She took great care selecting her pumpkin. The intimacy of inspection raised eyebrows, but this was family tradition, not to be forsaken.

That night, under flickering candles, her tongue found the sweet spot and her sharp knife cut true. She eased in the end of the hartshorn phallus, hearing, feeling the wet flesh embrace. Seated deep, its flaring head stood proud, beckoning.

Legs wide in the harvest chair, she cradled her hallowed lover and, midnight sounding, pressed its cock into her hungry, feral cunt.
"Fire me, like those who've come before," she pleaded. "Season me against Jack Frost's harsh embrace!"