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Author: C.M. Nascosta


This spooky season, we bring you two short tales of Sleepy Hollow to heat your chilly autumn nights.

Whether you’re in the modern Sleepy Hollow Polo Club locker room, or traveling by moonlight across that famous bridge, the Horseman rides, seeking some head.


Ichabod Crane & the Headless Horsemen - In which our school master is just as greedy and contemptible as he was in the original tale.

Ichabod Crane, Sleepy Hollow’s new schoolmaster, is on the prowl. After he happens upon two members of the polo club in flagrante delicto in the club’s locker room, he can’t get the image — or the sounds — of the headless hedonists out of his mind.

This is an MMM pairing, a modern-set Sleepy Hollow, locker room erotica featuring the hapless schoolmaster and two brawny polo horsemen. Light degradation/humiliation, voyeurism, he’s just dying to be a free-use ragdoll, and lots of headless head.



Katrina Van Tassel & the Headless Horseman - Katrina Van Tassel has a terrible gift. Since infancy, she has been able to see the spirits of strangers and departed loved ones all around her, as easily as she’s able to see her neighbors. Life tethered to death, and she’s learned to ignore them all. Katrina is no stranger to the wants of ghosts and men alike, but when this schoolmistress moves to Sleepy Hollow, she finds the wants of one particular man — and one particular ghost — too much to simply ignore.


Katrina Van Tassel & the Headless Horseman is a canon-adjacent historical retelling, putting Katrina as the main character, caught between the town hero and a headless ghost. M/F pairing, light gore, undead pining, graveyard lovin’, Machiavellian scheming, and ALL the autumn vibes.



Ichabod Crane was no stranger to the sound of a sloppy blow job.

He heard it as soon as he entered the locker room that day. A wet slurp, a gurgle, and a slight moan. His balls lifted on their own accord, and his cock twitched at the sound, knowing all too well what it was.

One might not think a schoolmaster would be the frequent recipient of such oral favors, but one would be very much mistaken. There was no end to what a certain type of mother would do for her child to gain entry to an exclusive private educational institution, nor any way to quantify the boredom of a suburban housewife whose children had aged out of needing her throughout the day. He had no need to seek them out nor press his advantage — he had a glib tongue and a penchant for gossip, which made him a popular and welcome inclusion in coffee clutch circles and lunchtime social hours, and from there, it was only a matter of time before they began popping up in his office.

While other men primped and preened in preparation for nights on the town, prowling bars and nightclubs and hitting on women half their age, Ichabod knew that the daytime hours were best for seeking out assignations with those girls’ mothers — the randiest women in town. The appetite for cock from a woman whose husband put work and the golf course before her needs was voracious, and he’d been on the receiving end of more than one eager fellating.

It was usually the mothers of numerous children — those who had been married for decades and lived a comfortable upper-middle-class existence, with a husband so ingrained in his routine that any minor upset caused him to lose his footing — who gave head in such a way, in his experience. Those women were past the point of caring about foolishness. They craved attention; they desired being desired, and every one of them seemed to know exactly how good a tonguing on the underside of a cockhead felt. They were the ones who would nibble at his foreskin and suck his balls into their mouths, who took him down their throats and swallowed every drop when he came.

“I’m going to drain your tanks, Dr. Crane,” one of the volunteer mothers had cooed against his groin, the second-to-last day at his previous school, stretching his scrotum until he’d bit back a moan, a moment before she’d deep-throated him easily. She’d sucked him noisily, and had been just as loud when he’d turned her over the desk to pump into her from behind, obliging him to hold his hand over her mouth. True to her word, she’d drained him so well that his balls had felt turned inside-out by the time she’d left his office, an endless ejaculation down her throat as he pinched her nipples, so depleting in its totality that it had left his eyes itchy. He’d dozed in his chair once she’d taken her leave, his emptied testicles defeated and soft against his thigh.

The sounds he heard now were reminiscent of that randy room mother’s rambunctious oral affections. The locker room was the very last place he would have expected to encounter such goings on, but he supposed it was as good a place as any. Secluded and remote, and far enough away from the racquetball court that the aqueous sounds of oral enjoyment would be muted unless one was right there, as he was then. He’d not received such a good sucking since his arrival in Sleepy Hollow, and his cock twitched again.

The club had been nearly empty that afternoon, just as he liked it. Membership to the racquet club was gratis with his position at the school, and while he didn’t fancy himself a gym star, there was a young woman who worked in the office at the academy’s primary school with whom he’d very much like to become better acquainted. Her father was one of the wealthiest men in the area, and a relationship with her would be quite beneficial to his longevity in town. Unfortunately, there was likely no absence of potential rivals, and he’d decided hitting the gym would do him good.

The residents of Sleepy Hollow all seemed to be possessed of a similar height and bulk, a testament to shared northern forebears and Dutch lineage, one of which he — with his slender, reedy frame — could not boast. Ichabod took solace in the fact that the racquet club was often deserted in the middle of the day, so it was surprising to enter what he had thought was an empty locker room only to hear the unmistakable sound of a cock being enthusiastically sucked. He knew precisely what he was hearing, and knew that he ought to turn out of the locker room and give the lucky recipient the privacy to enjoy their mid-day blow job in peace . . .

He knew he ought to leave, but it seemed the interest of the copilot in his pants had been sufficiently piqued. It had been too long since he’d been serviced in such a way, and the wet sucking sounds roused his own member to a position of rigidity, propelling him forward against his will.

The noise increased as he drew deeper into the locker room, holding his breath in an effort to conceal his presence and hear better. Ichabod was shocked when he realized he was able to pick out the timbre of two distinct voices, if one could call the muffled sounds voices. Two different gurgling groans, two different sucking moans, two different cock-stuffed throats, each sucking with gusto. His own erection practically vibrated with the excitement of it all.

At least, that was until he turned the corner, a perfect vantage point to witness the goings-on around the next pass. The man was tall and broad, pale of skin and thick with muscle, still wearing his polo whites. Ichabod often forgot that this was not merely the racquet club. Sleepy Hollow Racquet and Polo Club was more accurate, the polo fields attracting horsemen from a tri-county area. This big brute undoubtedly rode a monster of a horse.

The only thing he was currently riding, though, was the mouth of the head before him, and as he watched, Ichabod saw the man’s hips piston, the round curve of his ass and thick thighs emphasizing the movement as he pumped into the moaning mouth. The stranger’s hands were buried in the dark, wavy hair of the head that sucked him, directing the movement as his hips slowed. The man ground his cock slowly against the mouth, and Ichabod could hear the deep suction; could almost feel the tongue that laved over the meat of the brawny recipient’s swollen shaft.

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