Here's what could have happened…

  The scent of coconut and chlorine wafted with each stroke of Mrs. Murray's hand. Warm, supple breasts pressed against Sam's chest but he had a hard time focusing on anything other than what Mrs. Murray's hands were doing.

  "Um…HELLO?" Mike Murray's voice was hesitant, aggravated. The sound of it finally caught Sam's attention. Mike's brow was wrinkled, consternation clearly evident on his face. "I said: 'Mom, what the hell?' That's your cue to stop and turn to me in surprise."

  It took a moment for the words to process, then comprehension dawned. Sam looked down to Mrs. Murray, but it appeared she hadn't even noticed her son appearing. The rhythmic pumping of her hand never missed a beat.

  "Um, Mrs. Murray?" Sam had to repeat himself two times before she glanced up. "Mike's here…" Sam jerked his head toward the younger man. She glanced over, but didn't let it stop her efforts.

  Mike, for his part, looked extremely uncomfortable. "Mom, the script says you're supposed to stop," he said in the tone of an adolescent imploring his mom not to embarrass him in front of his friends.

  "I can't, sweetie," she said, grunting softly at the exertion.

  "What? Why?" His voice was pleading.

  "Do you know how long it's been since I've had a good fuck?"

  "What!? Ew, Mom. Gross!"

  "Oh, grow up, honey. Now run off and do your homework. Momma's gonna see if she can still deepthroat." Water cascaded over her head as she dropped to her knees. "Lord knows I haven't been able to practice on your father."

  "Mom!"

  "I know. Genetics are a bitch. But you're a good boy and not bad looking. You'll do fine. Now, run off before your future therapist bill becomes astronomical. I don't think you'll want to see this…"

  ***

  Sam's abdomen and face hurt from all the laughing. He wouldn't be surprised if he was sporting welts where Ash's fingers dug into his ribs.

  But that was the last thing on his mind right then. The taste of her lips lingered on his and he could feel the rush of blood to his face just as his heart was speeding up. Ash had an impish grin and she shifted her weight to jump off him. Before she could, Sam caught her wrist. Her eyes widened, expecting retribution in the way of tickling, or maybe a pillow to the head, but her expression turned to confusion when she saw the earnest look on his face.

  "What's up, Sam?"

  He was quiet for a long moment. Thoughts and feelings he thought long-buried flitted through his mind. Finally, just as Ash was starting to worry about his mental state, Sam spoke, and the words nearly bowled her over.

  "I love you."

  A giggle was halfway up her throat when everything clicked together. The earnest expression, the somber tone. Tears fuzzed her vision and she dropped back down on top of him and planted another kiss on his lips. This time, a real one. "I love you too."

  Neither of them could say how long they sat there, exploring each others' mouths and tongues with their own. Finally, after what seemed like hours and yet somehow only seconds, they parted with a gasp.

  "So now what?" Sam asked, looking up at his best friend. Her face was flushed and her chest heaved, pulling her shirt tight against her body.

  The impish grin returned and she pressed her body against his. "I'm guessing this isn't a zucchini you're hiding in your pants?" Sam flushed, embarrassed that she'd noticed his obvious arousal. She laughed, a deep and guttural chuckle. "It's okay, Sam. Really."

  Their eyes met and a silence blossomed between them, a pregnant, heavy silence that grew and grew until a small, happy smile pulled at Ash's lips and Sam finally asked.

  "So…do you…wanna have sex?"

  The End

  ***

  Beside the painting, among the woven roots, a darker rectangle appeared like a hole in the darkest pits of Hell.

  A shoe stepped through the dark rectangle, the end of a foreleg attached to it. It hovered in the air like its owner was simply stepping from the garden path to the stoop rather than from across the vast emptiness of space and time itself.

  The dark brown Oxford loafer lowered and came to rest on the floor…and slipped.

  A well-dressed gentleman with a cane and a bowler hat tumbled out of the interdimensional portal and landed, sprawled, on the root-strewn floor.

  A man of indeterminate age popped up from the floor, his bowler askew over his eyes. He clutched the cane with both hands like it was a lifeline and his legs shook like he'd had a night at the pub with the boys. His whole body shook as he steadied himself. Finally, when the trembling was mostly under control, he lifted a tentative hand and straightened his hat.

  "Sorry," he said in a voice that sounded much like a young John Cleese. "It's been ages since I've had corporeal legs. I've lived long enough to see gods born and die, but damned if I always get the jimmy legs after astral travel. It is such a bother. Give me a moment."

  The two unmoving forms on the bed waited patiently, blood trickling to the bed through hundreds of holes drilled through their flesh.

  "I've got it. I've got it. Oh, no I don't—" the voice cut off with a crash.

  ***

  The dark brown Oxford loafer lowered and came to rest on the floor…and set down on the root-strewn floor with no issues. Presently, a well-dressed man followed the loafer, looking very pleased for some reason and looking around as if he were awaiting praise.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  When none came, his lips pressed into a thin line. Eyes that have seen eons, have seen the birth and death of entire galaxies, strafed around the room, and where his gaze fell, reality itself shivered. Finally, after taking in the room and the beautiful destruction his roots had wrought, he turned to the bed where he expected to see two immobile forms riddled with his blood red tendrils.

  "What—"

  A loud, shuddering moan interrupted his question. The young man and lady who had made his traversal of the planes possible, the young man and woman who should be mere husks of brittle bones and desiccated flesh, writhed on the bed, rutting like the end times were upon them. The dapper gentleman's eyes widened in shock. While he watched, the virile young man repositioned so he knelt behind the young lady, herself on hands and knees like a wild animal.

  Animals were exactly what they sounded like, as well, as Sam began to piston his hips like a locomotive.

  "I say… stop that! Stop that at once."

  Sam swept a strand of sweaty hair from his face and met the gentleman's eyes…and grinned. For the first time, the gentleman noticed that their bodies, while doused in sweat and no doubt other bodily fluids, were whole and hale.

  "You're supposed to be dead!"

  Sam's grin widened. "Hexazinone," he said, and his rhythm never faltered. With obvious glee, Sam issued a hearty slap to the lady's posterior.

  The gentleman felt his face flush, which shouldn't even be possible—blasted mortal flesh!—and he averted his eyes. With willpower that could cow gods, he returned his attention to the young man. "Explain," he commanded through gritted teeth, and he hated himself for the emotion tinging his words.

  Sam jerked his head and it took a moment for the gentleman to realize the young man was trying to draw his attention to a line that ringed the bed on the floor. "Hexazinone," he said again. "It's a powder herbicide. Among other things, it kills tree roots."

  Understanding dawned, and he gasped. "It—it kills…" His mouth flapped and words failed him. "Now, see here, mortal. I've traveled farther than your puny mind can comprehend—"

  "Enough." This time is was the young lady who spoke, and the word cracked through the room like a whip. But her gaze wasn't even on him. It was like he didn't exist. She gyrated her hips, causing Sam to close his eyes and moan. "Less talk, more action."

  Sam shrugged at the gentleman—as if to say what can ya do?—then issued another slap to the young lady's posterior and returned all his attention to her. It was a long, long time before they realized the gentleman, and the hole to the other side of the universe, had both disappeared.

  ***

  "Let me see."

  Ash lifted the old painting fully out of the cardboard box and handed it to Judy. The proprietor of Heavenly Treasures took it, her hands dipping from the surprising weight of it. The ancient wood grain scraped against her calloused hands as she turned the painting around so she could study it. After a few moments, her brow furrowed.

  "What's wrong?" Ash asked.

  "I know what this is."

  "Ancient porn…" Sam spoke under his breath, but not so low that Ash couldn't hear it. Without looking, she jabbed an elbow into his rips. He yelped in surprise, then fell into a sullen silence, rubbing at the sore spot.

  "What is it?" Excitement tinged Ash's voice. Years of thrifting with her mom and Alice Dyer had instilled a deep-grained thirst for finding hidden gems. Judy turned a solemn expression on Ash, and Ash's excitement redoubled. She was practically vibrating with it.

  "Evil."

  "Wait, what?" The excitement leaked out of her like air from a popped balloon.

  "This painting," Judy said, brandishing it as if the two of them didn't know which painting she was talking about. "It's evil."

  "It's… Hold on, Judy. I don't—I don't understand."

  Sensing that his friend was going to be tongue tied for a while, Sam jumped in. "How can a painting be evil?"

  "Haven't you two ever seen a scary movie? Read a horror novel?" At their blank expressions, she continued. "There's always some kind of evil McGuffin. A cursed artifact, demon necklace, or something. Ridiculous trope if you ask me, but what can you do. That's what this is."

  Ash finally found her tongue. "Don't be silly. If you don't like it, I'd be happy to buy it."

  "Oh no, girlie. Not on your life. This thing is going in the incinerator."

  "You have an incinerator?"

  Ash thought Sam sounded way too excited about this development, but she ignored him and pressed on. "Okay, Judy. Joke's over. How much for the painting?"

  Instead of answering, Judy turned and disappeared into the storeroom. Ash and Sam trailed behind her, through a door Ash had never noticed before and down a dark set of stairs. At the bottom, a line of footprints through the dust marked Judy's path across the room. A black iron monstrosity, something that looked straight out of Nightmare on Elm Street, sat in the corner, a dizzying spiderweb of pipes shooting from its bulbous form.

  "Is anyone else really horny all of a sudden?" Sam asked, but the women didn't answer.

  Dim, watery light streamed through the doorway above, but it was still enough for Ash to see Sam leaning forward to check out the prodigious bulge in his own jeans. She was intrigued, but wrenched her attention back to Judy. The door to the furnace screeched on rusted hinges and a gust of heat blasted over them.

  She's serious, Ash thought with a pang of realization. The old gal has gone batty.

  The ornate frame was too large to fit through the door straight on. Even turned diagonal, Judy had to manhandle it into the blazing furnace.

  Out of nowhere, an otherworldly voice echoed through the room, like it was coming from a distant tunnel. Strangely, it had a British accent. "Unhand me, you crone! This isn't in the script!—"

  There was a sharp, splintering snap, and with one last heave, Judy thrust the painting into the fire.

  The heavy iron door muffled the disembodied voice. "Hello? Can you hear me? Is this thing still work—"

  The End

  ***

  The sweat had finally evaporated from their bodies but the sheets under them were still damp. Every time they moved she caught another whiff of the musky scent of sweat and sex. Thirty minutes ago the air had still been laden with it, but it had finally dissipated.

  Ash forcibly pushed aside the thoughts that bubbled up and turned the last page, resting her hand on the stack of papers. "Well…that's it."

  Now that they weren't reading together, Sam shifted to make a little space between them. "I still don't get it."

  "What don't you get?"

  "The title."

  "What's to get? It's called The Accursed."

  "No, not that. Eldritch Affair. Were you supposed to fuck the guy in the suit or something?" He threw up his hands in mock surrender when Ash turned a glare his way. "What? It's called 'affair'."

  Her sharp gaze softened. A bit. "Not that kind of affair. I think it means affair as in… a something."

  "A something?"

  She slapped his chest. "Shut up. You're the nerd, not me. Affair as in… a proceeding or event or…"

  "…something?" Sam provided. She glared at him again and he kissed her to indicate his surrender. "Okay, but what about the author's name?"

  "What about it?"

  "Is it really supposed to fool anyone?"

  "What do you mean?" She shifted toward him, laying her head on him. Absently, her fingers played with the wispy hair on his chest and stomach.

  "Riain Fox. It sounds like Ryan Fox. You know, the other author. Are we really supposed to believe it's a different person?"

  "It's pronounce Riain, not Ryan."

  "You just said the same thing."

  Ash dug her nails into his side to show her displeasure. Sam laughed and bucked, and because he was still naked and her head was on his stomach, she almost got a face full. He laughed again.

  "Careful, or I'm going to dig my nails into somewhere much more tender."

  "Promises, promises..."

  She narrowed her eyes and glared at him, her hand inching down his body. "Anyways… It's not supposed to fool anyone. It's a pen name. For marketing, so Riain's readers know that Ryan's books are a different genre."

  "So Ryan's readers know that Ryan's books are a different genre?" He grinned…until Ash's hand slipped down lower and she made good on her promise.