*Knock Knock*

1 Breedmore Lane, Maplewood Suburbs, at 8:12 PM on Friday October 31, 2024

The first house on Breedmore Lane is a two-story colonial with orange string lights draped across the porch and a pair of carved jack-o'-lanterns flanking the door, their candlelight flickering against the dark wood. My knuckles rap against the door — three quick knocks — and the sound seems impossibly loud in the quiet street. My heart is slamming against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my throat. The October breeze cuts through my sheer corset like it isn't there, and my nipples are stiff little points pressing against the thin fabric, completely visible. My micro-skirt barely covers the curve of my ass, and I'm acutely aware that a strong gust would expose the bare, freshly shaved mound beneath my thong to anyone watching.

The door swings open.

The man standing there is tall — easily six-three — with broad shoulders that fill the doorframe. He's maybe thirty-five, with close-cropped dark hair and a jaw that looks like it was carved from granite. He's shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants that do absolutely nothing to hide the thick outline of his cock hanging heavy down his left thigh. His chest is broad and smooth, with a dusting of dark hair trailing down his abs into the waistband of his pants. His eyes — pale grey, almost silver — drop from my face to my chest, lingering on the way my small breasts strain against the sheer black corset, my nipples plainly visible through the fabric.

"Well, well," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in my chest. A slow smile spreads across his face. "Trick or treat, little vampire?"

"T-trick or treat," I manage, my voice coming out breathier than I intended.

"Name's Derek," he says, leaning against the doorframe with casual confidence. His gaze travels down my body — over the micro-skirt that barely covers anything, down my fishnet-clad thighs to my boots, then back up again, lingering at the junction of my thighs where the thin fabric of my thong clings to the slight swell of my mound. "And you are?"

"Luna," I whisper.

"Luna." He says my name like he's tasting it. "You're eighteen?"

I nod, and his smile widens. He steps aside, gesturing into the warm interior of his house. The living room beyond is dimly lit by candles and a single red lamp, casting everything in a soft crimson glow. I can see a plush couch, a coffee table with a bowl of candy on it, and — my breath catches — a large mirror mounted on the wall opposite the couch.

"I'm offering a treat tonight, Luna," Derek says, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate. "Come inside. Let me take care of you first."

My thighs press together involuntarily. The heat between my legs is already building — a slow, insistent pulse that matches my heartbeat. I can feel myself getting wet, the thin fabric of my thong already dampening against my swollen lips.

Derek notices. Of course he notices. His silver eyes flicker down to my crotch and his smile turns knowing, predatory.

"I can see you're already excited, little vampire," he murmurs. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mouth hasn't said it yet."

He extends his hand toward me, palm up — an invitation. Behind him, the candlelit room waits like a warm mouth ready to swallow me whole.

Your objective for this adventure is: Visit every house on Breedmore Lane and experience every trick or treat the neighborhood has to offer on Halloween night.