Hallowpeen

by Holly Wilde

If I were in charge of story time, everyone would be sharing adventures with masked men who give out hand necklaces and call you Princess.

“The Hallowpeen comes and jacks you off at night, refusing to leave until your peen is as hollow as his soul, muahahaha,”

His engorged gourdhood’s orange surface is slicked with froth, like a whipped topping on a pumpkin spice latte. Inch by inch, I stare in awe at his immeasurable length that dangles in front of me. The fluted base curves away from his body, jutting out like a butternut squash. Under a layer of pumpkin foreskin I can see the tip of the stem wanting to poke out.

But, I’m currently in a Hallowpeen sandwich, all I can think about is how close their pumpkins are to my pie.

“Just because my guts have been ripped out doesn’t mean I can’t rearrange yours.”

But all I want to do is get back in the middle of their pumpkin patch and have them plow my field deep into the night.

“Let’s take her inside and show our new guest how we peen in Peentown.”

I’ve always been a coffee girl, but being tea-bagged like this is more electrifying than any seasonal latte.

“Please,” I continue to beg, “Claim me like a ghost takes hold of a haunted house.”

An explosion of frothy sweetness, hints of nutmeg and cinnamon mixed with toasted pumpkin, pours from his cock as I’m filled with his pumpkin seed. Literally, I realize. As I drink down every drop, I notice that his cum is made of pumpkin seeds the size of mini chocolate chips. They are easy to swallow down by the mouthful, thanks to the pool of spiced milk, like a pumpkin latte, that they swim in.

“You ready to take this load? I’m gonna pump my seed up in your guts so fucking hard you’ll swear you were born a pumpkin, too.”