tagExhibitionist & VoyeurMidnight Carriages

Midnight Carriages

bylgnmrtn©

Note: all characters in this story are 18 or over (except maybe the pumpkins). This is my entry for the Literotica Halloween 2017 Contest. All comments are welcome. Enjoy!

*

As usual, Laurie hears it before she sees it: the jingle of a belt unbuckling behind the pumpkin shed, a zipper descending.

These assholes will not stop fucking Laurie's pumpkins.

She exits the shop, creeps around the side of Midnight Carriages, crouches behind the massive, twisted oak tree at the corner of the barn, and peers around it.

There, in nearly full moonlight, she can see him, slouched against the back of the shop: a sweaty, pudgy frat guy, plaid and khakis, grunting and thrusting in and out of a pumpkin.

Her boss, Monty, doesn't know about the stupid frat ritual -- doesn't know that it's become a Halloween tradition for frat boys to creep through the woods separating Midnight Carriages and Easter College, take a pumpkin from the stockpile at the back, carve a small glory hole, and return night after night to pump their thirsty dicks in and out of it.

Last October, after a very graphic Reddit post had birthed this gourd-fucking craze, the frat guys had just been stealing the pumpkins to take home and masturbate into.

Laurie still wonders what they'd done with those pumpkins.

Afterwards, that is. Thanks to the Internet, she knows what they were doing first: warming the pumpkin in the oven. Cutting a narrow, dick-sized hole in the side. Finding a private room and thrusting their anxious cocks in and out of pumpkin-flesh until -- ecstasy ­-- flooding them with cum.

Then, she imagines, since they were the kind of guys horny enough to steal a pumpkin to have sex with: probably doing it again. Lying there in sweaty, naked, post-orgasm warmth, licking a palm and wrapping it around their limp, spent penises until they throbbed back to life and—

Laurie blinks. She still shares a tiny apartment with too many roommates, and it's been nearly two days since she masturbated. Get it together.

Tonight, after all, she has a mission: revenge.

At first, when Midnight Carriages opened for the 2017 season, they tried security devices. Laurie had talked Monty into the cheap, nearly invisible plastic pushpins that BLEEPed if pumpkins were taken too far from the barn.

Two weeks ago she caught her first red-faced teenager at the edge of the woods. Furious, she'd swiped the beeping pumpkin from his arms and hissing, vindictively, "Use your imagination like the rest of us."

But Laurie's not too old to remember that horny dudes find a way.

A few days after catching that kid, she'd gone out back to restock from the pumpkin pile and found a neat hole gouged in the topmost pumpkin, redolent of pumpkin seed and stale cum.

Every night thereafter, while closing, the same noises from the back: thrusting, grunting, and then a last moan as a desperate cock emptied into a defenseless gourd.

The tradition -- or hazing ritual, or what the fuck ever, Laurie doesn't care -- now seems to be: carve a hole into a pumpkin, hide the pumpkin in the pile, and return night after night to fuck it.

Rather than burst out and catch one of them -- satisfying, but maybe not as long-term effective -- Laurie has devised a vengeance.

Tonight, mere days before Halloween, she settles in behind the oak tree to watch.

Her first night hiding behind this same tree, years ago -- the night she'd first discovered the secret perks of closing Midnight Carriages -- had been so much different.

A thin belt of woods separated Midnight Carriages -- a seasonal, side-of-the-road pumpkin and cider shop -- from a row of Easter College frat and sorority houses. Years ago, to the careful listener, on the nights of big parties, these woods would have been alive with the rustling, moaning, and gasping of couples sneaking out of parties to fuck in the forest.

The edge of the Midnight Carriages barn -- its tough but yielding wooden wall, the soft, rich-smelling earth beneath, the way the moonlight cut through the trees, the shelter of the nearby forest in case someone came out -- had, for one wonderful year, been a favorite spot, which Laurie discovered on her very first night closing the shop.

It was a Friday, and as the only employee on night duty, Laurie was closing up when she heard the noise.

She'd come around back, pepper spray in hand, expecting field mice or, as the noises grew louder, a raccoon. She discovered, instead, something much larger than a raccoon.

Two somethings, in fact. Two younger-looking students she'd come to name the Bookworms; one a slightly round girl, gasping and moaning as the other, a pale, scrawny male, fucked her from behind.

There was something adorable and earnest about their nakedly anxious humping. Laurie would call them the Bookworms because she would later fantasize that this was their first time, that these two were both nerdy, introverted, had maybe met at the university library and, later that night, lost their virginity right there, next to the pumpkin pile.

Well. Sometimes that detail would make it into her fantasies.

Other details were always there: the girl's sweater, bunched up under her armpits so that her plump breasts swung free and wild in the cold October air; the boy's scrambling hands grabbing desperate fistfuls of breast; his jeans and underwear bunched around his ankles, belt clinking with every thrust.

The girl bit her forearm, stifling an increasing crescendo of moans, and then with a desperate yelp she came, knees buckling, ass shaking so badly that her partner's throbbing cock swung free and out into the air. She collapsed into a trembling pile on the soft earth, pale rear end still pointed at the moon and convulsing with the aftershocks her orgasm.

The boy grabbed his twitching, glistening cock, eyes rolled back in ecstasy, and no sooner had he wrapped his hand around it than the first spurts of cum flew out of it. He moaned as his dick jerked and gushed, firing hot ropes of cum into the air, splattering off the girl's ass and onto the ground.

Laurie, watching from behind the twisted tree, realized she had been holding her breath. She inhaled deeply and smelled the sex on the air, felt a warm insistence in her panties.

"Oh, God," the boy moaned, spasming dick still in hand.

As the Bookworms hastily clothed, Laurie crept back into the shop, quietly unlocked it, and, within moments, registered the following facts:





  1. She was completely alone in the dark barn





  2. The blinds were drawn





  3. Her warm, soft leather chair was barely ten feet away





  4. Her pussy was aching with hot, animal desire





Laurie's pants were around her ankles before she'd locked the door. She kicked them loosely, half-stumbled into the chair, plunged two fingers under her sodden panties and rubbed herself like mad, remembering the way the girl's knees had quivered with every vigorous thrust.

"Oh!" She came like a lightning bolt, back arched, hips twitching, waves of pleasure radiating out to the ends of her toes.

Laurie gazed dizzily around at her erstwhile workplace: pants lying in a crumpled heap, panties soaking a spot onto the chair, the vague scent of her own wet pussy hanging in the air.

She remembered the jets of glistening cum painting the girl's bare moonlit ass, and, rolling her head back in the chair, rubbed herself to a second toe-curling orgasm.

Two nights later, the Bookworms came back, and Laurie witnessed what she liked to think was the girl's first blowjob, beginning with a few cautious slurps at the boy's bared, eagerly throbbing prick.

At first he was polite, gracious, even seeming a little nervous, but as more and more of his cock disappeared into the girl's throat with each gulp, he lost himself, leaning back against the barn, one hand bracing against the pumpkin shed, another with a fistful of the girl's hair.

This time, Laurie didn't wait until she was back in the barn. She stuffed one hand down her pants while she watched and traced silent, frantic circles around her clit to the sounds of the girl's greedy slurping and the boy's increasingly urgent moans.

Suddenly the girl gave his cock one last lick, lifted her sweater, unclasped her bra and leaned back, working his cock with her right hand, so fast that it was a blur. Two full, creamy breasts popped out, nipples at attention.

With her other hand she took a fistful of his balls and, like she'd yanked a rip cord, his cock exploded, the first thick rope of cum splattering off of the girl's nose.

Splurt -- rope after rope, spraying streams of cum onto her bared breasts, thick white droplets staining her bra and her sweater.

Maybe this wasn't her first blowjob, Laurie barely had time to think before her own mind-blowing climax, thighs clenching around her soaking fingers.

The boy collapsed, still moaning, but Laurie barely had a chance to recover before he flung his cum-covered partner onto her back, yanked her pants off, and began to lick and suck the girl's pussy in a frenzy. Laurie came twice more while he ate her out, and when, hard again, the boy began to fuck her on the ground, once more to the sound of their moans.

Suddenly Laurie looked forward to the Thursday, Friday and Saturday night shifts, as the Bookworms, and, occasionally, other pairs of students started peeling off the fall parties to pleasure each other outdoors in what they thought was total privacy. Laurie would dawdle closing down and locking up, waiting to hear the telltale sounds behind the barn. She was almost never disappointed.

Many, many blowjobs. Few males, Laurie noted with some disdain, reciprocated as enthusiastically as the Bookworm -- not that she masturbated with any less ferocity to these, especially when their cocks finished off on bare breasts.

Her panties were so soaked after witnessing the first titfuck that she worried she'd peed them amidst the countless orgasms. Titfucking took an awkward shape in person - the guy (Mullet) half-squatting over the girl (Pierced Tongue), who mainly laid there passively, breasts squeezed together -- but what beautiful, full, smooth-skinned breasts they were, cream-colored cantaloupes jiggling rhythmically with every thrust.

And from Mullet's monstrous cock came an equally monstrous climax: stripes of cum all across Pierced Tongue's face, the last few spurts directly into the O of her mouth, the silver bead gleaming in the moonlight as she stuck her tongue out to catch every droplet.

Later that evening, stopped at a red light, Laurie brought herself off again, and thereafter tossed an extra pair of underwear and lube into her purse.

And then one night, from behind her twisted tree, she watched two girls' first curious, then enthusiastic, and finally frantic exploration of each others' bodies.

That evening had culminated with Strawberry Blonde on her back in the earth and Dark Hair's face deep in her groin, one hand manipulating Strawberry's clit, the other inside her own panties. She'd discarded her pants in a pile long ago, and Laurie could see, through Dark Hair's soaked, semi-translucent panties, three fingers buried up to the second knuckle.

Strawberry Blonde cried out when she came, which was fortunate, because, watching one pierced nipple bounce into the air, watching Dark Hair's knees buckle as she did the same, so did Laurie.

And then, the following year -- two years ago tonight -- something had changed. Laurie still wishes she knew what. Maybe all those couples found somewhere else to go. Maybe a cranky old dean shut down the parties. Either way, no more fucking in the woods. The barn was silent.

And then of course last year, Laurie's third year at Midnight Carriages: pumpkin-fuckers. Or, at that time, pumpkin thieves.

And now, in 2017, it's down to this. Hiding behind her twisted tree, watching a sweaty frat pledge pump his pudgy ass in and out of a pumpkin.

Laurie supposes there's always something lightly erotic in watching someone else pleasure themselves -- but the guy is fully clothed, and more importantly: he's the kind of person who carves glory holes into pumpkins. Getting off while watching this feels roughly as erotic as thinking, I bet somewhere, somebody is doing it right now.

Even less so when Laurie considers the hours of hot, youthful, consensual sex she's watched from behind this twisted tree that didn't end in the pointless defilement of a pumpkin.

And yet, if her plan succeeds, this could be the last time -- so Laurie has to watch to the end.

Despite obvious effort, the guy is taking forever to cum, and Laurie, having left her phone in the barn, unbuckles her jeans and tries to conjure up particularly erotic memories from the past.

She's come so many times against this exact tree, witnessing so many doggy styles, so many blowjobs, so many faked orgasms as eager new boyfriends tried to please their—

And yet. Every time she manages to work herself into any kind of erotic reverie, the huffing and thrusting of the pumpkin-fucker snaps Laurie back to reality, and she remembers that she's sitting alone at the edge of a forest watching a guy trying to cum inside a pumpkin.

Speaking of: the guy's khaki-ed ass suddenly freezes, and his head tilts skyward.

"Aah—aaaaaauuuggghhhhhh." He falls against the back of the barn, visibly trembling with an orgasm that doesn't sound ecstatic so much as grimly exhausting. He huffs and gasps like he's finishing a marathon.

The moment of truth. Laurie watches intently.

The guy's in a half lean against the wooden wall, pumpkin wedged between the front of his pants and the back of the barn, dick still inside the pumpkin, presumably in its final orgasmic twitches.

The glue, in theory, is activated by heat and moisture, but Laurie is worried that all of that emphatic thrusting will have rubbed some of it off.

"What the—" Nope. Laurie leans closer.

"Ah, shit!"

The guy backs away from the barn, but the pumpkin comes with him, and he even turns so that Laurie can admire her handiwork.

The pumpkin is completely stuck to the front of his trousers. It dangles at his waist like a comically oversized fanny pack, enveloping his cock and dragging his unbuckled pants down to his thighs.

It's still enveloping his penis, so the thick layer of fresh, oxygen-resistant glue that Laurie applied around the glory hole must have fastened to the fabric on his pants.

As he struggles, she feels a momentary twinge of pity for him, then catches herself.

First: they'd stolen her pumpkins.

Second: they'd started leaving glory holes for her to find.

And third, if we're being honest? Maybe it isn't the frat kids' fault, but Laurie feels that the universe owes her something, after giving her one blissful season of steamy nighttime public sex and then, inexplicably, snatching it away and replaced it with these selfish, undersexed, solo Neanderthals.

That was when she'd scoured Amazon for the toughest, meanest glue she could find, the kind that only needed a few seconds of hold -- say, the time it takes for an asshole to shoot his load inside a gourd -- to fasten itself near-permanently.

And it hadn't disappointed.

"Son of a—" The guy tugs angrily at his groin, but the pumpkin doesn't budge, clinging hardily to the khaki and, if Laurie has to guess, a pubic hair or two. She wonders what's going through his head. My hand's never been pasted to my dick before...

Laurie, feeling a swell of pride, straightens up, then realizes her pants are still unbuckled, and-ah! There it is! A warmth, the beginnings of a sparkling inside her panties.

She slides a finger cautiously under her jeans and begins, in the silent way she has perfected behind this very tree, to rub, as the guy frantically paces and pulls at the pumpkin.

"Yeeeaaaaaawwww!"

There's a rip, and the guy tears the pumpkin off of his trousers, taking with it a ragged circle of fabric.

Laurie, now working her pussy into a froth, catches a glimpse of a shriveled, dangling dick as well as a few small patches where it looks like the pumpkin took a few of the guy's pubes with it.

As the frat guy half stumbles back into the woods, Laurie feels a familiar floating sensation, and then ah! A blinding orgasm overtakes Laurie, tremors of pleasure radiating to her fingertips.

She squeezes her eyes shut, sees starbursts and fireworks, and then, in a split-second rapidfire, she's treated to a film roll of all the pleasure she's witnessed from behind this tree -- all the wide-mouthed gasps of ecstasy, all the glistening, trembling thighs, all the stifled moans and especially the ones they couldn't stifle, when pleasure hit them suddenly like a freight train, as it slams into Laurie now.

Later, after she locks up for the night, Laurie comes back around to the edge of the barn, finds the pumpkin with the gaping hole and the shreds of fabric and pubes still glued to it, and nails it against the back of the barn, glory hole out. A frat-boy scarecrow.

Then, passing her familiar hollow in the twisted tree, she thinks, why not? Vindication, apparently, is orgasmic. She settles into the hollow and unzips.

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by Anonymous

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by Anonymous10/24/17

Midnight Carriages

Great, although...I was hoping for Poison Oak in the gourd!

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by KitPisces10/24/17

Loved it

Excellent erotic humor. Great imagination.

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by Axelotto10/23/17

Sweet Revenge indeed!

What a great response to an unusual problem...
(well, unusual where I live... nobody tries gloryholing a pineapple, they'd do themselves a great mischief).

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