Trick or Treat… or Just My Ass?

Freshie’s platform boots click against the sidewalk as she glances back over her shoulder, that shredded black hood barely covering anything. The little scraps of fabric cling to the undercurve of her ass, leaving both cheeks completely out in the cool night air. Her pumpkin bucket swings in one gloved hand, full of candy, while the other tugs the hood a little lower like she’s actually trying to play cute.

Mr. Caldwell walks half a step behind her in the stupid vampire cape, eyes locked on the way her ass bounces with every step. He’s been looking at her like that since she was a freshman. Now she’s finally eighteen, finally in his senior bio class, and somehow he talked her into going “just the two of them.” His cock is already half-hard under the black pants.

Goddamn, look at that. He swallows, cape shifting. That little ass has been taunting me for four years. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Fresh little senior in that nothing costume…

“Mr. Caldwell?” Freshie’s voice is soft, almost innocent, but she doesn’t stop walking. “You’re staring again.”

He clears his throat, forcing his eyes up to her face. “Just… making sure you’re not cold, Freshie.”

She laughs under her breath and pushes her hips back a little more as she climbs the next step toward the porch light. The torn edges of the costume ride even higher. “I’m not cold. Your eyes are just warm.”

Fuck. His hand tightens around his own pumpkin bucket. She’s eighteen. She’s legal. She said yes. Just the two of us. He imagines stepping closer, sliding a hand under that shredded hem, feeling how soft and warm she is between those thick thighs while she pretends to knock on doors. She’s been teasing me all year. Those little skirts in class. Those looks. And now she’s out here half-naked with me like it’s nothing.

Freshie slows down, letting him catch up so his arm almost brushes hers. She tilts her head, big eyes looking up at him through the hood, lips parted.

“You promised you’d walk me the whole night,” she says quietly. “And that you wouldn’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not being weird,” he lies, voice low.

She bites her lip, glancing down at the obvious tent in his pants for half a second before looking away again, cheeks pink. “You’re a little hard, Mr. Caldwell.”

His jaw tightens. “Freshie—”

“It’s okay,” she whispers, stepping closer under the streetlight so her bare ass nearly brushes the front of his cape. “I won’t tell. Just… keep walking with me. And maybe stop pretending you don’t wanna touch it.”

He doesn’t answer. His hand hovers near the small of her back, not quite touching yet, while her pumpkin bucket swings and her boots keep clicking down the sidewalk. The next house is dark. Plenty of time between porch lights.