Andre knocked on my door at eight on Halloween night holding a bag of candy neither of us intended to hand out, and I answered it in my costume. Ears. A little black tail pinned exactly where a tail should be pinned. A black bodysuit that hugged every curve God gave me, whiskers drawn on with a steady hand and a wicked idea. His whole face did something I will remember in December. A woman knows when a costume lands, baby, and mine landed like a held breath.
"You are not handing out candy dressed like that," he said, stepping inside and locking the door behind him like the decision had made itself.
"I am handing out exactly one treat tonight," I told him, "and it is not for the neighborhood."
I had set the room before he came, because a sensual girl believes in scenery. Candles on every surface, the good wine open, my black satin sheets turned down. We never made it past the couch for the first act. He sat and I climbed into his lap facing him, tail and all, and we kissed the way we kiss, deep and slow and unhurried, his hands roaming the bodysuit like he was reading it. I ground down against him in rhythm with the kiss until he was hard as stone beneath me, my ears still on, his fingers hooking the straps of the suit and easing them down my shoulders so he could take my breasts in his hands and his mouth, one at a time, slow circles of his tongue that made my hips roll harder against him all on their own.
I took him to the bedroom before the couch became a rumor. The suit came off in stages, his hands and my hands sharing the work, kissing every piece of skin the costume surrendered. He laid me back on the black satin, spread my legs, and went down on me in the candlelight with the same patience he kisses with, his tongue slow against my clit, two fingers sliding into my wetness and curling while he watched my face over the curve of my stomach. I came with my hands fisted in the sheets and his name all through it, and I pulled him up and took my turn, kissing down his chest and taking his cock into my mouth inch by inch, my cat ears brushing his stomach, my eyes on his while my hand and mouth worked him together until he was groaning and pulling me back up by my shoulders because he wanted to be inside me more than he wanted to be reasonable.
He slid into me slow, missionary, the candlelight moving on our skin, and for a moment we just stayed there, full of each other, foreheads touching. That pause is my whole religion, baby. Then he moved, long deep strokes, my legs around his back, my nails tracing his shoulders, and I met every stroke with a roll of my hips so we stayed sealed together the whole way. I came again like that, around him, in waves, and it took him most of the way with me. I rolled us over and rode him with the ears still on, because some sights deserve an audience of one, grinding in slow circles, my hands on his chest, watching his face come apart beneath me. He flipped me a final time, took me from behind with my face in the satin and his hand in my hair, and finished deep inside me while the candles burned down around us like the room itself approved.
We ate the candy afterward, in bed, in the dark, like two people who had made an executive decision about Halloween and stood by it. The doorbell rang twice. We let it. Some treats are private.
So tell me, baby. Whose door are you knocking on this Halloween? If you want a kitten of your own, one who answers in ears and a tail and then loves you slow, deep, and candlelit all night, no games and no power trips, just a beautiful black woman who wants you exactly as much as you want her, I am right here. Find me on PhoneBuckFuck, a dollar a minute, and browse the whole costume lineup on the Halloween page while you decide. If you have not read about my slow Friday with Andre yet, start there. Then knock, lover. I will be in the ears, waiting.