Halloween is my holiday, kitten. Not because of the candy. Because the whole night runs on my exact religion: tricks first, treats only when I say so, and every doorbell is a little denial waiting to happen. Last Halloween I spent the evening on the phone with a man who had candy duty at his house, a bowl by the door and a cock in his hand, and I turned his entire trick-or-treat route into an edging session he will be telling his grave about.
The rules were mine, obviously. I was home in my little devil costume, horns, red lace, a tail I will not be describing because imagination is good exercise for you. He stayed on the phone between visitors. When the line was clear, he stroked, but only on my count, and only the way I described. When the doorbell rang, hands off. Instantly. No matter where he was in the stroke. Little kids in vampire costumes had no idea they were cockblocking a grown man at his own front door, and honestly, that was the funniest and hottest part.
"Doorbell," I would sing, the second I heard it through the phone. "Hands in your lap. Smile for the pirates, baby. Think about my horns."
He obeyed beautifully. That is the thing about a real tease session, obedience gets delicious when it costs something. Between bells I took him up slowly, stroke by stroke, my own fingers sliding over my clit in my red lace the whole time, because I always play along and Halloween doubles it. I described my costume coming off one piece at a time per round, the gloves, the horns stayed on, priorities. By the third round he was stroking with his whole body tense, leaking, begging me in whispers because there might be a tiny ghost on his porch at any second.
"Brooklyn, please, the next bell I swear I cannot."
"You can," I purred, my fingers circling faster. "That is what makes it a trick, kitten. The treat is coming. It is just coming at my speed."
The doorbell rang six times in the last round. Six. A princess, two superheroes, a dad who took two handfuls and should be ashamed, each one freezing my boy mid stroke, hard and dripping in the hallway with a candy bowl in one hand and heaven in the other. I was fingering myself in earnest by then, two fingers in, thumb grinding, my voice going breathless right along with his, because a synchronized countdown is my weakness and Halloween had built us a perfect one. When the street finally went quiet and his porch light clicked off at nine, I gave him the only sentence he had been good for all night.
"Treat time, baby. Stroke. Fast. All of it, for me, right now."
He came like the doorbell had been a starting gun he had been fighting for two hours, groaning my name into an empty hallway, and I came with him on my couch in my horns, laughing and gasping in his ear. He told me he can never hand out candy again. I consider that a public service.
So here is the question, kitten. Could you survive my Halloween? Strokes on my count, hands off at every bell, my devil costume coming off one piece per round in your ear until the street goes quiet? If your whole body just voted yes, you know the drill. I am on PhoneBuckFuck for a dollar a minute, and the whole costume lineup is waiting on the Halloween page. If you have never called a girl like me before, do not worry, I take first timers slow, the way I did in that story about his first call. Call before the porch lights go out.