Trick or Treat

'I'll probably be back before one, and if you need me, you've got the Anderson's number and anyway, I'll have my mobile.'

She reeled this off without ever once shifting her gaze from the mirror in which she was perfecting her make-up, as if it needed it.

'Laura, the Andersons live three doors away from us. I could probably go into the back garden and yell if I needed you.'

She gave him a look and snatched up her heaving handbag. What in hell did she keep in there? Maybe that's how much make-up it takes to keep up this ice queen façade, applying a new layer every time there's a hint of a thaw.

'Fine, whatever. Are you sure you don't want to come?'

She only asked because she knew he didn't.

'I'm sure I don't want to come.' He replied, in deliberate monotone.

'Suit yourself,' she responded curtly, before adding the final touch -- a pair of twee cat ears -- to her costume, if the outrageous combination of black jeans and a black top could be termed fancy dress. She stalked briskly out of the house, closing the door firmly behind her in a motion that could have been a slam if there had been enough emotion behind it.

Mike sighed. Everywhere he looked his gaze fell on a gaudy pumpkin, a chintzy 'Happy Holidays!' banner, or a tray of specially decorated Halloween biscuits, cut in the shape of ghouls and ghosts. It wouldn't be much better at the Andersons', he reasoned. Middle-aged couples gorging on canapes and complaining about their bosses; probably their spouses too, when they're out of earshot. No thank you. I'm only thirty, for god's sake, he thought to himself, despairingly.

Outside, children screamed and giggled. He peered hesitantly out between the blinds, searching for a glimpse of a hot young mother or sexy babysitter chaperoning the brats. No such luck. He let his eyes linger longingly on upstairs window of the house opposite, where the Johnsons' teenaged daughter often presided over slumber parties populated by gorgeous, giggling girls, all long hair and lithe limbs, and blossoming curves bursting out of scanty shorts and vests. He felt himself harden at the thought of it. Not tonight though. He reached a hand tentatively under his jeans, before thinking better of it. Don't want to have to stop mid-wank to dole out goodies to trick-or-treaters; there's something decidedly creepy about giving little children sweets while sporting a hard-on. Perfectly on cue, the doorbell rang. Trick or treat.

Mike slouched reluctantly towards the door, picking up Laura's perfectly iced biscuits en route as a peace offering to appease whatever tyrannical toddler was lurking on the other side of the door. With his free hand, he pulled the door to, only to find that what was waiting for him behind it fell most definitely into the treat category. Gazing coyly up at him from behind heart-shaped sun-glasses stood Holly, the Andersons' eighteen year old daughter, dressed in knee socks, an achingly short tennis skirt and a polo shirt that, thanks to the two pert mounds it modestly concealed, rode up ever so slightly to display a flash of flat, tanned tummy. The costume was completed with a round red lollipop she sucked with an air of nonchalance. He searched frantically for accompanying kids -- younger siblings, babysitting charges -- but found none. Just sweet Holly Anderson, standing on his front step as if she'd stepped fresh out of a fifteen year old's favourite fantasy.

'Trick or treat,' she said, smiling. He thought he saw a glimpse of cherry red tongue poke quickly between her perfect white teeth -- was she mocking him?

'Can I come in?' she asked sweetly, moving towards the door without waiting for a response. Instinctively, he stood aside and watched, mesmerized, as she breezed past.

'You've got some cool stuff, Mr Richards.' Holly mused, bending (deliberately?) over across the kitchen counter to play with the incense sticks he had brought back from a Japanese business trip for Laura -- she'd hated them, of course -- allowing the girl's tennis skirt to hitch up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of white cotton underneath. He stared, though he reluctantly reminded himself he shouldn't. She was eighteen, for god's sake.

'So,' he awkwardly began, sensing that he should at least attempt conversation. 'How's... school?'

Holly turned to face him and gave a husky laugh that seemed to jar with her young years.

'College, actually. So you don't have to feel like a paedo for looking.' She added, leaning back against the counter and slowly edging her legs further akimbo.

'I wasn't...' Mike trailed off, flustered. 'You look very nice.' He conceded weakly, edging further back into the kitchen table as if cornered by a hungry beast of prey. As if reading his mind, Holly licked her pouting pink lips and he could have sworn her teeth seemed more pointed than they had a minute earlier.

'Oh come on, Mr Richards,' she sighed with mock exasperation. 'I've seen you gawping at us whenever we're at Vicky's, and I know I've got the best ass of any of the girls there. I mean, you saw for yourself just a minute ago. And don't pretend you weren't looking.'

He was being teased, told off even, by a girl almost half his age, and it was unbearable. He tried furtively to cover the growing hard-on straining under his jeans.

'Now, look,' he began, trying desperately to sound authoritarian. 'My girlfriend... my fiancée, is at your parents' party right now, and she could be back any minute. Do you really want her walking in on..?'

'Oh I doubt she'll be leaving there any time soon,' Holly interrupted, with a wicked smile that momentarily confused him. 'Besides, she's probably screwing someone else anyway, because she's sure as hell not screwing you. Apart from in a metaphorical sense, of course.' She laughed her husky laugh again, enjoying her own joke. Mike stuttered, but before he could mount a suitable defence of what happened to be more or less the truth, the teenaged temptress interjected again.

'Sure, maybe she throws you a fuck every now and then -- on a Sunday, when all the good TV's over -- missionary, lights off, can't tell if she came or not. Can't even tell if you came or not half the time. But when was the last time she even gave you a blow job?'

The question was apparently rhetorical, because before Mike could stutter another string of 'wells' and 'buts' she grinned devilishly and added: 'I give great head, by the way.'

Holly sucked nonchalantly on the lollipop and watched as he made the obvious connections.

She strode purposefully over to him and placed one leg either side of him as he leaned against the table, before allowing her soft young hand to slowly graze the swelling in his jeans.

'Don't push me away,' she whispered.

The push came, but to Mike's surprise -- and perhaps even to Holly's -- he was not pushing her away but against the table, onto which she deftly leapt, her legs wrapping around his waist and her tongue moving to caress his, which was now forcefully pushing into her mouth as if by its own accord. In the sudden commotion, the plate of Halloween cookies was knocked to the floor and smashed, but the crash barely registered with the pre-occupied couple. Everything Holly had said about Laura had been right on the mark and this was the manifestation of the anger the school girl -- college student -- had provoked. Maybe Holly's taunts were grounded in truth, maybe his fiancée was a cold bitch who seemed to shudder at his every touch these days, but this wasn't Laura. These weren't her silky thighs brushing his, these weren't her soft hands working their way under his shirt, this wasn't her warm responsive mouth he was kissing with such urgency and these -- his hand snaked daringly up a soft, creamy thigh -- these definitely weren't her soft, decidedly dampened cotton briefs. He'd teach her a thing or two, things she'd never have learnt from those grubby boys who pawed at her in cinemas. Trick or treat, Holly.

Mike quickly pulled the polo shirt over the girl's head, hating to break their embrace even for those few seconds, and was delighted to find no bra underneath to further delay his access to those pert young tits. Not the biggest, but soft and more than enough for him to occupy himself with. The nipples were already swollen with anticipation and he pinched one softly, savouring the moan his kiss suppressed. Her hands moved towards his crotch, to the one stiff button that kept his straining erection contained within his jeans, but he stopped her. She might be great at giving head, but she was going to find out that he was too.

Reluctantly breaking their kiss, he slowly leaned Holly back onto the table, savouring the sight of the half-naked teenager spread for his delectation on the kitchen table. He pulled the tennis skirt up around her waist - although it was so short a couple of inches would have been sufficient for his purpose -- and slowly teased down the cotton briefs, down past the knee highs, down over the little tennis shoes and off to lie discarded by the biscuits on the floor. He thought he heard a soft gasp as the young girl realised his intent. For all he knew, no one had ever gone down on her before. Maybe, he thought with wry satisfaction, that's not what kids today go in for.

Still fully clothed, he knelt down by the table and pulled her towards him by her legs until his face was comfortably positioned between her thighs. He felt her shudder in anticipation as she felt his hot breath against that most intimate of areas and he worked one, then two fingers, into the wet, unguarded opening and began to push them rhythmically in and out. With his other hand, he gently exposed her swollen clit and with deliberate languor he slowly began to tongue it with just the amount of pressure ten years of dedicated study had taught him would send a girl wild. Needless to say, those ten years were clocked up long before he met Laura. He thought he heard Holly moan 'Oh god,' but he was so lost in the act he couldn't be sure she'd said anything at all. She began to writhe, to pull back and then to push forward, but nothing could distract Mike from the task in hand. Holly's hands moved to the back of his head, first to stroke his hair and then to gently push him further into her. Her thighs squeezed briefly around his head and, though she let out only the smallest of moans, he knew she had come and he felt a satisfaction he hadn't felt in a long time.

He pulled her gently up and kissed her, noticing with relish that she didn't shy away from the taste of her own sex like some girls. Her hands moved to his crotch again and this time he didn't stop her. She undid the button and pulled down his fly in one nimble action and with one deft, insistent tug, his jeans and boxers were round his ankles. He stepped quickly out of them, thanking the gods of fuck that he didn't bother wearing socks around the house. She stood before him, still topless and flushed from her climax with the first small beads of perspiration starting to dampen her golden curls around the temples, and the desire to take her was overwhelming, primal and irresistible. With more force than he had intended he turned her round, bent her over the table - her skirt needing no assistance in rising up this time - and slammed into her.

'Fuck me!' He wasn't sure if it was an exclamation of shock or a command, but he decided to oblige her and continued to thrust in and out of her as if his life depended on it. Reaching around, he used one hand to grope at her breasts and with the other he began to play with her clit, and she instinctively returned the favour by reaching between his legs and gently caressing his aching balls.

'Oh, fuck me.' This time it was a whisper, and this time it was most definitely a command, a plea even, and it was more than he could take. Despite his desperate, futile hope that the best fuck of his life would never end, it did, in mere minutes as she ground back against him, and he came without even thinking to pull his unprotected cock out of her. Drained by the sheer physical exertion of the unexpected encounter, he pulled himself out of her and fell back against the kitchen wall, sinking slowly to the floor as his reason began to catch up with his instinct.

'Fuck me.' He muttered, staring disbelievingly at the freshly fucked eighteen year old, leaning smugly against his kitchen table.

'Don't worry, Mr Richards.' She smiled. 'I'm on the pill. Have been since I turned sweet sixteen. Do you have a bathroom?'

'Through the hall and on the left,' he told her, a wave of relief and confusion flooding him. 'You can call me Mike, by the way.' He shouted behind her, but he didn't think she caught it. It was a slightly ridiculous thing to say anyway, after what had just taken place between them.

When she returned, she was back to resembling the picture of innocence that had arrived unannounced on his doorstep twenty minutes earlier, having picked up her discarded clothing on her way. She put the heart-shaped glasses back on, a final touch.

'Bye, Mr Richardson!' she trilled, apparently oblivious to his last statement. 'Happy Halloween!'

And with that she was out of his kitchen and making her way nonchalantly down the street, between ghosts and witches, children and their accompanying adults, as if nothing had happened. He ran out into the garden to catch a final glimpse of her, only to be distracted by the dozen eggs now decorating the front of his house. In the frenzy, he must have ignored several indignant trick-or-treaters banging indignantly on the door. He'd never hear the end of it from Laura, he realised. He didn't care.