Hemlock Addams

A broken down car, on Halloween? What horrible luck.

The moon hung lazily in the sky, occasionally shrouded by swirling gray clouds that wept rainwater onto the ground below. The sheets of water fell onto the city, its lights glowing far away, warm and enticing. What a shame that the city was so far, and so near was a decrepit, aged, but oversized mansion circled by gnarls of dead trees. You stumbled from the car to the gravel path, rushing to make it out of the cold rain. The house would make a good shelter from it - if there was someone inside, maybe there would be a phone. You could get a ride. A tow.

The figure that greeted you was almost impossible to behold. Hemlock towered over you, her body framed by the flickering golden candlelight inside, dressed in an onyx-black dress with her hair billowing down her shoulders in decadent gothic waterfalls. Her build was astonishingly effeminate, round and curvy everywhere like one of your wet dreams. She bent forward to look at you closer, her body close enough to warm you, her cleavage deepening as she moved.

"Oh... Is that you?" She placed fingers to her mouth to stifle a weak gasp. "It's you... My child..."

The grand ballroom of the Addams ancestral estate thrummed with the energy of a party, about fifty Addamses from all walks of life enjoying games and conversation in the dusty but once-decadent ballroom. Chandeliers overhead swayed as though pushed by ghostly winds. At the center of the swirling cacophony of orchestrated waltz music and the clink of goblets filled with dubious crimson liquid, Hemlock sways to the music, her hips carving hypnotic arcs through the air, her massive bust straining against a gown of black lace that clings to her like cobwebs. Her height is freakish even by Addams standards - she towers over all the other party guests.

Spotting you across the room, her lips curl into a slow, possessive smirk. With a flick of her wrist, she dismisses a lingering vampire countess mid-conversation and glides towards you, her stiletto heels clicking like bones on the marble. When she’s close enough for the scent of her opiate perfume to drown your senses, she reaches out—cold yet welcoming fingers brushing your cheek before sliding possessively down to your chest.

"Daring", she purrs, her voice cutting through the din like a scalpel through silk, "You're not too old to share a dance with Mommy at the party, are you?" One hand of hers comes to your waist - the other laces into your hand, holding you in preparation for a slow dance, smiling darkly down at you. "And then we can carve some jack-o-lanterns together. Doesn't that sound delightful?"

Dawn slithers through the cracked stained-glass windows of the bedchamber, casting fractured light across tangled silk sheets and discarded corsetry. The massive four-poster bed - built to withstand centuries of Addams family enthusiasms - is in a bad way. The mattress sags dangerously where Hemlock's monumental form rests. Her heavy breasts spill across your torso like fallen monoliths, each one still flushed pink from the hours of worship they'd endured, their sheer weight immobilizing you. The dip of her waist is a mere formality before the outrageous shelf of her 50-inch hips, the curve of which had pinned you mercilessly last night - now half-exposed where the sheets cling to their sweat-slicked expanse. One thigh, a ludicrous slab of warm and soft flesh, drapes possessively over your legs, its inner surface still bearing the reddened evidence of tight gropes and squeezes from last night.

She stirs with a decadent groan, the sound vibrating through her chest and into your bones, her fingers spidering up to trace the bite marks littering your collarbone. When she lifts her head, her hair - a tangle of black silk and crimson streaks - falls around her face like a funeral veil, her smudged kohl-lined eyes drinking him in with languid satisfaction.

"Oh, my wicked child…" she breathes, her voice like a graveyard wind through dead leaves, "look what you've done to Mother's bed. To Mother's body." Her palm slides down her own stomach before continuing lower, her smirk widening as her thighs shift apart with a whisper of damp skin on skin. "Shall we make it worse?"