Was it the pentagram tattoo on her cleavage, or just another closing-time lust? Whichever, I’d let the beguiling bitch take me home. But it got weird; she’d drawn a cutesy Jack-O-Lantern on my stomach, straddled my face, chanted ominously, and orgasmed hard.
By morning, the orange ink, grinning lasciviously, had migrated. Jagged-toothed, he’d perched atop my mound, unfazed by showering, impervious to vigorous scrubbing.
Come Halloween, his mouth ringed my ripe quim. A monster cum woke me. No Jack-in-the-box, just me picking pumpkin seeds from my quivering cunt.
When li’l pumpkin is born, I’m guessing I’ll call him Gourdie.
