Yiff Or Treat
Yiff Or Treat!
She can hear it on these odd nights, a strange unusual wailing noise. Eerily similar to an animal she knew of but did not frankly remember. It glowed far off in the mountains within the forest of her desolate retreat, her sanctuary.
Camille didn't know what it was-never knew what it was. It just glowed brightly far off like a moving tangle of glo-stick lanyards. It never ventured close, but that did not allay the fears of the black pussy cat dressed in her purple Wiccan vestments.
Kitty had seen herself a ghostie.
Then a deep throaty laugh echoes in the distance, slapping her with some sufficient vibratory force, rattling the panes of glass on her humble little candle-lit cabin. Besides the fire, besides the moon, besides the glow of the disembodied thing out in the woods, there was pure darkness.
On Halloween.
Well, as long as the spirit knew enough to stick to itself, she didn't care. She was a witch; she'd seen worse things about her-and in her! She shuddered, remembering the spell she had cast which summoned a huge gathering of thick slimy tentacles that were of a neon purple and squirmed from her giant pot, looking much like an amoeba, as it moved faster than she could imagine, seizing her, fucking her.
Calamari had been for dinner that night, and not a pleasant prospect, either!
Davnon had felt it tonight. It was something special about today, something that gave him purchase in this world of the living. He'd been trapped between the two worlds for the longest time, but now, despite that he was fated to wander this crappy forest for all eternity, he had an idea that would alleviate some of his boredom. For tonight, he could touch the living without losing his spiritual essence. He'd do more than simply touch, that was most sincerely guaranteed. And, he had found the most convenient vessel, here, to indulge his amusements.
On Halloween.
Davnon had been born four hundred years ago in the Black Forest area of Germany. Perhaps that was what gave him these cursed weights preventing him from finding peace. He had moved to France. In fact, these very woods nearby Amiens, he had been killed; a cruel irony. His lover, Torget, another black cat and the midwife of Amiens proper, had poisoned him. Made him suffer ever so cruelly with the blunt horrid taste of greed and arrogance in the form of Curare. Oh, he'd had his revenge; driven the bitch insane with his poltergeist activities, intentionally making her wish she were blind and oblivious. He'd even had a few laughs about it over the lonely decades. Davnon had realized he could touch physical objects-and hide them-whenever he wished. But he could only manifest in physical form and touch and manipulate the living.
On Halloween.
And only now did he intend to make his bold plans reality by visiting the cat in the cabin nearby for what could be considered a quite ghoulish encounter. Strange, how mortals have changed the significance of this day by uttering the simple words,
"TRICK OR TREAT!!!" Then he decried a great trumpet deep from within his being, unmistakable to all on both sides of the narrow path of purgatorial ghostly eternity.
Camille heard it; a great decree of 'trick or treat', followed by another of those animal-like noises. She shudders, the challenge, the boast bringing her much discomfort.
Hours later, when she is cooking some stew made from non-anthro rabbits she had killed out in the woods, a great coldness seizes her partially naked body. At the time, she wore purple stockings up to her thighs, purple gloves to the shoulder, a purple silky bra, a purple bow in her bluish locks of hair, affixed to a neatly braided ponytail, and a purple witch hat; a buckled black leather strap attached to the base, the point crooked to the right.
Her breath is white and wispy before her face with each gust of her pert peach-colored nose. She shivers uncontrollably, rubbing her arms together, teeth chattering. How can she be a cat-sicle, with the orange fire burning so boldly before her within the mantel under the chimney?
Something creaks loudly on the outside porch, the hollow sound of thumping hooves on weathered splintery wood catches her attention. It comes slooowly closer, seeming to savor the wait-and her unthinking fear.
The door is knocked raptly three times, as she hears the loud and deep exhalation of breath. She knew what was out there, but she dared not even imagine going to answer the door, instead drawing her knees in close to herself, the juices from her cunt now frozen to the flesh of her labia in clear silvery droplets of ice.
"How rude! I know you're home, you witchy bitchy!" The hollow ethereal voice from the other side of the door calls.
From the other side.
Camille freezes in horror! She was right, there was a dead thing standing on her porch! Suddenly, she cannot help it as her paw drops from hugging her shin, reaching between her legs for her clit-sicle, rubbing it slowly, caressing it with firm warming strokes of her velvety hand until it thawed out. She was powerless to stop it. She was powerless even, to hold her moans in her throat.
She had no control over her body; she was spiritually, and sexually incontinent!
This drove her crazy. She was possessed. She was more embarrassed than the time she got too intense with a certain Japanese delicacy!
"Stop fucking yourself!" Roared a hollow voice in a cruel laugh, coming disembodied from the right like a horrible echo.
"Stop fucking yourself!" Then the voice came from her left.
"Stop fucking yourself!" Then from behind her long-backed arm-chair.
"Stop fucking yourself!" Then the voice comes from in front of the fireplace. Suddenly, the voice becomes less hollow and more full as something big, about seven feet tall (a little shorter than the rafters of her cabin ceiling) appears from out of nowhere with a blink of brilliance like a green-glowing light-bulb, emanating the soft luminescence of the moon when it was the most full.
The spirit was transparent white with green neon hair, tail, and leering vicious green glowing eyes. It sported see-through powder blue hooves, steel manacles about its hind-feet and wrists, chain-links frozen, floating in mid-air like they were in outer space. A thick leather collar about its-HIS neck. Camille could even see the fire roaring behind him through his thin wispy paste-colored fleshy hide.
"Boo!" The stallion yelled with obvious delight, making her jump.
On Halloween.
"Who-what-where?!" She stammers out, scared shitless-well, almost.
He leans in close to her whiskered black face, heaving frozen breath at her. His green eyes were close enough that she could tell that this was the one part of the undead equine that was NOT transparent.
"Witch! How fortunate you are! I will have fun tonight!"
On Halloween.
Davnon had his entertainment. Scaring a mortal-or making her masturbate!-was probably the most fun thing he'd done since he'd scared the fucking shit out of his harlot of a murdering heiress. Now, however, he wanted to enjoy his time of physical delight while he could.
"Yiff or Treat, witch? I will touch you tonight, and there is nothing you can do to stop me!"
The cat reaches within the cleavage of her bra, whipping out a little square bottle with some bright yellow fluid, her violet eyes peering intensely into his own, staring deep within his essences.
"That is where your judgment proves false, Geist, for I have brewed this specially for you should you come to visit me. A girl can't be too careful, nowadays, y'know."
Then she rips a brown age-faded cork from the bottle's neck with her sharp teeth, splashing the concoction at the spirit horse. The water goes harmlessly through him. He laughs in her confused face.
"A ghost can't be too careful, nowadays, y'know." He countered with sadistic delight.
She tossed the bottle through him to smash in the fireplace, making it roar up with ferocity.
"Monk's Hood! You bastard! You switched the ingredients when I was making this stuff last year!" She accuses.
He has an identical corked bottle in his transparent hoof-let hand.
"Not quite kitty. Here is what you search for. I snuck between those lovely tits of yours and switched the vials while you were flicking your clit. Now, you cannot deny me. You won't have a ghost of a chance!"
On Halloween.
Camille does not like the grin on the spirit stallions' face.
"Yiff or Treat, witch, Yiff or Treat?" Then he gives a great hollow cackle deep from within his lungs-or whatever the hell he has.
Her options were nearly gone. She could only hope to steal the vial he held and use it against him. The horse reaches his hand out, as if to give her the vial.
"Here."
She snaps her paw forward, taking it hastily, and then rushing to undo the cork. When she has the cork off, he has his hand out in a pause motion.
"Wait, witch."
Then with that, a green cock sprouts from his white sheath with a sudden burst of glowing green fluids, the head dripping neon luminescent precum. He points at his great dick.
"Put it here, kitty."
She stares numbly, doing as he asked. The yellow fluid drips from her vial, running along the slant of his cock head, running down his bulging meaty shaft, running down his balls and thighs to the floor.
"What-why don't you die?!"
He laughs.
"Kitty, that was caramel for your treat! Nothing like a candy-coated cock for your Hallows Eve sweet tooth!"
"I don't want your treat, ghost!" She snarls, swiping a clawed paw right through him, scattering his body like smoke, and watched in horror as his shoulder reformed from the once-scattered mist.
"Yiff, then."
He grabs her by the scruff of her neck, making her squeal out in protest, marching her off the chair and slamming her upper body to the flat surface of her nearby wooden table, her arms accidentally knocking off old dusty tomes and beakers to crash to the floor, as the fireplace and candles died, leaving the light of the haunted horse to illuminate.
His muzzle is flexed in a grin of obvious sadistic horniness, as he takes his giant dick, dripping with caramel sauce and glowing ectoplasmic precum, in one hoof, lifting her tail out of the way with the other, ramming eighteen inches into her slick pussy easy with one hard thrust.
The pony poltergeist moans, savoring the feel of her cunt on his supernatural (I'll say!) rod.
"I have forgotten what it feels like to have hot flesh on my tool. It has been...too long."
Green glowing puddles drip on the floor, leaking between the boards.
"Get your fucking ectoplasm outta me!" She growls.
"Or what pussy? You've no power over me. I could fuck you all night, and, I intend to do just that."
Then he uses a see-through hand to give her perky ass a nice flat-palm pop, making her twitch.
The cock within her was torture. Camille thought she was being ravaged by a dildo made of ice!
He gives her tail a light yank, lifting her feet off the ground, and her pussy to better access for his penetrating ghost meat. Green stuff leaks from her slit in copious amounts like an erotic lite-brite there on the ground.
The chains rattle frantically with each of his undead lusty shoves, one actually grazes the flesh of her ass with a cold ethereal metallic caress.
"Only on Halloween can a spirit fuck someone." He muses, pondering the implications.
"Oh! Give up the ghost, you bastard!" She snarls.
"But I have team spirit, and we make such wonderful partners."
On Halloween.
And with that, he viciously fucks her like a feral mare in heat, each thrust a punch in the passage of her vagina.
"Don't worry, witch, I can only do this to you one day a year. Can you guess which day?" He enquires.
The ghost speeds up his ramming, the assault like a hammer on her dripping green-glowing insides, as he moans, jamming her with his ectoplasmic spooge, green fountains spraying out her cunt about the girth of his huge meaty dick. The horse pulls out of her with a wet slosh, his equine phallus half limp and glowing green with his shiny bright seed.
She moans tiredly, fluids dripping from her sore pussy like a waterfall of ghost cum, collapsing against the old water-stained wood of her work table.
"Yeah." She fumes, pissed off.
"On Halloween." She grumbles.
"On Halloween." He agrees, shoving his giant dick in her again, making her squeal in surprise and irritation, that same haughty smirk on his transparent equine jowls.
Yiff Or Treat, and Happy Halloween from Big Fluffy!