House Play

House Play (or, "You can't Stop Stepford!")

author: Pepperstasia Beaverhausen
rating: You know how I roll. NC-17, fo' sho
categories: Bizarre MRR, slight humor, angst, spooky story, alternating Micki/Ryan POVs
spoilers: No. I might mention Lloyd, though. He's intergral; a total dick, but integral nonetheless
Author's notes/the disclaimer: I'll never get paid for this, nor would I want to. I'd feel like a cheap, P-Diddy-esque whore. The characters of "Friday the 13th: the Series" are part and parcel Larry B.(boy) Williams and Frank (the) Mancuso, Jr.'s creations and in no way belong to my poor ass. That being said, I was inspired by my love for the "Stepford Wives" (old and new versions) and by coming up with another object that doesn't require bloodletting to work the effects of the curse. You'll see. Add some sprinkles, and away we go!

I'm on the cusp of falling asleep when I hear it on the other side of the French doors. Ryan is masturbating. Great. I was really wishing for sleep after the day I've had; another psychopath just tried to rape/kill me (yet again) due to the quest of retrieving a cursed 3-piece suit, and I tell you, it's getting to be ri-goddamned-diculous. What is this, like, the *fifth* time, now? Times like these, I wonder why I do this.
I hear Ryan's bedcovers rustling and his muffled, labored breathing; it's almost like he's in the same room because it's so quiet and dark. I'm sure he thinks I'm sleeping. It's not like this is the first time I've heard this, either. He *is* a man, after all, and men have needs. My attitude towards this otherwise awkward occasion is casual. How else *could* he fulfill his 'needs'? We're not in the most conducive-to-sexual-activity occupation, and both of us have body counts from relationships past. Besides, I'm no saint. I do it, too. I can pretend not to notice the box of tissues discreetly under his bed. Ryan gives the slightest moan and the movement of his bedclothes accelerates. What does he think about when he's doing it? No, Micki old girl, bad thinking. You don't want to go down that road. Just because you think about him sometimes when it's your turn does not mean that he does it, too.
Complication is the name of the game, dear reader. When we first met, it seemed like you could place bets and win in reference to his attraction to me. Boy, has it ever evolved from *that*. It seems to me now that his freshman flirtation towards me abruptly ended when I dumped my fiancee. In fact, he goes out of his way now to pick up women in my presence and it feels like he refuses to look at me half the time during conversation. Meanwhile, over the many months we've been cohabitating, Ryan has evolved from an annoying, albeit semi-adorable boy to a bonafide man who's seeped into my psyche. Jesus Christ, he takes a while. You'd think he'd be done by now; it personally only takes me a fraction of the time to self-please. Don't think that hasn't piqued my curiousity. However, the facts remain that he's not really interested. I believe Ryan feels that I am no longer safe game now that I am unattached, because there were obviously no *real* feelings on his part in the first place. I am led to thinking that he was just trying to get a rise out of me in those initial times, a playful tease that's never meant to go anywhere. It's befitting of his character.
I finally hear the swoosh of a tissue as it's pulled from the box and mentally sigh to myself. Just because I've reached a casual acceptance of our situation doesn't mean I'm made of steel. I'm a flesh and blood woman with needs of my own. If he'd kept at it any longer I would have been tempted to make short work of my own self-pleasing technique. Thankfully, this isn't the case, and I can drift off to sleep, at last. Oh, Miss Foster, you are a hopeless case, aren't you?

*****************************************************

"Rise and Shine, Puddintine!" I hear Micki's voice greet me as I stir into conciousness. I smell coffee and the sun on the backs of my lids is replaced with the lovely sight of Micki crouched next to me with a steaming cup extended my way. Best part of waking up. She's still in her black nightgown, too.
"Thanks." I say gratefully as I accept her offer. I have to look at the floor now, because it gets dangerous if I stare at her too long. Especially when I've just woke up and am still in my boxers. Bonus points because of that little black satin nightie; the combination is a journey toward embarrassment.
"Jack wants to see us downstairs, he got up early to continue researching a cursed cupcake pan from the mid '50s." she tells me, "Apparently, he's discovered a few things and needs to discuss them with us, A.S.A.P. Horse's mouth."
I cowboy up and dare to glance at her again. She's gotten so strong; last night some psycho had her tied up on a dirty mattress, got her half-naked *and* had a knife, and she *still* kicked him in the balls before I came up behind him and smashed him in the head with a fireplace poker. And the very next day she's waking me up with a smile and fresh coffee. Micki's such a far cry from the spoiled little rich girl that I first thought I'd met.
"Hey, how are you doing? After last night?" I ask her, noticing a small knife wound on her shoulder where that bastard had slashed her. Man, I'm so glad I kicked that asshole a few more times after he was down, "Do you think you're gonna be okay?"
Micki sighs, "I'll be fine. Hey, I got my vindication." she smiles smugly.
That's right, she did go to town on that fucker after I untied her. She was vicious; her blouse was shredded to nothing and she had no pants on, but she kicked the shit out of his face and ribs while screaming like a banshee with absolutely no shame. It was the scariest/sexiest sight I'd ever laid eyes on. I had to pull her off him and carry her back to the Mercedes while she continued kicking and screaming. I couldn't stop thinking about it. Micki, in her panties and almost a blouse, wailing on a man that could have killed her. I had to jerk off. I couldn't sleep unless I did; the imagery was too much to bear without a release.
At least I waited until I was pretty sure she was asleep.
"Just checking." I give her a smile and put my coffee to my lips, "Time to get dressed?"
"Yep." she says, standing up and walking two feet to her door, "I'll be out in a few; if you're done before me could you bring some coffee down to Jack?"
"No problem."
Minutes later, I'm dressed in Ryan's finest and heading downstairs with a hot cup o' joe for my pal. Jack is one of the best guys around.
"Morning Jack." I say as I place the cup down next to the Manifest. He's hunched over it at the desk with a pile of public records and articles on the other side, complete with specs and a magnifying glass. "Micki will be down in a bit. You wanted to see us?"
"Good morning, and thank you." Jack says, nodding, "I've tracked down the last owner of the Futura Deluxe 12-inch cupcake pan listed here in the Manifest, and the details are quite interesting. It was bought by a man named Spaulding O'Clare for his wife last year. They've since moved to a planned community called Blissful Grove, the first family in a now thriving neighborhood in Southern California."
"Tell me how this is interesting?" I interject.
"Patience is a virtue, Ryan." Micki says, making her way down the stairs in mustard leggings and a tight black sweater, "Did you say Spaulding O'Clare, Jack?" she asks as she sidles next to me.
"That I did, young lady."
"Is he the man that's married to Marissa O'Clare, the famous magazine editor?"
"One and the same. After Spaulding bought the pan, his wife automatically quit her job as CEO of Bella Magazine and started Blissful Grove with Spaulding and a few friends. They currently have 68 families living in their planned community, which promotes 'peaceful and clean living' and 'utmost harmony' according to their brochure." Jack explains.
"This doesn't make sense Jack; do you two know anything about Marissa O'Clare? She's a *real* workaholic and a complete ballbuster." Micki argues, furrowing her brows in confusion, "Everything I've ever read about her in the gossip and society pages always led me to believe that she makes Anna Wintor look like Donna Reed. She made Spaulding take her name because hyphenated names were too pedestrian."
"He also worked under her as the news editor for Bella, which tells us a little something about his character." Jack adds.
"Doormat?" I offer, "Total pushover?"
Jack grants me another nod, "What interests me *most* is the lack of death in their town, seeing as they're in the midst of a cursed object. The census for their community in the past year shows zero deaths. No accidental, no natural causes from old age, and no murders of any kind."
"That is strange." I agree.
"What could this thing possibly do?" Micki asks, taking the words right out of my mouth.
"All very mysterious." Jack peruses the Blissful Grove brochure, "Also, what you've just told us, Micki, brings up another suspicion I was pondering. Is *this* Marissa O'Clare?"
He holds up the brochure and taps the picture of a woman that looks like a sexed up June Cleaver, next to a fairly nerdy bespectacled man in khakis and a golf shirt. The female gazes at the latter in admiration, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her billowy chiffon skirt. Micki snatches the brochure out of his hand and examines the picture up close.
"This can't be right; this is Marissa O'Clare, but she's either consuming the most Valium humanly possible, or something's going on in Blissful Grove."
"So what's our first step, Jack?" I ask, ready for the next mission. If all the ladies are as gorgeous as they are in this brochure, this should be an interesting recovery.
"Well, I've drawn up some false i.d.s and a marriage certificate, for starters. You two will go undercover as Mr. and Mrs. Christopher and Catherine Silverman and move into one of their starter homes on a pre-paid trial basis. You're a lapsed Jewish man and Micki, you are his successful and dominating shiksa wife."
Micki almost does a spit take and I begin to laugh, "What you mean, prepaid?" Micki questions him, "And what is a shiksa?"
"I sold the Jade dragons, putting up the $10,ooo deposit to get your foot in the door in the community. We can put a stop payment on it after we retrieve the pan." Jack tells her and reassures her in tandem, "Also, shiksa, dear girl, is a Jewish term for exactly what you are; a Caucasian, an Anglo-Saxon, or to use another Jewish term, a Gentile."
"What's a Caucasian?" I joke, "Kidding!" I add after Micki shoots me a look. Slipping into the role of the submissive husband isn't going to be much of a stretch for me. She already has me pretty whipped, and we don't even do it. That's when it dawns on me. We're going to have to pretend to be a married couple. How would we act? Do I have to kiss her? My stomach does a few somersaults. Keep talking, keep looking at Jack. "The plan is get close to Spaulding and Marissa, I'm assuming? Then we find out where they keep it, snatch, and Bob's your uncle, we're back at Curious Goods." I vocally put together the obvious plan. "Pan in Vault. Done."
"Best case scenario, yes.." Jack says, "You're leaving on a plane tomorrow to your new house. I called my friend Billy Waller in San Diego. He owes me a few favors. He also owns a furniture store and will send movers to meet you there with furnishings for your new 'home'. We should have this appear to be as authentic as possible."
Is there anything this man cannot do? Jack gets things done, and I am awestruck consistently.
Micki slips an arm around my waist, "Mr. Silverman, I presume?" she kids me. I am grateful for jeans and their ability to conceal.
"Hey wife, could you get me some cereal? I'm starving." I crack, causing her to shove me with the arm that had been on my person.
"Get your own damn cereal." she exasperates, rolling her eyes.
This is gonna be fu*-un*. (Introduce sarcasm. Nice to meet ya.)

************************************************************************************************

California. Planned Communities. All this drama over a cupcake pan, but who knows what this thing can do? That woman in the brochure was Marissa O'Clare, but then again, she *wasn't*. So now Ryan and I are arriving in Blissful Grove, CA under the guise of husband and wife. Yes, we even have assumed characters. Ryan's isn't too far off: he's my meek Jewish husband who owns a small chain of antique stores in the Brooklyn area of New York. Close to the truth, except we're not married, we're not from New York, it's not a chain of stores, and he's not really Jewish. My character is an up and coming fashion designer that I am going to pretend to assume that everyone's heard of, and Jack told me that I should make sure to boss Ryan around plenty to keep up appearances. Inwardly, my response was 'You don't have to tell me twice'. I plan on garnering some amusement out of this situation.
This means that *I* get to be the one to drive our rented LeSabre convertible through the security gates and into the sprawling, newly sodded neighborhood that we're pretending to move into.
He looks silly in a golf shirt. I don't know why, but he does. It's an Izod, no less, replete with Dockers. Oy. Luckily, most of my wardrobe tends to fit my character, so the most I've had to add is large round sunglasses to lend an air of elegant mystery. I've decided to stick to either side of the color spectrum and wear only black or only white, with a few red accents here and there to set off an aura of success I am to exude. For my introductory outfit, I decided on my black knee length dress with straight skirt, draped sleeves, and plunging neckline. My hair is up in a power chignon, and I've topped off my look with large red framed sunglasses and a red clutch.
Ryan barely looks my way, choosing instead to gaze out the window at the large homes that range from Gothic to neo-Classic to Swiss Chalet, the manicured lawns, and the picturesque beauty of the day. We have a clear blue sky and a relatively quiet neighborhood. Nice. That is, until my 'husband' lets out a low whistle.
"Goodnight, *Nurse*." he comments, checking out a pretty brunette housewife. She's dressed similar to Marissa in the brochure, like she's going to a garden party, but she's engrossed in the mere task of checking the mailbox. She gives us a friendly wave. Ryan smiles lecherously and returns one of his own.
"Ryan, don't forget, that's someone else's wife." I remind him as I keep the LeSabre at the 20mph speed limit required on this road.
"I'm just being neighborly." He argues, "Besides, Catherine, *you're* my ball and chain; the only girl for me." he jokes as he checks out a blonde in a teal sundress and bonnet, pulling weeds in her garden.
See what I mean about being a tease? Ryan says and does the opposite quite well, forever complicated. "It's a bit strange, being called my mother's name." I muse, effectively changing the subject and ridding my stomach of the butterflies that divebomb.
"Well, we should address each other by our pseudonyms to get used to it, don't you think?" Suddenly, he's Mr. Serious.
"Should I call you Christopher or Chris?" I ask him.
"Topher." he looks me in the eye and grins.
Oh, and give "Topher" an either/or scenario: he'll pick the third door that's not visible. He's prizmatic; a myriad of ins and outs that I feel I'll never fully discover. "Okay, *Topher*, can you keep an eye out for our address? It should be coming up soon."
"Or I could just look for the giant moving van and the welcome wagon." He indicates as it looms ahead on his side of the road. We are moving into one of the Chalets; cream with dark brown trim and a mass of ivy growing up the side. There's a beige station wagon and a group of garden party ladies holding up a giant Welcome sign (and basket) in our driveway, so I pull up and park behind the enormous van.
Ryan and I exchange looks and I suck in a breath, "Let's do this." he says.
"Welcome Home!" The Garden Party ladies chorus in happy, genuine voices. We exit the car and launch into married couple mode, joining hands as we make our way toward the din. Burly men in white undershirts are carrying furniture into our large double door front entry, getting an eyeful of the prettiest housewives they've ever seen. At their apex is Marissa O'Clare herself, smiling widely in a blue capri pantset that hugs every curve and holding the packed Welcome basket, "Mr. and Mrs. Silverman! So glad of you to join our beautiful Blissful Grove community!" she greets in an excited, pain reliever quality voice that's reminiscent of an overly happy Marilyn Monroe.
"Catherine, please." I ooze confident sophistication, dropping Ryan's hand and extending it her way, "This is my husband, Topher Silverman." I introduce, feeling it to be a slightly ballbuster-ish thing to do.
She offers Ryan her hand and he leans in to kiss it, "Charmed, lovely lady." he flirts. Marissa was always known for her beauty; she's olive skinned with impossibly shiny dark brown hair, wide matching eyes, and the whitest smile you'll ever see.
"Flattery will get you everywhere." Marissa coos, "By the way, we can't tell you how excited we are to have practically a celebrity in our midst; not only are you just gorgeous, you're a fashion designer!" she directs at me in her breathy tone as she places the heavy Welcome basket in my arms, "Is there anything you can't do?" The gaggle of women behind her echoe impressed Monroe-esque tittering.
I have no answer for this, but Ryan decides to pipe up, "She can't make Baked Alaska." he quips.
The Garden Party Ladies explode into laughter, "Funny *and* incredibly handsome." a blonde in a pink floral halter dress and heels compliments, "Catherine, you're so *lucky*." She gazes at Ryan, smiling flirtatiously. Did she just wink?
"Don't I know it." I say less than enthusiastically, "Darling, be a dear and get our bags from the trunk." I tell him.
He kisses my cheek and I try not to get aroused, "Yes, dear." he says as he relieves me of the heavy basket and does what he's told.
Marissa clears her throat, "The ladies and I were wondering if you two would like to join us for a neighborhood picnic tomorrow. Nothing fancy, just a few families and new additions. We have four new families that have moved here just this week! Busy, busy!"
"What time?" I ask, "We'd *love* to."
"Festivities begin at noon." she replies, "Well girls, I think it's time to let these two lovebirds settle in and go welcome the Yorkes; they're due to arrive in an hour." Marissa claps her hands and the beautiful cotillion-ready housewives make their exit in a sea of chiffon and satin, as if floating away on their own marital bliss.
There's gotta be something in the water. They're almost unreal.
Ryan returns from bringing our bags inside, "Aww, they left?" he asks, disappointed. A passing mover nods in dismay.
"Cheer up, Topher. You can see them tomorrow at the neighborhood picnic." I say, tugging at the hem of his golf shirt, "So, husband, are you going to carry me over the threshold of our new home, or what?"
"What a slavedriver." Ryan breathes out as he scoops me up into a fireman's carry with ease. He's decievingly strong, and something about him smells just wonderful. Plus, his smile right now is infectious.
"Slip her the tongue!" one of our movers heckles us as he carries me inside.
"Sho' *nuff*, m' man." another one agrees, "Your lady is super smokin'." he tells Ryan as they carry inside a glass coffee table behind us.
"Hey, cool it, guys." Ryan chides them as he places me carefully back on my feet, "I know you're not get paid for wisecracks."
"You're the boss." Mover #1 salutes him jokingly.
"So, is it a requirement to have a beautiful wife to move into this place, young blood?" Mover #2 chimes in, "If so, I ain't got a chance in hell!"
Oh Men. Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em.