Trick-Her-Treat: Halloween Night on Breedmore Lane

My name doesn't matter — what matters is that tonight is Halloween, and I'm finally eighteen. My heart is hammering as I stand at the entrance to Breedmore Lane, the crisp October air prickling my bare thighs and the exposed curves of my chest. I can feel the cool breeze slipping beneath the pathetically thin fabric of my costume — I look like I belong on the cover of a porn magazine, not on a residential street. My pussy is already tingling with nervous excitement beneath the thin strip of fabric barely covering it.

Breedmore Lane stretches ahead of me — a cul-de-sac of about twelve houses, each one decorated with Halloween lights and jack-o'-lanterns, but with an unmistakable adult energy. Some windows glow red. Some have signs on the doors I can't read from here. I can hear bass-heavy music thumping from somewhere. A woman's moan drifts from an open upstairs window and makes my thighs press together.

I have a small purse slung over my shoulder. Inside: my phone, my ID proving I'm 18, a tube of cherry lip gloss, and exactly three condoms my friend Sarah shoved into my hand with a wink before I left. Three condoms. Twelve houses. The math is not in my favor.

My parents always told me this street was off-limits. Every Halloween growing up, I'd watch the older girls from the neighborhood disappear down this lane in their skimpiest outfits and come back hours later looking dazed, flushed, walking funny, with their makeup smeared and their costumes askew — sometimes missing pieces entirely. They never talked about what happened. They just smiled.

Now it's my turn. I take a deep breath, feeling my nipples stiffen against the thin fabric of my top, and I start walking toward the first house. My virgin pussy clenches with anticipation beneath my thong. Whatever happens tonight, there's no going back.

Happy Halloween to me.