Bethany was sick and tired of the constant interruptions. "This Trick or Treat lark should be banned!" she told her husband George.
"Hmm," came his customary response. He was sitting in his chair drinking beer and watching football on the TV.
"I'm up and down like a yo-yo. I'm going to ignore the next lot. They can bang on the door all night for all I care."
"Hmmm," said George. He turned the volume up.
"Should I do that - ignore them?"
"Hmm, yes," grunted George.
Bethany sighed. She peeked out of the curtain into the dark night beyond. The gang of five kids were disappearing down the driveway, no doubt now primed to go and pester the people next door. She pressed her face closer to the glass as she saw Christine emerge from her house, her blonde hair shining beneath the moonlight and her face clearly illuminated before it was hidden beneath a hood. What's she wearing? Some sort of cape? She watched as her neighbour took a short cut through the shrubbery in order to avoid the gang of five trick or treaters already making their way up her garden path. Moments later the caped figure emerged from the shrubbery, visible just for a moment beneath the faint glow of a street lamp.
What possessed Bethany to follow Christine she never afterwards could determine, but follow her she did.
"I'm off out for a walk, George." She grabbed her coat and slipped her feet into a pair of flat shoes.
Bethany left the house before he delivered his usual grunting response. She caught sight of Christine across the road and followed her. She wondered whether she should shout, make herself known, so that they could walk together. But a little secret voice in her head whispered caution. So she cautiously followed, delighting in the clandestine feeling and the fact that she remained unobserved.
The subterfuge continued for some fifteen minutes or so. Maintaining a discrete distance, Bethany watched as her neighbour approached a rather dilapidated house on the outskirts of town. She was about to cross over the road when a hand grabbed her shoulder.
"Bethany Thomas - is that you? Yes - it IS you! Hello, what are you doing here?"
Bethany whirled around in fright. "Oh! God, Kitty - you gave me a fright!"
Kitty grinned. "Sorry about that. This is Megan - and this is Cherry. Girls, meet Bethany."
"Um. Hello all."
"So where's George?"
"At home watching the football. I .. I was..." She caught sight of the warm glow of lights from the windows of The George and Dragon public house. It gave her a likely excuse. "I hate football - needed some air. Thought I'd go for a drink. Heard the real ale pub over there is pretty good."
"My you're a dark horse Bethany. I didn't know you enjoyed a glass or two of liquid naughtiness! Anyway, you must come with us as that's where we're heading." Kitty linked arms with Bethany. "Come on girls. We're going to have a fun evening!"
So Bethany ended up in the pub sampling a half pint of real ale that turned her cheeks all pink and made her feel all warm and tingly inside. To her surprise, she began to enjoy herself.
"We must do this again," said Kitty. "Promise you'll come out with us next week?"
"I promise," nodded Bethany. The wall clock showed 10.15. "However, I really must be going now or George will wonder where I am." If only. So she excused herself and hugged her old friend and her new ones and left the pub.
Before heading home however, she made her way back to the house that Christine had visited earlier. You're a nosey old trout, Bethany Thomas, she chided herself. She found herself standing by the rickety old gate. It caught in the wind and swung open invitingly with a welcoming little creak. Bethany stepped forward. I'll just take a quick peek. The ale had made her more adventurous. She wandered along the winding path through the garden, beautiful in its unkempt wildness beneath the shining silver moon, and she stood before the front door staring at the lion's-head door knocker.
She stood there for some time, the rational part of her urging her to stop being so stupid and to go home at once. But something held her. Something ... the sound of footsteps beyond the door could be clearly heard, and as they drew closer Bethany gulped and held her breath as the door opened.
A man stood there. He was tall and dark haired, distinguished looking in an old fashioned courtly way. He was neither young nor old, ugly or beautiful, but he had the most amazing eyes. Those eyes bored into her own. A wave of panic swept over her. What should she say? She said the first thing that came into her head.
"Trick or treat?"
A smile twitched on the man's face. "I am Mr Hanson. Do come in, Bethany."
As she stepped over the threshold she wondered fleetingly how he knew her name. But it was of no real consequence. She followed him into a study where a fire glowed in the hearth, casting leaping shadows on the wall. Her eyes scanned the room, focusing on a large mahogany desk. She looked at it and then she looked at Mr Hanson. A frisson of understanding jolted through her. Mr Hanson nodded and gestured towards the desk.
"Bend over the desk, Bethany. Take your knickers down for me."
And she did. She obeyed. Oh she was so shameless, so wanton, so slutty. And she didn't care at all. She gloried in the feelings that coursed through her - feelings of lust and helplessness and a mounting sexual excitement tinged with fear.
"I'm going to cane you."
She nodded and gulped. Yes. Yes of course he was. That's why she was here. She felt the tip of the cane tap her inner thighs and she dutifully splayed her legs wider, displaying herself in a way she had never done for George. There was a mounting silence, broken by a swish and hiss of air and then - a sharp crack and a searing pain and a scream of anguish.
"Ohhhhhh!!" It was terrible and beautiful. It was a line of liquid fire. It cut deep, branding her, searing her flesh. She gasped and tossed back her head, thrusting out her buttocks lewdly.
The cane struck again, and again, producing such artistry - expertly placed parallel lines. The cane sang as Bethany cried out. Her flesh quivered. Her buttocks bounced. Her skin glowed as the burn bit. And still the rod kissed her punished bottom in a cleansing ritual of painful decadence.
Her cries muted and turned to moans and little mewls of pleasure. Her bottom was on fire, as hot as the coals that glowed in the hearth, as red as the glowing eyes of Mr Hanson as he smiled his crocodile smile and moved a little closer ...