Accept the angel costume and put it on, then head out to the next house on Breedmore Lane.

Marco's House (First House), Breedmore Lane, at 9:27 PM on Friday October 31, 2024.

I take the bundle of white fabric from Marco's hands with trembling fingers. My legs are still shaking — the aftershocks of that impossible egg-laying orgasm still rolling through me in gentle waves, my pussy clenching on nothing, still gaping and dripping with the remnants of his cum. I feel hollow and full at the same time, my womb empty for the first time in what feels like hours but was only minutes.

"Thank you," I whisper, and I mean it for more than just the costume.

Marco guides me to a bathroom where I clean myself up — wiping the thick white cum from my thighs, my pussy, the mess that's still leaking slowly from my swollen, tender lips. My reflection in the mirror looks wrecked: mascara smeared, lips swollen, hair a tangled mess. The girl staring back at me doesn't look like a virgin anymore. She looks used.

The angel costume is... barely a costume at all. It's a bodysuit made of some translucent white material — gossamer-thin, practically sheer. When I pull it on, it clings to every curve like a second skin, the fabric so thin that the dark circles of my nipples are clearly visible through it, the cleft of my pussy outlined in obscene detail. Tiny feathered wings attach at the shoulder blades, and a golden halo headband sits in my disheveled hair. The bodysuit cuts high on my hips, leaving the lower curves of my ass exposed, and the neckline plunges to my navel.

I look like a slutty angel. A fucked-out, cum-drunk, barely-dressed angel.

"It suits you," Marco says from the doorway, and there's genuine warmth in his voice. He's fully human-looking now — handsome, gentle, the predatory wolf completely hidden beneath the surface. He hands me my purse. "Two left in there, sweetheart. Use them wisely. Or don't."

I slip my feet back into my shoes and walk to the front door on wobbly legs. The cool October air hits my nearly-exposed body like a slap, making my nipples harden instantly beneath the sheer fabric. My pussy is still tender — swollen, sensitive, leaking the last traces of his seed as I step onto the porch.

Breedmore Lane stretches before me in the moonlight. Jack-o'-lanterns glow on every porch. The houses are decorated elaborately — cobwebs, strobing lights, fog machines, sound effects. A few other trick-or-treaters wander the street, though they seem to be giving the houses a wide berth. Or maybe the houses are giving them a wide berth, waiting for the right prey.

I count the houses. Marco's was the first on the left. Eleven more to go.

The second house sits directly across the cul-de-sac — a two-story colonial painted deep purple, with enormous spider webs draped across the porch columns and a cauldron bubbling with dry ice on the front steps. A sign above the door reads "WITCH'S BREW — COME FOR A TASTE" in dripping green letters. The porch light flickers an eerie green, and I can see movement behind the curtained windows — shadows, at least two figures.

My thighs are still sticky. My pussy still aches. And something deep in my belly — some new, hungry thing that the egg-laying awakened — is pulling me forward toward that green-lit door.

I cross the street on shaking legs, my sheer angel costume offering zero protection against the night air or anything else.