Ghouls Just Wanna Have Fun

1,800 WORDS


Purple Prosaic is a self-publishing label featuring the nocturnal emissions of eroticists Alessia Brio & Will Belegon.


What's Halloween without a little tentacle sex?


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I put on some soft instrumental music to drown out the raucous sounds coming from the street, lit a few scented candles, and curled up at the end of the sofa with my cider. The curtains were drawn and all the lights extinguished except for a tiny reading lamp. I was about two hundred pages into the first novel, and enjoying myself immensely, when I first heard it.

Initially, I thought it came from outside. A soft thump, kind of like an under inflated basketball hitting the roof. I listened for a bit but the sound did not recur. Oh, well. Probably kids. There was no way I was going outside to investigate, so no use wasting any more time wondering about it.

There was a strong breeze, although the weather was unseasonably warm. I had glimpsed the skimpy costumes of a few pseudo sluts through the curtains of my bedroom window earlier. Young minds often think such exhibitions will attract true love. They'd have to learn the hard way—like I did. A beautiful body was one thing—and a fleeting one at that. A beautiful mind, on the other hand, was to be forever treasured.

My attention returned to the book in my hands, and just as I was really getting back into it, that noise came again. Closer this time. Perhaps just outside the nearest window. Accompanying it, a feeling—a vibe. Not malicious. I did not feel fear but instead an intense curiosity, which I struggled to put aside. Nothing was going to distract me from the enjoyment of my solitude.

It was nearing nine o'clock, which was the end of the Trick-or-Treat period designated by the county. Things would be quieting down very soon, I hoped. Once again, I dove back into my novel—but settling into it was difficult. My thoughts kept returning to that sound, and oddly...a smell. As if a window was ajar on a humid June night, the scent of blooming honeysuckle filled the air. Cloying and sweet, it made me want to throw open the windows, although I knew the honeysuckle was long gone.

These thoughts, for some unknown reason, made me intensely aware of my bare skin beneath the robe. Each movement a caress of soft fabric. Every inch of my skin on alert, sensing. I held very still, thinking to prevent the exquisite feathery friction against my nipples, my ass, my thighs. It was no use. The robe seemed to move of its own accord, touching me and waking heated emotions.