Page 8 of Thwack!

“Three,” he said.

“Three what?” Gil asked.

“Two.”

Gil ran. He wasn’t sure from what. All he knew was that a monster was counting down from three and had almost made it to one. Thomas was running too.

“Where are we going?” Gil panted as they moved way too fast for a space this dark.

“Out,” Thomas panted. “Out, as fast as we can.”

Out? But they’d just gotten in.

“One.” Frankenstein’s voice was so close he must already have been chasing them before he said it. And his footsteps weren’t the only ones Gil heard behind them.

He looked over his shoulder and saw that a second Dracula, a much more physically imposing Dracula than Thomas’s, was also giving chase. Too late, he realized the mistake of looking backward while running forward through a twisty, turning, dark haunted house. He’d floundered himself into a dead end, and Frankenstein caught him in it, mashing his body against the wall.

Was he about to get fucked? He hadn’t even been prepped. But his dick was hard, bobbing unfettered beneath the pink netting of his skirt. It was the adrenaline of the chase and the fearsome face of the man chasing him. He heaved a giant breath, both anticipating and fearing what came next. But it wasn’t a cock that butted up against his ass. It was a hand.

Thwack!

He squealed, churning his ass in a futile attempt at escape as one blow after another slapped netting into his skin. He called out to Thomas for help, though somewhere nearby he could hear a second set of slaps, but a hand grabbed his in response. Gil pulled on it hard enough that he slid across the wall and around a corner into open space.

“This way,” Thomas shouted, dragging him down a corridor and into a room lined with sarcophagi and echoing with tortured moans. The two of them maneuvered so they were back to back as they revolved in a circle, eyeing the sarcophagi suspiciously.

“Mummies,” Thomas predicted, and then, as if his prediction had summoned them, a hoard of mummies wrapped in bandages tight enough to display the strength of their muscles and the ampleness of their erections burst out of the ornate coffins. The mummies extended their arms, reaching for Gil and Thomas. Gil turned to face his friend, grabbing him in a desperate embrace, but the mummies were too strong. A trio of them tore him away so they could take turns holding him immobile while the others spanked him.

“Mmmmm,” one of them intoned as he raised Gil’s skirt to reveal his bare ass.

“Mmmmm,” another agreed, leaning in to get an eyeful.

The sound of bare skin being slapped reverberated through the room. Thomas had his own trio of mummies, and though he’d been wearing boxers earlier, they were currently around his knees.

Gil alternately whimpered and shrieked, twisting in the mummies’ grasp until he unexpectedly managed to wrench himself free. He stumbled a couple of clumsy steps toward the door opposite the one they’d entered from then remembered Thomas. He couldn’t abandon his friend. Though, from the looks of it, Thomas was enjoying himself. Now that his drawers were down, Gil could see that his dick was hard and sticking straight out, wavering between his two captors like a divining rod as a third mummy whaled on his ass.

Gil risked some steps toward the center of the room to grab Thomas’s hand. Thomas tripped when Gil pulled, his legs bound by his boxers, then he righted himself. As they ran, he used the hand not holding Gil’s to drag his shorts over his ass and stuff himself back into his drawers.

He stopped in front of the door.

“What is it?” Gil asked, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the mummies who seemed to have lost interest in them.

“The maze.”

A maze didn’t sound so bad. What was it—bushes or something? At least foliage wouldn’t try to spank them.

Thomas shook his head warningly. “Everyone has an implement.”

Everyone who? Since when were mazes made of people?

“What do we do?” Gil asked.

Thomas flashed a giddy grin. “Enjoy it.”

He flung open the door and yanked Gil through it, ready or not. And he was so not ready. On the other side, a long line of men—more than Gil could count—formed a twisty maze of flesh. Each of the living barriers thwacked an implement against his palm. A half-rotting school teacher held a ruler. A chef covered in stage blood sported a wooden spoon. The maniacal lumberjack swung a switch made of twigs, and the ghost held a length of chain.

Thomas yelled go, and Gil went. Hands grabbed for him as he raced through the maze, each character getting in a smack or two on his thighs or ass using whatever it yielded. The implements stung on flesh already made tender, and Gil yelped as he twisted in strong arms, escaping one tormentor only to plow straight into the grasp of the next.

He was dimly aware of Thomas following him, sometimes pushing him when he lagged due to appreciating a particular implement or a set of especially muscled forearms a little too much, and sometimes falling behind for his own reasons. After a long and fraught battle full of the sounds of heavy breathing and deep moaning and high-pitched squeals, the two of them made it to the other side.