A Halloween Alone

It was Halloween night, and she was home alone. Finally, blissfully, alone.

Her husband was off with the kids for an advanced trick or treating trip, followed by a 'haunted' overnight somewhere. She was completely alone for the night for the first time in a long time, and it wasn't scary—after her week, it felt glorious. Even if the first few hours after work were filled with answering the door to treat cute goblins and ghouls and princesses in seek of free sugar.

By 11, she'd relaxed, had a full bottle of wine to herself, felt giddy and horny. She settled in to watch some late-night sex romp on cable that showed little, but did enough to get her clit buzzing with need.

She turned off the lamp by the couch, stretched out and undid her blouse, wondering why she'd even stayed strapped into her bra this long. Maybe because it looked good on her—she knew it caught many eyes, standing out under her sheer white top even at the office. She liked the eyes on her body during the day. It made her long for hands on her body at night.

Tonight, she'd have to settle for her own.

She slid out of her socks, then her slacks, and watched the TV screen absently while she unhooked her bra. She rubbed at her freed tits. It was warm in the house, the heat on for the first time that fall. But despite the temperature, her nipples acted as if it was chilled. She absently fingered her clit through her black panties, as she watched the actress on the screen ride a man to orgasm (all without the camera showing an inch of penetrating penis). She wasn't sure if the porn star was simply that good at acting, but the orgasm looked real to her.

It made her rub a little harder. She bit her bottom lip with concentration.

That's when she heard the noise.

It wasn't the TV. It came from outside. A shuffle amid the unraked leaves, a scratch on the glass of the living room window.

Someone was outside.

She froze, unable to move, instantly filled with terror, a flood of thoughts, punctuated by one simple fact: All Hallows Eve is the night for the crazies to come out. And her, home all alone, a petite woman who's only defense would be to run fast.

But they probably weren't there to kill her. Not if the man—she knew, it had to be a man—was only...watching. Right?

Her nipples felt almost painful now as her mind shifted, as her body unclenched from the instant fear to something different. But just as primal.

Somehow, she resisted looking directly at the window. In her peripheral vision she saw the curtain was not drawn. It would have been a simple thing to deny the perverted peeping tom a look (if that's what he was, and not a psychotic ax murderer!). Lock the doors, call the cops; they'd drive by and send him scurrying into the night.

But that's not what she wanted.

Not for the first time in her life she knew--she wanted to be seen. She wanted to be watched.

She very, very slowly hooked her thumbs in her panties and lowered them to her ankles. She was, except for earrings and tattoos, completely naked. Her tits, still perky beyond belief even in her 40s, screamed to be groped. So grope them she did, feeling herself up with both hands. Her hands were trembling a bit. Rubbing those supple breasts, pinching her nipples between her fingers, it calmed her a little.

It did nothing to decrease the flames in her cunt. She could feel the wetness threatening to break loose and run down her thigh.

She very deliberately turned the lamp back on, took her smartphone from her pocket, set it on the coffee table, laid down on the living room rug, and stretched out. It was killing her not to put her fingers on her clit. But she wanted to give the guy, the pervert, her audience outside, a show. She used her phone to snap a few selfies, showing off her taught body, her legs stretched this way and that, showing off her a super-model torso on a 5-foot frame. She texted a few of the shots to her lover; she considered telling him there was a man outside, but he'd just worry.

She sat up and watched more of the soft-core movie—a 20-something-blond, built a lot like a younger version of herself, was getting fucked doggie-style, bent over a living room chair. It was too much. She had to touch herself.

She moved her hand as slowly as possible across her abdomen. She hoped the guy outside was watching all this, his dick in his hand as he try desperately not to make another sound.

She made a sound though, a moan of joy and satisfaction at the first slide of her entire palm over her mound, then more as her fingers slid back. Her middle finger penetrated her lips, finding hot moisture inside. She flicked her clit. She did that for a while, one knee up, pussy wide open, keeping the show going for the window-peeper. She had her free hand on her tit, pinching and eventually pulling her nipple, until she needed that hand. The fingers had to go to her pussy, go inside her, while the other hand worked her clit feverishly, strumming like she was a both the guitar and guitarist.

She did this until she grew dangerously close to cumming, but couldn't quite reach it. She was surprised—she'd had exhibitionist experiences before, but usually with a lover, and being seen, knowing she was on display, had always helped her get off.

Something was missing here, and she decided maybe it was... a cock.

She got up, standing in the dim light of the lamp and the glow of the TV, and walked past the couch, past the window at which she'd heard the tom outside. She gave the glass a look then, hoping her face conveyed exactly what she wanted. She thought a wink would be too much... but she bit her lip again, in anticipation.

She went to the door... and unlocked it.

To be extra clear, she turned the knob and unlatched it. Then she left the door ajar.

She went to the end table and turned off the light.

She picked up the TV remote. But she didn't turn off the TV yet. She wanted the man outside to see her in the blue LCD glow, as she bent over the back of the couch, so far her feet lifted off the floor. Her ass was in the air, in a wanton cry to be taken from behind. She pulled one of her knees up on the back, to provide an even clearer view, full ingress, to her pussy.

She clicked off the TV, plunging the room into total darkness. And utter silence. Not even wind blew outside in the midnight moonlight.

For a long while, she held her breath. She had to release it slow, so afraid to make a noise now. Or miss the sound of another.

She tried to calm herself, to prevent herself from panting in the awkward position. The blood was rushing to her head, already fuzzy from so much wine.

Was she wrong about the noise? Was it all in her head? Had she heard nothing and imagined a scenario that just wasn't possible? She was starting to think so.

She was starting to feel very stupid.

Then there was a crunch of leaves. A footstep. Heavy and solid, like a boot.

She sighed with relief—then gasped a bit in fear. What was she doing? Who's to say it wasn't a killer out there, some mass-murderer from the FBI 10 Most Wanted list, a nut-job stalking this particular part of Jersey? She truly considered bolting then, making a dash for the stairs, to the bedroom where she could lock the door—but her phone was over on the coffee table. She had no landline. She couldn't grab the cell and get to safety in time.

It was too late. Two more heavy steps and the screen door opened on the screeching hinge she'd been asking to have oiled for months. She felt the cold from outside come in and caress her thighs like a snowman's kiss; felt it poke at her wet labia like an icy cock.

She breathed heavily now, almost panting, flight or fight both seemingly forgotten in nature's other favorite option: frozen in fear, caught like a rabbit in a corner by an oncoming predator. A predator that this prey had no idea about.

The door opened and closed, and latched. And was locked.

She stopped breathing.

In three steps, the boots crossed the space between the door and her backside, dangling there in space.

She smelled leaves, maybe sweat despite the cold; felt the towering presence of a strange man in her home. And her in the most vulnerable position she'd ever put herself in. Completely at a stranger's mercy.

She believed for a moment she might cum right then, without even a touch on her clit, something she thought was impossible.

The noise of a belt coming undone. A zipper lowering. This was really happening.

She thought, Maybe it's my husband...or maybe my lover... they both know my exhibitionist ways... my rape fantasies. They'd even acted a few out. But always with explicit consent. She knew her position on the couch was certainly explicit... but the consent remained implicit at best. She thought she should say something. Make it clear that whatever this man would do—if it was someone she knew, whose cock she already regularly enjoyed—that it was okay.

Though she wasn't sure it was okay.

And then it was too late.

A large hand had hold of her buttock. Another hand held her up-cocked knee, as if to keep her in place.

She felt the tip of a cock at her liquid opening, and gasped, and she couldn't help but say, "Please, don't hurt me."

But she did kind of want him too now. Not knowing who it was, assuming it was a stranger, it gave him carte blanche to use her, use her pussy, make it his plaything.

In answer to her sentence, he sent a stinging slap against her ass. She felt it all the way to her scalp, like every inch of her skin tightened across her body. As the pain of that died off, he entered her.

This was no cock she knew.

It was long, thick in the middle, like an elongated football. Getting the middle section of the fat dick into her pussy, no matter how wet, took several thrusts. She cried out during each one. The man's hand slide from her ass, down her back, and grabbed her hair. He pulled her on to his monster and she felt his balls slap against her clit, and she felt relief, exultation, humiliation, joy all at once. She knew she was a slut that her cravings for a cock were almost an addiction, but this was the pièce de résistance.

"My god," she said, between panting and screams. "Oh my fucking god."

"Your fucking cunt is tight, little hussy," said the peeping tom--the man who'd forced himself upon her, that was it, she was forced, it wasn't her fault the door was unlocked!

"Why—who—" she asked, but his response again, was to slap her ass, twice, the sound of which echoed along with the slapping together of their thighs as he fucked her.

He moved both hands to her shoulders, pulling her onto him, then to her arms. He pinned both hands behind her back, bending her elbows so her forearms were together, and he held them like a handcuff and a suitcase handle all at once, all the better to yank her back and forth with from the comfort of standing behind her.

She was growing dizzy, her brain splitting in half, from the mix of alcohol, fear, and pleasure/pain endorphins as he took her. She wanted to be used by him all night.

Then he did something remarkable—he put a hand on her throat, and he pulled her up toward him. But he kept her still on his cock, amazingly impaled on that shaft despite the angle, and he reached around her front. He stroked her clit. His other hand held her throat tight.

She almost passed out when the orgasm hit. She would have doubled over, but he held her up and fucked her all the harder for it, as her pleasure centers threatened to short out.

For that kindness, he did something cruel to follow. He let her go, let her flop like a weak, limp ragdoll, and then continued to fuck her slick hole until he got it even wetter—with his load of cum. Unprotected, hot, jizz filled her up and she cried out at the feel of it. It made her angry, afraid, and flooded with endorphins of satisfaction—at having pleased this stranger to the maximum of her body's potential.

Then there was the exit, as the stranger, the peeper, the user of her now happily abused pussy, pulled out. Zipped up. And exited.

She didn't to watch him go, preferring to never know what he looked like, who he was. She listened to the sound of his boots as he exited her house, thinking maybe she'd recognize the footsteps if she ever heard them in the future. After a few minutes, she got up, and locked the door. And wondered if she'd ever have a Halloween trick that was such a treat as that, ever again.