Treat
"His curvy neighbor answers the door in a costume that leaves little to the imagination—and invites him in. Trick or treat takes on new meaning after midnight."
I hate Halloween.
The crowds, the noise, the sugar-high children running through the apartment halls until midnight. My building throws a party every year—mandatory fun for residents—and every year I find an excuse to skip it.
This year, my excuse is a head cold.
"You don't sound sick," my buddy Marco says over the phone.
"I'm very sick. Can barely speak."
"You're speaking right now."
"It's the NyQuil. Temporary improvement."
"You're such a liar." But he laughs. "Fine. Rot alone in your apartment. I'll bring you candy tomorrow."
"You're a saint."
I hang up, settle into my couch, and flip through streaming options. The party starts at eight. By nine, I can hear it—bass thumping through the floor, laughter echoing in the stairwell. I turn up my movie.
By eleven, it's dying down. By midnight, silence.
I'm about to go to bed when someone knocks on my door.
Through the peephole: Gloria Vasquez.
My neighbor from 6A. I don't know her well—waves in the hallway, small talk by the mailboxes—but I know three things about her:
She's fifty-five.
She's recently widowed.
And she's wearing what can only be described as the sluttiest witch costume I've ever seen.
I open the door.
"Hey there!" She's a little drunk. A lot gorgeous. "Saw your light was still on. Figured you missed the party."
"I was sick."
"You don't look sick." She leans against my doorframe. The costume is—Christ—it's a corset top in black and purple, pushing up breasts that look ready to spill out. A skirt that barely covers her thighs—thick, dimpled, straining against the fabric. Fishnet stockings. A pointy hat tilted at an angle.
She's easily two-twenty, two-thirty. All of it on display.
"You look..." I trail off.
"Like a witch?"
"Like something else that rhymes with it."
She laughs—loud, genuine. "That's the idea. First Halloween in thirty years without my husband. Figured I'd celebrate by dressing like I used to before he convinced me to be modest."
"Your husband didn't appreciate this?"
"My husband didn't appreciate much." The humor fades from her voice. "Gerald was a good man in some ways. But in others..."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm free now." She looks at me, and there's something in her eyes—heat. Hunger. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"My apartment is too quiet. Too empty. I can't face it alone right now." She takes a breath. "Can I come in? Just for a drink. Just for company."
I step aside.
She sits on my couch like she belongs there.
The skirt rides up. The fishnet stockings show every curve of her thighs. The corset makes her breasts look impossibly full. I try not to stare.
I fail.
"See something you like?"
I freeze. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"I'm teasing." But she doesn't look away. "It's nice, actually. Being looked at. Gerald stopped looking a long time ago."
"Then Gerald was an idiot."
"Careful." She sips the whiskey I poured. "He's been dead for six months. I should be grieving."
"Are you?"
"Sometimes. Mostly I'm..." She sets down the glass. "Angry. That I spent thirty years trying to be what he wanted, and he never wanted me. The real me. The one who used to wear costumes like this. Who used to want."
"What do you want?"
The question hangs between us.
She stands. Moves toward me. Stops close enough that I can smell her—perfume and whiskey and something warmer.
"Right now?" She reaches out, trails a finger down my chest. "I want to feel alive. I want someone to look at me the way you're looking at me now. And I want—"
"What?"
"To know if you're brave enough to do more than look."
I kiss her.
She gasps against my mouth—surprise, maybe, or relief—and then she's kissing me back, her arms around my neck, her body pressing against mine.
She's soft everywhere. Her breasts crush against my chest. Her belly presses into my stomach. Her thighs spread around mine when I pull her closer. I've never held so much woman in my arms, and I never want to let go.
"Bedroom," she breathes. "Please."
The corset unlaces in the back.
She turns, and I work the strings with shaking hands, and when it finally falls away—
"Gloria."
Her breasts are massive. Heavy. They hang to her waist, dark nipples already stiff. She turns to face me, and I see stretch marks and softness and years of a body that was hidden, shamed, kept covered.
"I know they're not—"
I silence her with my mouth on her nipple.
She cries out, hands flying to my hair. I suck and lick and worship, switching between her breasts, unable to get enough. Her skin tastes like lotion and salt and something that makes me want to devour her.
"The skirt," she gasps. "Take it off—"
I reach around, find the zipper, pull it down. The skirt drops.
She's not wearing underwear.
I drop to my knees.
The fishnets are still on, framing her thick thighs, ending just below where she's wet and swollen and ready.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." I look up at her. "Let me. Please."
She nods.
I lean in.
She tastes like desperation.
Like years of neglect. Like a woman who's been hungry for so long she forgot what satisfaction felt like. I lick through her folds, find her clit, suck gently—and she screams.
"Fuck!" Her knees buckle. I catch her, lower her to the bed, spread her thighs wider. "I can't—it's too—"
"Let it happen." I slide two fingers inside. "Let go, Gloria. I've got you."
She lets go.
She comes so hard she nearly bucks me off the bed. Her thighs clamp around my head. Her voice breaks on something that might be my name or might be prayer. And I don't stop—licking her through it, drawing it out, making it last.
When she finally pushes me away, she's crying.
"I'm sorry—" She laughs through the tears. "I don't know why I'm—"
"It's okay." I climb up, pull her into my arms. "It's okay."
"It's been so long. So fucking long since anyone—" She can't finish.
"I know. I've got you."
We lie there until she stops shaking.
"Your turn," she whispers.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." She pushes me onto my back. Straddles me. The fishnets are still on, torn now, and I can feel her wetness against my stomach. "Tell me what you want."
"You. Just you."
She reaches down. Frees my cock. Positions herself.
And sinks.
She's tight—tighter than I expected—and wet and burning hot.
I groan as she takes me, inch by inch, until she's settled on my hips with all her weight. I can't move. Can barely breathe. She's everywhere—her thighs pressing down, her belly soft against mine, her breasts swaying above me.
"Okay?" she asks.
"More than okay."
She smiles. Starts to move.
I've never felt anything like this.
Two hundred and thirty pounds of woman riding me like she's reclaiming something stolen. Her breasts bounce with every movement. Her belly ripples. The fishnets tear further against my thighs.
She's not quiet. Not modest. Not anything Gerald apparently wanted her to be.
She's glorious.
"Touch me," she demands. "Everywhere. I want to feel your hands—"
I touch. Her breasts. Her belly. Her ass. Her thighs. Every inch of her I can reach while she rides me harder, faster, chasing something she's been denied for decades.
"I'm gonna come again—"
"Do it. Come on my cock, Gloria—"
She comes with a scream. And this time, I follow—gripping her hips, slamming deep, filling her while she clenches around me.
We collapse together.
Sweating. Shaking. Alive.
"Trick or treat," she murmurs against my chest.
"Definitely treat."
She laughs. "God, that was cheesy."
"You started it."
"I did." She traces patterns on my skin. "I'm not sorry."
"Me neither."
Silence. Comfortable.
"I should go back to my apartment eventually," she says.
"Should you?"
"It's the middle of the night. We're neighbors. People will talk."
"Let them."
She looks up at me. "You don't care?"
"I care that you're happy. Everything else is noise."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then:
"Can I stay? Just tonight?"
"Stay as long as you want."
She kisses me. Soft. Sweet.
And somewhere outside, the last of the Halloween revelers stumble home, never knowing what was happening in apartment 6C.
She stays for more than one night.
We don't move fast—she's grieving, still, in complicated ways—but we move forward. Sunday dinners. Movie nights. Slow mornings in my bed, learning what makes her moan.
People do talk. The building gossips love it—the young guy from 6C and the widow from 6A, can you believe it?
I don't care.
Because every Halloween now, she wears that witch costume.
Just for me.
And the treat is always sweeter than any trick.