Head to house #5 — the next glowing porch down the lane.

Porch of 4 Breedmore Lane, Maplewood Suburbs, at 12:19 AM on Saturday November 1, 2024

I wipe the fading luminescence from my cheek with the back of my latex-covered hand and start walking. Each step sends a warm slosh through my belly — seven loads of cum shifting inside me, some living, some supernatural, all of it heavy and real. The ghost cum is doing something to my nervous system. Every brush of the latex against my skin feels like a tongue. Every gust of October wind against my exposed shoulders sends electric shivers racing down my spine and pooling between my legs.

House #5 sits at the end of the lane's first curve — a large, rambling two-story that's clearly been subdivided into student housing. The porch is wide and sagging, strung with orange fairy lights and fake cobwebs. A massive banner hangs across the front: KAPPA ALPHA WOLF — FULL MOON BASH. Bass thumps from inside, vibrating through the porch boards beneath my boots.

The door swings open before I reach it.

"Holy shit, boys!" A tall figure fills the doorway — broad-shouldered, maybe twenty-one, with sandy brown hair and a jaw that could cut glass. He's wearing a werewolf costume that's... elaborate. Full-body fur suit, clawed gloves, a latex mask with a snarling muzzle. But the fur looks too real. Too thick. And underneath the mask, his eyes catch the porch light with an amber flash that doesn't look like costume contacts.

"Trick-or-treater!" he calls over his shoulder, his voice a low rumble. "And she's a bunny."

The interior erupts. I count at least six figures — all massive, all wearing the same werewolf costumes, all turning toward me with predatory interest. The house smells like beer and woodsmoke and something animal — musky, primal, like a zoo enclosure.

"I'm Trent," the one at the door says, pulling his mask off. Handsome. Square-jawed. His pupils are slightly elongated — vertical slits that widen as he looks me over. "President of Kappa Alpha Wolf. You want the trick or the treat, little bunny?"

"Both," says a deeper voice from inside. A second figure emerges — taller, darker-skinned, his mask already pushed back to reveal sharp cheekbones and a mouth full of teeth that seem just slightly too long. "Jax. VP. And I vote we give her both."

Trent grins. His canines are definitely longer than normal. "House rules on Halloween. Everyone gets both." He reaches out and traces a clawed fingertip along my jaw — the touch sends sparks cascading down my neck, my amplified nerves screaming at the contact. "The treat is we worship this body. Every inch. The trick is..." He leans close, his breath hot against my ear, smelling of cinnamon and something wild. "...there are eight of us. And we don't stop until the moon goes down."

Behind him, the other werewolves are shedding their costumes — peeling away the latex masks to reveal faces that are handsome but wrong in subtle ways. Too-sharp teeth. Eyes that flash amber in the low light. Fingernails that curve into points. Their bodies are enormous — linebacker builds, thick with muscle, covered in a fine dusting of hair that seems to bristle as they scent the air.

One of them — shorter, stockier, with a red beard and wild green eyes — inhales deeply and his nostrils flare. "She smells like cum," he announces with a grin. "Lots of it. Different guys. She's been busy tonight."

"Fenris," Trent introduces. "Our nose."

Jax steps closer, his massive hand settling on my hip, fingers spanning almost entirely around my waist. "Eight wolves. One bunny. No condoms in the whole house — we don't believe in 'em." His amber eyes bore into mine. "So what do you say, little rabbit? Ready to get devoured?"