music, so I filled my album collection with only the greatest composers. She was raised a strict Catholic, so I attended mass twice weekly.

  Before she'd been in the ground forty eight hours I was eating cheese burgers, listening to Dylan and Elvis as loudly as I wanted in my study; dancing and singing, eating awful food, drinking cheap whiskey. I was like a teenager again. I was the kid I'd been before Susanna came into my life. At sixty-two years old, I'd found the self I never knew I'd lost.

  That's when the itch started. That's when everything went horribly and irreversibly wrong. That's when my Second Life began.

  Susanna had frowned upon watching too much television, said it was lazy man's entertainment; that the intellectuals read books. I love books, but after she died I could not concentrate on my reading. I couldn't keep my mind from racing back through gulfs of time spent with the most wonderful woman I'd ever met. I needed a distraction.

  I flipped through the channels, mindlessly at first, welcoming the droll hum of the television set in the study. Soon enough, I stopped on one of the cable channels. A suspense thriller was more than halfway into its murder, sex, lies, and stunning twist plot line.

  I let my mind relax, gorged myself on someone else's drama. And then the blonde bombshell murderess seduced our grizzled detective lead. She ripped off her tiny dress, revealed her perfect breasts, and moaned in ecstasy as the hard boiled cop took her from behind.

  At that moment I came alive. The vague stirrings flamed up into a house fire of carnal lust. My cock went utterly rigid in my pants to the point of demonstrable pain. I had to unleash him. Words cannot describe my excitement as I took my flesh into my hand for the first time outside of the comfortable solitude of my shower in more than forty years.

  I stroked as the cop thrust. I moaned as the blonde screamed in ecstasy. The three of us climaxed together in some weird, vicarious late night cable TV Ménage à trois.

  It was, without a doubt, the best orgasm of my life. I was lightheaded as I switched off the television. I scooted myself, pants around ankles, to the study couch and collapsed, falling fast asleep, still stewing in my own sticky juices.

  The next morning I awoke feeling refreshed, invigorated even, but more than anything else: horny as hell. I masturbated once before even leaving the couch. Again after a morning piss. I masturbated through seven phone calls from bereaved colleagues, family members, and close friends.

  “Thank you for your condolences.” Fap. Fap. Fap.

  “She was a great woman. She'll truly be missed.” Fap. Fap. Fap.

  “I don't know what I'll do without her.” Fap. Fap. Fap.

  What I did was jack off, every day, all day, until my penis was chafed, raw, and aching. I didn't put pants on again for an entire week, and only then with reluctance. I had simply become unsatisfied with cable TV sex. I craved more. I'd unleashed a beast within myself and that beast was hungry.

  I'd never viewed pornography before. Not unless you count half crumbled playboy pictorials quietly passed around middle school playgrounds. I did, however, know where to purchase it. I don't own a personal computer, nor would I know how to operate the machine if I were to buy one. I remain deliciously “old school” in that regard. So the deluge of internet pornography remains outside of my grasp. Susanna, though, had chaired a church protest group that attempted to stop a sex toy and boutique shop called Hottest Topics from opening in our neighborhood. Her failure was my blessing. My sweet, obscene, pornographic blessing.

  My first trip into the store was terrifying. I was the only patron in the place, and yet, even with only one bored clerk reading a magazine behind the counter, I felt like the entire world was watching me. Judging me. I passed the wall of enormous dildos and the racks of tiny lingerie toward the movie wall in the far corner. I was too embarrassed to even look fully at all of the naked bodies engaged in acts and positions I'd never even dreamed of. I quickly grabbed a movie from the shelf without even looking at the title and purchased it.

  I became even more embarrassed when I had to ask the clerk what kind of play back device I needed in order to play the offending film. He was extremely gracious and helpful, pointing out that I could buy a Television set with built in DVD player so that I wouldn't have to mess with any sort of wires or assembly.

  I masturbated to the disk thirty-two times before deciding that a midget sleeping with obese women was probably not my “thing”, as it were. Over the next month I purchased over forty pornographic films, reveling in the carnal nastiness, the perverted lust, the clinically graphic visual stimulation in a way I'd never experienced anything before. Keep in mind, my excitement for the week normally consisted of completing the New York Times crossword puzzle.

  I was drunk on pornography. But soon, mere masturbation was not enough. And herein, girls, lies my Great Folly. My descent into degradation, depravity, ultimate humiliation, and, in time, absolute terror. But I digress.

  Soon, Susanna's death was but a slight memory. I'd begun to purchase sex toys from the store, using them on myself as I tasted more and more of that forbidden fruit of my awakened sexuality.

  One day I watched all oral compilation films, stuffing myself with images of fat cocks sliding in and out of plump female mouths, ultimately losing their seed on gorgeous faces and into eager mouths. Over four hours of beautiful women sucking the male root dry. As I did so I pleasured myself with a rubber pocket sex toy shaped to resemble the human mouth.

  The next day, bondage films were the order of the day, while I wore a ball gag and nipple clamps, withholding orgasm after orgasm with tight cock rings designed to prolong my erections. I continued this way, barely eating, barely sleeping for days on end. I was binging on fleshy excess. I made my way through all available sexual fetish categories at the porn shop: All female, threesomes, all anal, bisexual, transsexual, pregnant women, fat women, old women, young women. I fucked myself retarded with all manner of pocket pussies, dildos, pocket assholes, butt plugs, cock rings, stingers, poppers....

  I cleaned out the porn shop, but it was not enough. It was never enough. The beast was insatiable.

  I purchased an escort. Made love to her in all of the new found positions and creative motions that pornography had so recently taught me, right there in Susanna's house, before the dirt on her grave had yet to even settle. Then I bought two. Fucking them both in the bed I'd shared with my beloved for more years than I had not. One pissed in my mouth while the other shit on my plastic w
rap covered chest in the very spot Susanna had kneeled to pray for the entirety of her adult life.

  Still it wasn't enough. Never enough. The beast needed more. I'd become a sexual deviant of the highest order in less time than it took most men to complete their first alcoholic binge. Worse still, I was no longer ashamed of it. I owned my perversions, wore them proudly like an expensive suit made of butt plugs. When my neighbor, the old widow Marsters saw me walking my escorts out of the house early the next morning, I smiled and waved at her. Most men, upon losing their wife to illness late in life, would buy a dog, plant a garden, participate in social mixers. I fucked prostitutes in the ass. Still, as out of control as my obsession had become, I was not without morality. The only line I refused to cross sexually was with animals and children. The innocent need not suffer for my sins.

  Through all of this, my love affair with pornography had not ended. I still watched fuck movies more times per day than I ate or shit. My favorite porno fetish, after nearly two months of this decadent, lascivious lifestyle, turned out to be The Gang Bang.

  There was just something preternatural about all of those rock hard cocks violating one small woman, something about one girl's ability to take all of those sticky white cum shots that turned my crank like nothing else.

  I was insatiable, and yet the gang bang eluded me in real life. I could hire all the hookers I could ever fuck ten times over. Susanna's life insurance policy, coupled with our modest lifestyle and frugal spending, had left me with a considerable savings. And yet, I could not just invite my friends or colleagues over for afternoon tea. “Oh, by the way, fellas, Janice here is going to take our cocks in all of her holes and then slurp our man-seed down with all the enthusiasm of a starving Ethiopian. See you at noon!”

  No. The gang bang would be tricky. I was vaguely aware of clubs which catered to the swinger audience, but it was my rudimentary understanding that single gentlemen were discouraged from attending such events. Besides, as proud as I'd become of my newly awakened sexuality, I did not want to risk my tenure at the college being spotted at such a questionable establishment. My frequent visits to Hottest Topics were already pushing it.