My Treat
Some doors shouldn't be knocked.
"A bit old for trick-or-treating, eh?" "Depends on the treat," she shrugs. I don’t have anything, no one comes here. That spooky house children run past? Mine. That weirdo who lives there, probably a retired serial killer? Me. I’m not, though. "I have pumpkin pie," I lie. A bet lost? A drunken dare? She follows me, sits down, her skirt slides up. She crosses her legs, too late. White panties, something dark and inviting v...