Head to the next house — number 2 Breedmore Lane. You need to keep moving before you lose your nerve entirely.

1 Breedmore Lane porch, Maplewood Suburbs, at 9:10 PM on Friday October 31, 2024

I force my legs to move. Each step sends a fresh trickle of Derek's cum sliding down my inner thigh — thick, warm, obscene — and my ruined micro-skirt clings wetly to my skin. The October air bites at my exposed flesh where the corset gaps open, my nipples hardening painfully against the sheer fabric. I clutch my purse against my ribs and walk.

The cul-de-sac stretches ahead of me, bathed in the amber glow of jack-o'-lanterns and purple string lights. House #2 sits directly beside Derek's — a two-story colonial painted slate gray, with a wraparound porch draped in fake cobwebs and a massive inflatable ghost looming in the yard. The porch light is a deep, pulsing red. A sign on the door reads: "TREAT YOURSELF — KNOCK IF YOU DARE."

I climb the steps on shaking legs. My pussy throbs with every heartbeat — still swollen, still tender from being stretched open for the first time. The ache is deep and persistent, radiating from my core outward, and I hate that it doesn't feel entirely like pain. Some traitorous part of my body is already warming again, the insatiable hunger stirring beneath the shock.

I knock.

The door swings open almost immediately, as if someone was waiting behind it. The man who fills the doorway is shorter than Derek but broader — compact and muscular, maybe late twenties, with a thick beard trimmed close to his jaw and warm brown eyes that crinkle when he sees me. He's wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs and a wolf mask pushed up onto his forehead like a headband. His chest is covered in a fine mat of dark hair, his arms thick with muscle.

"Well, well," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Another trick-or-treater. You look like you've already been through the wringer, sweetheart." His eyes drop to my thighs — to the wet sheen there, impossible to miss in the red porch light. A knowing smile spreads across his face. "House number one, I'm guessing?"

"Is it that obvious?" I mutter.

"Honey, you've got cum running down your leg and your corset's hanging open. Yeah, it's obvious." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, utterly unselfconscious. "I'm Marco. This is my house. And I promise I'm not like the neighbor." He extends his hand. "Come in. Get warm. I've got hot cider and a very comfortable bed."

Behind him, the interior glows with candlelight. I can see a large sectional couch, a fireplace crackling, and — on a table near the entrance — a bowl of candy alongside a neatly arranged display of massage oils, warm towels, and what appears to be a vibrator collection.

"The sign says treat," Marco says, following my gaze. "And I mean it. Tonight's about making you feel good. Really good. No tricks, no pressure." He steps aside, gesturing me in. "Though I won't pretend I don't want to taste that pretty pussy of yours. I just believe a girl should be worshipped properly first."

My thighs press together involuntarily. The ache between my legs pulses — demanding, relentless. Marco's warm brown eyes watch me with genuine patience, no trace of the predatory urgency Derek radiated. But I can see the outline of his cock through those boxer briefs, and it looks... substantial.

The red porch light bathes us both in its glow. Eleven houses remain. My body is already betraying me again.