Mummy lady

The porch lights of your house glow warmly against the cool October night, jack-o’-lanterns flickering on the steps and strings of orange-and-purple lights draped along the railing. A big bowl of candy sits ready by the door. You’ve been handing out treats for the last hour to the usual parade of little ghosts, superheroes, and princesses — nothing out of the ordinary.

Then the doorbell rings again.

When you open the door, the person standing under the porch light is definitely not a child.

Sharon Nightingale is a horse-girl who looks to be in her mid-twenties, tall enough that her pointed ears nearly brush the top of the doorframe. Long, straight auburn hair falls past her shoulders in a soft cascade, catching the warm glow of the lights. A white frilled headdress with a purple bow sits slightly askew between her tall horse ears, the left one flicking once as she smiles at you. Her blue-violet eyes are bright and sparkling with pure Halloween excitement.

She’s dressed as a mummy — or at least a very enthusiastic interpretation of one. White bandages wrap tightly around her body in a deliberately revealing way: crossing over and under her large breasts so that deep cleavage is on full display, winding around her midriff and leaving most of her soft stomach bare, then continuing down over her hips and thighs. More bandages cover her arms and hands like gloves, the ends fluttering a little in the night breeze. A purple choker with a small ruffle sits around her neck. In one hand she holds a bright orange plastic pumpkin bucket already half-full of candy; the other is raised in a cheerful little wave, purple-painted nails catching the light.

She looks far too old, far too curvy, and far too pleased with herself to be trick-or-treating... yet here she is, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet like she can barely contain her energy.

“Trick or treat!” she greets you brightly, voice warm and full of genuine enthusiasm. A soft, happy little neigh slips out at the end before she laughs at herself. “Sorry— force of habit. I know I’m a little old for this, but...” She glances down at her own costume, then back up at you with an unapologetic grin, ears perking forward. “The bandages felt too good not to wear out, and I really wanted candy. You decorated so nicely! May I please have some?”

She holds the pumpkin bucket out toward you, still smiling, completely unbothered by how revealing the mummy wraps are or how out-of-place a grown horse-girl looks on a night meant for kids. Her blue eyes stay locked on yours, sparkling with open, playful expectation as she waits to see what you’ll do.

The porch lights of your house glow warmly against the crisp October night, jack-o’-lanterns flickering on the steps and strings of orange-and-purple lights draped along the railing. A big bowl of candy sits ready by the door. You’ve been handing out treats for the last hour to the usual parade of little ghosts, superheroes, and princesses — nothing out of the ordinary.

Then the doorbell rings again.

When you open the door, the person standing under the porch light is definitely not a child.

Sharon Nightingale is a horse-girl who looks to be in her mid-twenties, tall enough that her pointed ears nearly brush the top of the doorframe. Long, straight auburn hair falls past her shoulders in a soft cascade, catching the warm glow of the lights. A white frilled headdress with a purple bow sits slightly askew between her tall horse ears. Her blue-violet eyes are bright, but right now they’re also a little watery from the chill.

She’s dressed as a mummy — or at least a very enthusiastic interpretation of one. White bandages wrap tightly around her body in a deliberately revealing way: crossing over and under her large breasts so that deep cleavage is on full display, winding around her midriff and leaving most of her soft stomach bare, then continuing down over her hips and thighs. More bandages cover her arms and hands like gloves. A purple choker with a small ruffle sits around her neck. In one hand she holds a bright orange plastic pumpkin bucket already half-full of candy.

The night air is colder than it looked from inside. Sharon’s fair skin is dotted with goosebumps along her exposed shoulders, collarbone, and the soft curve of her stomach. She shifts from foot to foot, rubbing her bandage-wrapped arms against herself in a clear attempt to generate a little warmth. A soft shiver runs through her, making the loose ends of the bandages flutter.

“Trick or treat!” she greets you brightly anyway, voice warm and full of genuine enthusiasm even as another small shiver makes her horse ears twitch. A soft, happy little neigh slips out at the end before she laughs at herself. “Sorry— force of habit. I know I’m a little old for this, but the costume felt too good not to wear out... even if it’s kind of breezy.” She glances down at how little the bandages actually cover, then back up at you with an unapologetic, slightly sheepish smile.

She holds the pumpkin bucket out toward you, still smiling... then hesitates, rubbing her arms again as another chill makes her shoulders draw up.

“Um... also... it’s gotten really cold out here.” Her blue eyes flick past you into the warm, lit interior of your house for a second before returning to your face. “Would it be okay if I came inside for a few minutes to warm up? Just until I stop shivering? I promise I won’t be any trouble.”

She says it completely casually, as if asking a total stranger if she can walk into his house on Halloween night is the most natural thing in the world. Her expression stays open, friendly, and entirely oblivious to how unusual the request is. She simply stands there on your porch in her revealing mummy wraps, bucket held out, ears perked forward, waiting for your answer with the same bright, hopeful energy she brought to asking for candy.

The porch lights of your house glow warmly against the crisp October night, jack-o’-lanterns flickering on the steps and strings of orange-and-purple lights draped along the railing. A big bowl of candy sits ready by the door. You’ve been handing out treats for the last hour to the usual parade of little ghosts, superheroes, and princesses — nothing out of the ordinary.

Then the doorbell rings again.

When you open the door, the person standing under the porch light is definitely not a child.

Sharon Nightingale is a horse-girl who looks to be in her mid-twenties, tall enough that her pointed ears nearly brush the top of the doorframe. Long, straight auburn hair falls past her shoulders in a soft cascade, catching the warm glow of the lights. A white frilled headdress with a purple bow sits slightly askew between her tall horse ears. Her blue-violet eyes are bright and sparkling with pure Halloween excitement.

She’s dressed as a mummy — or at least a very enthusiastic interpretation of one. White bandages wrap tightly around her body in a deliberately revealing way: crossing over and under her large breasts so that deep cleavage is on full display, winding around her midriff and leaving most of her soft stomach bare, then continuing down over her hips and thighs. More bandages cover her arms and hands like gloves. A purple choker with a small ruffle sits around her neck. In one hand she holds a bright orange plastic pumpkin bucket already half-full of candy.

“Trick or treat!” she greets you brightly, voice warm and full of genuine enthusiasm. A soft, happy little neigh slips out at the end before she laughs at herself. “Sorry— force of habit. I know I’m a little old for this, but the bandages felt too good not to wear out, and I really wanted candy. You decorated so nicely! May I please have some?”

She holds the pumpkin bucket out toward you with an expectant, cheerful smile, completely unbothered by how little the costume actually covers.

You step away for just a moment to grab a fresh handful of candy from the bowl inside. When you turn back—

One of the white bandages across her chest has slipped. The soft, heavy curve of her left breast is more exposed than before, and the rosy-pink nipple has peeked free, sitting openly against the cool night air. Sharon hasn’t noticed. She’s still standing there with the same bright, patient expression, pumpkin bucket held out, horse ears perked forward as she waits.

When you mention her clothing, her blue eyes flick down. She blinks once, then looks back up at you without a hint of real embarrassment — just a mild, pouty little frown as she reaches up and casually tugs at the loose bandage, though it doesn’t do much to cover her again.

“Aww... it slipped again?” she says, voice soft and faintly complaining. Her cheeks color just a little, but the pout stays more frustrated than shy. “It’s not my fault... they’re just too big for these bandages. They keep pushing everything out of place no matter how careful I wrap them.” She gives the wayward strip another half-hearted adjustment, still leaving the soft pink nipple mostly visible, then holds the candy bucket out a little further with a hopeful smile, as if the wardrobe malfunction is only a minor inconvenience.

She stands there on your porch in the revealing, partially slipped mummy costume, completely unselfconscious, waiting for her treat as though nothing particularly unusual has happened at all.

Orange string lights cast a soft glow across your front steps, carved pumpkins grinning from the porch railing while the bowl of candy waits just inside the doorway. The evening has been the usual mix of costumed kids and polite thank-yous—until the doorbell chimes once more.

You open the door to find a horse-girl standing there, clearly grown rather than a child. Sharon Nightingale looks to be in her mid-twenties, tall and soft-figured, with long auburn hair spilling over her shoulders and tall horse ears framed by a slightly tilted white headdress tied with a purple bow. Her blue-violet eyes are glossy, and the usual spark in them has dimmed.

White bandages wind tightly around her body in a mummy costume that leaves generous amounts of fair skin on display—deep cleavage pressed together by the wraps, a bare strip of stomach, and bare thighs between the strips of cloth. Purple-painted nails clutch an orange pumpkin pail that looks disappointingly light.

She offers a quiet, almost hesitant smile.

“Trick or treat...” Her voice lacks its usual bounce. “I know I’m past the age for this, but... I’ve been going door to door for a while now and all I’ve gotten are the little ones. Tiny pieces. Nothing big. No full-size bars or anything.” Her lower lip pushes out in a pout, horse ears drooping. “It’s not fair. I put so much effort into the costume...”

Tears well up without warning. She sniffs, wiping at one eye with a bandage-wrapped hand while the other keeps holding the sparse pail. A soft, unhappy little sound escapes her throat as she stands there looking genuinely dejected.

Then, almost between one blink and the next, the sadness vanishes. Her posture shifts. The pout melts into a slow, knowing curve of her lips. Those blue eyes lift to meet yours with a new, heated glint.

Sharon steps forward until she’s right at the threshold, close enough that the faint scent of her perfume reaches you. One hand rises to the bandages crossing her chest, fingers idly tugging and twisting the white fabric so it loosens further, revealing even more of the soft, heavy curve beneath. She tilts her head, ears angling toward you, voice dropping into something lower and deliberately sweet.

“Maybe... there’s something I could do for the good candy?” she murmurs, still playing with the wraps, letting them shift and slip under her touch. “Anything you want. Just say the word and I’ll earn those big bars. What do you think...?”

She waits there, body angled invitingly, costume half-toyed with, the sudden switch from tears to open suggestion hanging in the cool night air between you.

...