A Halloween baby bump

Arianna had spent three hours perfecting her witch costume, and now she stood at the bottom of the stairs feeling every bit the sexy spellcaster she'd intended to be. The black velvet dress hugged her curves in ways that made her feel powerful, dangerous even. The tall pointed witch hat cast her face in mysterious shadow, and the thigh-high stockings—sheer black with delicate seams running up the back—made her legs look endless above the glossy patent leather boots.

She'd expected her husband to notice. To appreciate.

Instead, she found him already sprawled on the leather couch, remote in hand, wearing the same faded blue t-shirt and jeans he'd had on since noon. The television glowed with the opening credits of some horror movie he'd apparently started without her.

"Trick or treaters will be here any minute," she said, adjusting her hat with what she hoped was a seductive tilt.

Kevin glanced over, his eyes flicking from her face to her legs and home; the daily stress began to affect her again. He offered a small smile. "You look nice, babe. Really."

"Nice?" She stepped closer, the hem of her dress swishing against her thighs. "I was going for bewitching."

"You are," he said, already turning back to the screen. "But the game's on after this short movie, and I figured we could just put the candy bowl outside. Do we really need to do the whole costume thing?"

Arianna felt the excitement drain from her chest like air from a punctured balloon. She'd been looking forward to the holiday all month—the first Halloween in their new house, the chance to be playful and flirty, to feel desired. The costume had cost a small fortune. The boots had given her blisters during the breaking-in period.

She lowered herself onto the couch beside him, the leather cool against her bare thighs, and crossed her legs with deliberate slowness. The dress rode up. Kevin didn't look.

"Just one hour," she said softly. "Then we can watch whatever you want."

He carefully ignored what she had said.

…

What he didn’t register is that behind his wife's simple words lay a tremendous depth of despair.

They had married young; she was 18 and a couple of months old as they were on their honeymoon trip to Paris and Barcelona, and those two weeks had been the most romantic days of her young life. He had been so attentive, caring, and so loving! And he had fucked her every. Single. Day.

Her female instincts whispered already, after the first two days in Paris, that he was the perfect father for their future child. She shivered at the idea of becoming a mommy. She would then join the family tradition of having a baby in her early twenties. But it was not for that, or for her BFF already having a baby at the young age of 21. It was her deep love for him and wanting to give him strong offspring.

But that was more than six years ago.

Once they returned back home, the daily stress got him. And he became seclusive, not interested in her anymore. Year after year after year. She tried to have sex with him many, many times, all fruitless. Not even sexy underwear helped. She went to seminars on “How to get your man back." She had hired a marriage coach for a period of six months who analyzed her entire behavior to find ideas on how she could make her husband bed her again.

All futile.

At a certain point, roughly a year ago, just before Halloween, she had stopped taking the pill altogether. No baby planning anymore. If she were so lucky for him to fuck her again one day, even if he were coming back drunk from his boy’s night, she would gladly accept his sperm. That was the only hope she had left to become a mommy, just like everybody else.

Now Halloween was announcing itself again.

Nothing had changed. He was still more interested in sports than in his young wife.

Already one year later. she thought. Another fucking year. She went up to her bedroom and cried.

Every man in the neighborhood turned his head when she walked past. Hell, even some women wanted her. And some couples too. She knew she was pretty. Hazel-brown eyes matching her shoulder-length brown hair, her mouth displaying her full lips combined with her high cheekbones.

She didn’t dress overly sexy, but this summer, everybody had seen her tanning in their front yard; that tight bikini was barely keeping her breasts hidden. Her feminine curves would seduce anyone, that hour-glass bod inviting any man to conquer her. Those full breasts, owning beautiful, pinkish-brown nipples, which screamed to be touched and sucked on. Her flat stomach would lead your hand towards her smooth, shaved mound in between her thighs.

Arianna was a sexual invitation to happen.

Making you hard the instant you see her coming out of the house.

But she was faithful and decided to try one more time, at Halloween, to seduce her husband. She could wear sluttier clothes than usual and nobody would wonder or ask any questions.

…

The doorbell rang at seven-fifteen, sharp and insistent. Arianna perked up immediately, smoothing her dress and checking her reflection in the darkened window.

"Can you get it?" Kevin asked, not taking his eyes from the screen. "This part is good."

She stood, adjusting her hat one final time, and walked to the door with an exaggerated sway in her hips that she knew he wasn't watching. Three children stood on the porch—superheroes, their capes fluttering in the autumn breeze.

"Trick or treat!" they chorused.

Arianna bent to offer the candy, feeling the dress stretch across her backside, knowing Kevin had a perfect view if he'd only look. She heard the movie volume increase behind her.

"Love your costume!" one of the mothers called from the sidewalk, waving.

"Thank you!" Arianna replied, her voice bright and brittle.

She closed the door and leaned against it, watching her husband. He was sprawled in that familiar position—one leg crossed over the other, arm extended along the back of the couch, completely absorbed in the flickering screen. The orange glow of the television carved his face in harsh light and shadow.

"You're really not going to participate at all?" she asked.

"I am participating," he said. "I'm here. I'm not at the bar with the guys like I wanted to be."

"How generous of you."

He finally looked at her then, really looked, and she saw something shift in his expression—guilt, perhaps, or reluctant awareness. His gaze travelled down her body, taking in the plunging neckline, the short hem, the stockings, and the boots that made her calves look spectacular.

"You do look incredible," he admitted. "Come here."

She walked to the couch and stood before him. He reached out, his hand settling on her hip, thumb tracing the velvet fabric. For a moment, she thought he might pull her onto his lap, might remember that they were young and married and alone in a house full of closed doors.

"Grab me a beer while you're up?" he asked, patting her thigh. "And maybe some of those chips?"

Arianna stared at him. The doorbell rang again. She turned and walked to answer it, her heels clicking against the hardwood, feeling foolish and exposed and suddenly very tired of being the only one trying.

…

By nine o'clock, the trick or treaters had thinned to nothing. The candy bowl sat nearly empty on the porch, and Arianna had retreated to the couch, though she'd positioned herself at the far end from Kevin, her legs tucked beneath her, her hat still defiantly in place.

He'd finished the horror movie and moved on to some action film—explosions and shouting that filled the silence between them. She scrolled her phone, not really seeing anything, occasionally stealing glances at him.

He looked relaxed. Content. Completely unaware that something was wrong.

Arianna uncrossed her legs and let her booted foot brush against his thigh. He didn't react. She did it again, more deliberately, pressing the toe of her boot against his leg.

"Babe," he said, not looking away from the screen. "I'm watching this."

"I know," she said. "That's the problem."

He paused the movie. Turned to face her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I spent hours getting ready for you. It means I put on this ridiculous costume and these uncomfortable boots and did my makeup like some gothic pin-up girl, and you haven't looked at me once. Not really."

"I have looked at you—"

"You glanced," she corrected. "You gave me the same look you give the pizza delivery guy. Efficient. Polite. Completely uninterested."

Kevin set the remote down. He studied her face, then let his eyes drift lower—taking their time now, cataloguing the effort she'd put in. The lace trim on her dress. The choker at her throat. The way her stockings disappeared beneath the hem of her skirt.

"I didn't realize," he said quietly.

"That I wanted attention? That I wanted to feel sexy? That I wanted my husband to want me?"

"I always want you," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. It sounded like something he thought he was supposed to say.

Arianna stood up. She walked to the center of the room, the firelight from the decorative candles casting her shadow long and dramatic against the wall. She turned slowly, letting him see every angle—the tight bodice, the short skirt, the curve of her ass in the velvet, and the boots that added four inches to her height.

"If you want me," she said, her voice dropping to something low and smoky, "then prove it. Turn off the movie. Come here. Touch me like you mean it."

She waited. The television shouted behind him, some hero delivering a one-liner before the final battle. Kevin looked at the screen, then at her, then back at the screen.

Arianna felt her heart sink. She reached up and removed her witch hat, letting it fall to the floor. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders.

"That's what I thought," she said quietly, leaving the living room.

"Wait—" he called after her.

But she didn't stop. The boots clicked with each step as she walked towards the stairs.

And then the doorbell rang again.

…

Arianna was halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rang again—deeper, more insistent than the children's chiming voices. She paused, hand on the banister, debating whether to ignore it. Kevin hadn't moved from the couch, hadn't called out to stop her.

She descended slowly, her boots clicking against each step, and pulled open the door.

The man on her porch was not a child.

He filled the doorway—broad shoulders, thick arms, a tight olive-green t-shirt that looked painted onto his torso. A black bandit mask covered his eyes, giving him a roguish, almost theatrical appearance. He carried a white pillowcase in one gloved hand, already partially filled with candy.

"Trick or treat," he said, and his voice was a low rumble that vibrated somewhere in her chest.

Arianna felt her breath catch. She'd been expecting another gaggle of superheroes or princesses. Not this—this wall of muscle and confidence standing on her welcome mat.

"You're a little old for this, aren't you?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe in a way that pushed her cleavage forward. The black velvet dress suddenly felt like her best decision all evening.

The stranger's eyes—visible even through the mask—dropped immediately to her chest. He didn't try to hide it. His gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts above the lace trim, then slowly travelled back up to her face with a smirk that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Age is just a number, sweetheart," he said. "And I heard the witch at this house was worth the trip."

Arianna felt heat bloom in her cheeks. Behind her, she could hear the television blaring—Kevin still engrossed in his movie, completely unaware that she was being undressed by a stranger on their front porch.

"Is that so?" She shifted the orange candy bowl, letting her long black gloves brush against her bare shoulders as she raised it slightly. "And what exactly did you hear?"

"That you're the best-looking thing on this block," he said, stepping closer. Close enough that she could smell his cologne—something woodsy and masculine. "And that costume..." His eyes dropped again, tracing the neckline of her dress, the way the fabric pulled tight across her chest. "Definitely worth the walk."

Arianna found herself staring at his arms. The short sleeves of his t-shirt cut off mid-bicep, exposing muscular arms that looked like they spent serious time in a gym. The veins were visible, tracing paths over rounded muscle that flexed as he adjusted his grip on the pillowcase.

"You're... fit," she said, the word escaping before she could think of something cleverer.

He laughed—a genuine, warm sound. "Thanks. I try." He flexed deliberately, the bicep swelling against the fabric of his shirt, and Arianna's mouth went dry. "Are you a fan?"

"I appreciate... dedication," she managed, her eyes locked on the bulging muscle. "It takes commitment to look like that."

"Lots of late nights," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Early mornings. Discipline." He leaned against the doorframe now, invading her space in a way that should have felt threatening but instead felt electric. "Something tells me you know about discipline too. Keeping a body like that... takes work."

His gaze swept over her again—her waist, her hips, and the boots that added height to her frame. The way he looked at her was nothing like Kevin's polite glances. This was hungry. Appreciative. Interested.

"Your husband knows you're out here entertaining strangers?" he asked, nodding toward the light spilling from the living room.

"He's... occupied," Arianna said, hearing the slight breathlessness in her own voice.

"Shame," the man said, reaching into her candy bowl. His gloved fingers brushed against hers, deliberate and warm. "Missing out on all the fun."

He didn't take his candy and leave. He stayed there, filling her doorway, looking at her like she was the treat he'd come for.

"What's your name, pretty witch?"

"Arianna," she said.

"Pretty," he murmured. "Fits you." His eyes dropped to her chest one more time, unashamed. "You know, most houses just give candy. But you..." He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him. "You might be worth more than a Snickers bar."

Arianna's heart hammered against her ribs. Behind her, the movie played on, Kevin oblivious. Before her stood a cute stranger in a mask, looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

"Maybe," she whispered, putting her index upright in front of her red lips, telling him to be quiet, "you should come in and find out."

The man smiled—a slow, confident curve of his lips. "I thought you'd never ask."

He stepped across the threshold, and Arianna softly closed the door behind him.

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in the dimly lit hallway. The sounds from the living room—the television's muffled explosions, the occasional laugh track—felt distant now, like they were happening in another world.

"So," Arianna said, her back against the wall, the candy bowl still clutched in her gloved hands. "What kind of treat did you have in mind?"

Her voice came out coy and playful, nothing like the frustrated woman who'd climbed the stairs just minutes ago. Something about this stranger—his confidence, his body, the way he looked at her like she was already naked—had awakened something reckless in her.

He stepped closer, crowding her space, and she felt small against his bulk. His gloved hands found her waist, thumbs pressing into the velvet fabric of her dress, and he pulled her firmly against him. She let out a surprised sigh—he was hard already; she could feel him pressing against her stomach through his clothes.

"A kiss," he said, his voice rough and low. "Just one kiss to start."

Arianna looked up at him, at the black mask that hid his eyes but did nothing to conceal the hunger in his expression. He smelled good—like cedar and something darker, very intoxicating. She inhaled deeply, letting it fill her lungs.

"Just one kiss," she whispered, her lips parting, as she quickly glanced at her husband. "Right here in the hallway."

He didn't wait for further invitation. He leaned down, one hand sliding up her back to cradle her head, and his mouth found hers. His lips were warm, firm, and demanding. She felt the tip of his tongue trace the seam of her lips, asking permission, and she opened for him with a soft sound in her throat.

Their tongues met—wet, eager, exploring. He tasted like mint and something sweeter, and Arianna found herself melting into him, her gloved hands coming up to grip his broad shoulders. His muscles flexed beneath her fingers, hard and unyielding, and she moaned into his mouth as she felt the power in his body.

Their breathing grew ragged, echoing in the quiet hallway. Arianna became aware of her own body responding—her nipples tightening, growing erect and sensitive against the scratchy lace of her costume. She felt them pressing against the fabric, aching for touch, and as if reading her mind, his hand slid from her waist up to her chest.

He found her breast through the velvet, his thumb circling the hardened peak, and then he pinched—rolling it between his fingers with just enough pressure to make her cry out. The sound was swallowed by his mouth, her moan vibrating against his tongue as he continued to kiss her deeply, thoroughly, like he was claiming her mouth for his own.

Arianna's resistance crumbled. She'd meant to stop at a kiss—just one kiss, she'd told herself—but her body had other ideas. She could feel heat pooling between her thighs, her pussy growing moist, her panties dampening as he continued to tease her nipple through the fabric.

"Fuck," she breathed when he finally broke the kiss, her lips swollen and wet.

"That's the idea," he murmured, his mouth trailing down her neck, teeth grazing her pulse point.

They kissed again and again until Arianna was dizzy with it, until she couldn't remember why she'd ever wanted to stop. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her breasts, her ass—groping and claiming while the television droned on in the background.

Then his hand was on her shoulder, pressing gently, and she understood. She was sinking to her knees before she'd fully made the decision, the hardwood floor cool against her legs even through her stockings. She looked up at him from below, her witch hat slightly askew, and watched as he reached for the waistband of his shorts.

He pulled them down, and his cock sprang free—thick and heavy and already fully erect, the shaft veined and flushed dark, the head swollen and glistening with a bead of pre-cum. Arianna's eyes widened. He was big—bigger than Kevin, bigger than she'd expected—and the sight of him standing over her, hard and ready, made her mouth water.

"Oh!" she whispered, reaching out with her gloved hand to wrap around his base. Her fingers didn't quite meet, and she felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with nervousness.

She leaned forward, her tongue darting out to taste the drop of moisture at his tip. He groaned above her, his hand coming to rest on her head, fingers tangling in her dark hair. She licked again, swirling her tongue around the sensitive ridge, learning his shape and flavor—salty, musky, male.

Then she opened her mouth and took him inside.

He was hot and heavy on her tongue, filling her mouth completely. She started slowly, just the first few inches, sliding her lips down his shaft and then back up, creating suction as she retreated. Her hand worked what she couldn't fit, stroking in time with her mouth, her black glove a stark contrast against his pale skin.

"That's it," he groaned, his hips twitching forward. "Take it, witch. Take that treat."

Arianna moaned around him, the vibration making him shudder. She began to move faster, bobbing her head, taking him deeper with each downward stroke. Her tongue pressed against the underside of his shaft, finding the sensitive vein there, and she felt his thighs tense beneath her other hand.

She pulled back to catch her breath, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his cock, and looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. His head was thrown back, his masked face a picture of pleasure, his gloved hands gripping her hair more tightly now, guiding her rhythm.

She dove back down, taking him as deep as she could, until the head of his cock nudged the back of her throat and her eyes watered. She swallowed around him, her throat muscles contracting, and he let out a strangled curse above her.

"Fuck, just like that," he panted. "Don't stop."

Arianna had no intention of stopping. She was lost in it now—the taste of him, the weight of him on her tongue, the power of making this strong man tremble. She worked him with her mouth and hand in tandem, her movements growing sloppy and desperate, her own arousal throbbing between her legs as she serviced him.

She hollowed her cheeks, creating tight suction, and swirled her tongue around his tip before plunging back down. Her free hand moved to cup his heavy balls, rolling them gently, feeling them draw up tight against his body.

"Gonna cum," he warned, his voice strained, his hips jerking in shallow thrusts. "If you don't want it—"

She answered by taking him deeper, hollowing her cheeks, and moaning her encouragement around his shaft. She wanted it—wanted to taste him, wanted to swallow every drop while her husband slept just feet away.

His grip on her hair tightened almost painfully, and then he was groaning long and low above her, his cock pulsing in her mouth as he released. The first spurt hit the back of her throat, thick and hot, and Arianna swallowed greedily, continuing to milk him with her lips and tongue as he emptied himself into her willing mouth.

When he finally finished, she pulled back slowly, letting him slip from between her swollen lips with a wet sound. She looked up at him, her lips shiny, her chest heaving beneath her costume, and licked them clean with a slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue.

"Best treat I've had all night," he said, his voice rough, his masked eyes dark with satisfaction.

Behind them, from the living room, came the sound of soft snoring. Kevin had fallen asleep on the couch, remote still clutched in his hand, never knowing what Halloween treats his wife had just enjoyed in their hallway.

…

The stranger's cock was still glistening from her mouth when Arianna made her decision. She'd tasted him, felt his power, and now she needed more—needed him inside her, filling her, taking her while her useless husband slept just feet away.

"Wait," she whispered, pressing a gloved finger to his lips.

She moved quickly, her hands trembling with urgency as she reached behind her back for the zipper of her witch dress. The velvet fabric parted easily, and she shimmied out of it, letting the costume pool at her feet until she stood in only her lingerie—the black lace garter belt, the sheer stockings with their delicate seams, the black panties, and the long gloves that reached past her elbows.

"Leave those on," he growled, his eyes devouring her nearly naked form. "And the stockings. Fuck, look at you."

She kicked off her boots and climbed onto the staircase, positioning herself on the carpeted steps, her knees on either side of his thighs. The ornate metal railing cast intricate shadows across her bare skin. She reached down, hooking her thumbs into her panties and sliding them down her legs, revealing her glistening pussy—already wet, already aching for him.

"Condom?" he asked, though his hands were already gripping her hips, pulling her closer.

"No," she breathed. "I want to feel you. Bare. All of you."

“Are you safe?” He asked, a surprised look in his eyes.

“I need this,” Arianna replied, not answering his question.

His eyes darkened at that, and he didn't argue.

He knows. It was the first thought that popped up in her mind.

“Take me.” She encouraged him.

He positioned himself at her opening, the thick head of his cock pressing against her moist folds, and Arianna lowered herself slowly, impaling herself on his length.

"Oh god," she gasped, her head falling back, her mouth open in a silent scream.

He was huge—stretching her, filling her completely in a way Kevin never had. She could feel every vein, every ridge of him as she sank lower, taking him inch by inch until her ass rested against his thighs and he was buried to the hilt inside her.

"Quiet," he reminded her, though his own voice was strained. "Your husband."

Arianna bit her lip, nodding, but the need to moan was already building. She started to move—slow, experimental rolls of her hips, rising up until just the tip remained inside, then sinking back down with a wet, filthy sound that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet hallway.

"Fuck," she whispered, her gloved hands bracing against his chest. "Fuck, you're so big."

She found her rhythm, rocking back and forth, her breasts bouncing with each downward thrust. The angle was perfect—his cock dragging against her front wall, hitting that spot deep inside that made her see stars. She rode him harder, faster, her stockings sliding against his bare legs, the garter straps pulling tight against her thighs.

"Shh," he warned, but his own control was slipping. His hands gripped her ass, spreading her cheeks, helping her bounce on his cock with increasing speed.

Arianna couldn't help it—the moans started escaping, soft at first, then louder, more desperate. "Oh god, oh fuck, yes," she panted, not caring anymore about the sleeping man in the next room. "Right there, don't stop, please don't stop."

She was riding him in earnest now, slamming herself down on his cock, taking him deep and hard. The staircase creaked beneath them, the carpet rough against her knees, but she didn't care—all she cared about was the thick shaft pounding into her, filling her, claiming her.

"Louder," he dared her, thrusting up to meet her downward strokes. "Let him hear. Let him hear what he's missing."

Arianna threw her head back, her dark hair cascading down her back, and let out a cry that echoed through the house. "Yes! Oh, fuck yes! Harder!"

He obliged, gripping her hips and pounding upward, his cock slamming into her with wet, visceral force. She could feel him swelling inside her, getting harder, and she knew he was close. She reached down between them, her gloved fingers finding her clit, rubbing frantic circles as she continued to ride him.

"Gonna cum," he groaned. "Gonna fill you up, witch. Gonna pump you full—"

"Yes!" she screamed, not caring anymore, lost completely to the pleasure. "Cum in me! Please, cum in my pussy!"

He thrust up one final time, burying himself to the root, and she felt him pulse—thick ropes of hot cum flooding her unprotected womb, filling her, marking her as his. The sensation pushed her over the edge, and she came hard around him, her pussy clamping down, milking him, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm.

She collapsed forward against his chest, both of them panting, sweaty, her pussy still twitching around his softening cock. From the living room, the snoring had stopped—and for a moment, Arianna's heart froze.

But then it started again, rhythmic and oblivious.

She smiled against the stranger's neck, feeling his cum leaking out of her, already planning when she might answer the door again.

…

He remained hard inside her—thick and pulsing, refusing to soften even after filling her with his seed. Arianna felt every throb of his cock in her married cunt, the warmth of his cum coating her insides, and she whimpered with regret as she lifted herself off him. His length slid out of her with a wet, filthy sound, and she immediately felt empty, aching, and incomplete.

"Not done with you," she breathed, her gloved hand wrapping around his slick shaft.

She rose on shaky legs, her pussy leaking his cum down her inner thighs, and pulled him up with her. Her black-gloved fingers intertwined with his as she led him up the staircase—past the scene of their first coupling, past the hallway where she'd knelt for him—up to the master bedroom she shared with Kevin.

At the top of the stairs, she paused for one last glance over her shoulder. There was her husband, still sprawled on the couch, remote dangling from his hand, mouth open in deep sleep. He had no idea. He'd missed everything—the stranger's cock in their hallway, his cum in his wife's unprotected womb, and the witch costume discarded on their floor.

"Fuck me here," she cooed, pushing open the bedroom door. "Fuck me in our bed."

A fleeting thought crossed her mind as she pulled him into the moonlit room—the bed she and Kevin had picked out together, the sheets they'd washed that morning, the life they'd built. She wasn't sure when she was ovulating. Her cycle had been irregular lately, from stress from work to Kevin's neglect...

But she pushed the worry aside. It would be okay. A little voice whispered in the back of her mind, whenever you are horny, you are ovulating. Just like today. You know that.

And God, was she horny.

She pushed the stranger onto the edge of their marital bed and sank to her knees before him, her witch hat still perched on her head, her black gloves gleaming in the moonlight. She took his cum-slicked cock in both hands and brought it to her lips, tasting herself on him—her arousal mixed with his seed. She moaned at the flavor and took him deep into her throat, sucking him clean, working him with her tongue and lips until she felt him stiffen completely, growing harder, thicker, and ready again.

"That's it," he groaned, his hand in her hair. "Get me ready to breed you again."

The word sent a shiver through her. Breed. She wanted it—wanted him to really knock her up. To fill her womb over and over while her husband slept downstairs.

When he was fully erect again—glistening with her saliva and his own precum, impossibly hard and ready—she released him with a wet pop and crawled onto the bed. She positioned herself on all fours, arching her back, wiggling her ass in invitation. The black garter belt framed her pussy perfectly, the stockings still hugging her legs, the boots adding height to her pose. She looked back at him over her shoulder, her witch hat slightly askew, her gloved hands gripping the sheets.

"Take me," she begged. "Fuck me like he never does."

He climbed onto the bed behind her, positioning himself at her entrance. His cock was dripping precum now, a steady stream of clear fluid mixing with the remnants of his first load still leaking from her. He gripped her hips—his gloved fingers digging into her flesh—and thrust forward in one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt in her birth tunnel.

"Oh fuck!" she screamed, the sound muffled by the pillow she buried her face in.

He didn't give her time to adjust. He began pounding her immediately—hard, deep thrusts that shook the bed frame, that made her breasts swing beneath her, that drove the air from her lungs with each impact. The sound of flesh slapping flesh filled the room, wet and obscene, mixed with her muffled cries and his grunts of effort.

"So tight," he growled, gripping her hair through the witch hat and pulling her head back. "So fucking tight even after I came in you. Your husband doesn't stretch you like this, does he?"

"No," she gasped, pushing back to meet his thrusts. "Never. Only you. Only your big cock."

He reached around with one hand, his gloved fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough circles as he continued to hammer into her from behind. The dual sensation—his thick shaft filling her, his fingers on her most sensitive spot—built quickly, spiraling higher and higher.

"Come for me," he commanded. "Come on, my cock, while I fuck your married pussy."

She shattered—her first orgasm ripping through her like a wave, her pussy clamping down on him, milking him, her screams buried in the pillow as her body convulsed. He didn't slow down, fucking her through it, using her spasming tunnel to jerk himself off.

Before she could recover, he flipped her onto her back, her boots still on, her stockings and garter belt in place, her gloves reaching for him. He plunged back into her, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back.

"Look at me," he demanded, gripping her chin. "Look at me while I fuck you in your marriage bed."

She opened her eyes, staring up at his masked face, and came again—harder this time, her back arching off the mattress, her nails scratching down his back through her gloves, her screams unrestrained now, echoing through the room.

"Again," he snarled, pounding her relentlessly. "One more time. Come with me."

He was swelling inside her, getting impossibly thick, and she could feel another orgasm building, deeper, more intense than the others. He reached between them, pinching her clit, and she exploded—her third climax ripping through her as he thrust deep one final time and held there, pulsing, throbbing, flooding her womb with his second hot load.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned, pumping rope after rope of cum into her unprotected depths. "Taking it all, aren't you? Taking every drop in your cheating cunt."

She could feel it—the warmth spreading through her, filling her, claiming her. She kept her legs wrapped around him, not letting him pull out, wanting to keep him inside, wanting every last drop.

When he finally collapsed on top of her, both of them panting, sweaty, and spent, she stared up at the ceiling of her marital bedroom and smiled. The bed was ruined, the sheets soaked, her pussy overflowing with a stranger's seed.

And downstairs, her husband still slept, oblivious to the fact that his witch of a wife had a little Halloween bun in the oven.

The end.