Home Owner's Association

She looked to the doorway and saw me. Breathing deeply, she sought my eyes for a sign. I smiled slightly and nodded. For the last time, she gave a blushing little smile from the face of a deeply contented young woman. The sheet fell from her breasts as she leaned in and snorted the line.

Her eyes became saucers as she felt the drug plow through her brain. The trouble with cocaine is that your first hit is the best you'll ever have. In that moment, I was witnessing Rose at the very peak of her life.

She cocked her head back and her nipples tilted as she rode her little wave. She took a deep breath and entered another plane of existence as Steve went to town sucking on her breasts. As it faded, you could almost sense the yearning and loss in her heart. Steve took her in his strong arms and lowered her to the bed. Nothing would ever be that good, ever again...

Midway through the last tryst, and a solid hour before Steve dumped his third load deep into her unprotected pussy, she sucked down the fifth or sixth line of cocaine. By then she was so jittery and barely coherent with her speech, a young child might mistake her for a monster of some kind. His cum was running out of her pussy into a dried pool on the sheet beneath her as she stammered and spoke hyperactive gibberish about loving him and cumming. A few hours earlier, she was a good Christian housewife who once enjoyed a risque dance with another man sans a bikini top. I quietly tiptoed out of the house.

-

I will spare you most of the details of the downfall.

At one point, when I was still attending their sex sessions as cover for "Thirsty Thursdays" or "Welcome Wednesdays" or whatever snowballing excuse she had to secretly take another man's seed, I decided to have some fun. She was several lines into her binge (or perhaps several pills, or a few pipe hits) when I snuck into Steve's house and glanced into his bedroom. They were rutting and kissing intensely as her dilated pupils stared at ceiling. Her teeth jittered as he pistoned his cock into her and she clawed nervously at his back. Every sound out of her was a mix between a moan and a malformed, half said gibberish word.

I walked into the bar and grabbed a bottle of vodka. I then proceeded into the bedroom and nary a soul noticed I was there. I reached into her purse and withdrew a photo of her with her husband and a little tin crucifix she must have removed from a necklace. I walked over to the bed with the booze and picture in hand. Deeply entrenched in a kiss, the two young lovers didn't notice me.

"Grab onto her tummy and sit up," I whispered to Steven.

Befuddled, he sprung up. When he saw it was me at their bedside, he continued, unabated. He dug his hands into her tiny waist to the point where it was at least a bit painful. I decided to experiment...to find out new knowledge.

I took the picture of her husband and placed it just above her pussy and turned it to face her so she could recognize the photo. I would guess it was where her fertilized egg laid, waiting to force her into reality in a matter of days when her trusty menarche failed to show itself. Confused, she looked down, and I gave time for her drug addled mind to understand what was happening. I then took the bottle of clear booze and trickled it over the photograph. The bed was already filthy from the bucket of cum Steven had already dumped in her that day. The light stream of booze pooled for a moment on her skin as it jostled back and forth before falling to her sides and onto the sheets.

I knew Rose too well. She began to roll into a deep and lasting orgasm as Steven picked up the pace in response. Her hands gripped his arms as her pussy pulsated beneath the soured image of her betrayed husband.

"Ha," Steven said under his breath with jilted laughter, "So fucked up..."

Before she crested, I swapped the photo for the crucifix. The trickle of booze came and the tin felt cold against her skin. Her eyes opened from her orgasm and she grimaced when she saw what I had done. From the way her face contorted, she was fighting to express her disgust through her rolling orgasm.

"Nnnnnuhhhhhhh!" she groaned in some mish mash of protest and pleasure.

"Nuh nuh, uhhh, nuh, no, no, no, nuhhhhh..." she continued. It was no use. The orgasm was in control now, even if the visual finally forced her to confront herself.

I walked away as they finished rolling together into a ball of drugs and cum as the sun went down. Replacing the items in her purse, I noted my revelation: it wasn't the husband she cared about. Something deeper clung to whatever remained of her conscience.

-

After that, I just stopped going to the pool. I didn't hear from Rose at all for several weeks. One night, driving home from running an errand late at night, I saw all the lights ablaze at Steven's house. Driving by Rose's, I didn't see a single light on. This was unusual since her husband usually sat at home in the evening while Rose "saw friends." I decided to "take a walk" in the neighborhood to investigate.

Eventually my "walk" lead me straight through Steve's front door and up the stairs, where I could hear the sounds of sex and thumping techno music coming from the bedroom. Curiosity got the better of me. I peered around the corner. What I saw was...shocking, even to someone as jaded as me.

Steve was nude and in the corner taking tugs from a liquor bottle as he watched what transpired in front of him. A heavyset, "ethnic" man of some kind of Caribbean ancestry was plowing into Rose's body. He wore a braided beard and dreadlocked hair and his skin was smattered in tattoos. From the look on her face alone I could tell his cock was having trouble entering her. She winced and writhed into the bed as he tried to fit the entire length inside her. Rose was being mated by a man she probably didn't know, and surely didn't love. Her skin was far more pale than I remembered it. The tautness of her breasts and face was faded.

And in the corner, watching it all, was Rose's husband.

I had to do a double take to even come to grips with the reality, but there he was. You could see in his sunken, defeated eyes that he was not nearly a willing participant in what was occurring. While the large man continued to try and piston into his unwilling wife, he seemed to lean towards Steve and say something. Steve couldn't hear him over the music, so he walked a few feet closer.

"When can I leave?" the meek, defeated man asked.

Steve shrugged and half smiled, "She's gotta pay up to Rosco."

Ah. So this charming man was Rosco. And he was owed a debt.

Over the course of five minutes, Rose went from unwillingly allowing the strange man deep into her womb to quite willingly tongue kissing him and moaning with pleasure. That's how fast Rose could fall in lust and love with a good cock.

Roscoe seemed to love sitting up and gripping her voluptuous breasts as hard as he could, seemingly trying to rip them away from her chest like pieces of fabric. Rose played along and seemed to really enjoy it after letting out a coo of pain. Midway through their session, as the hulking beast of a man stood above her and wormed his cock in and out of her, he hauled out and slapped her face as hard as he could. It made the room quiet, but she kept humping into him and moaning. A second time, a crack thundered through the room, as he slapped her even harder than before. I thought, for a moment, her husband would get up and challenge the man brutally assaulting his wife. But the small man's visceral reaction faded.

It was clear Rose was crying a bit as Rosco pumped his bull semen inside her. When he bottomed out and grunted, she quietly came as well, and he kissed her deeply as he wiped away her tears. Soon after she was all smiles as he cradled her small face in his hands. She adored him, red cheeks, bruised tits, and all. He gently placed a small tablet onto her tongue and she accepted it graciously. Her beaming grin met his doting face as she slowly began to contort and lose focus. The drug was taking her over. He laid her gently back down into the bed like a doting father putting his baby to sleep. Her eyes opened, and she looked directly at me, but there's no way she could see me. She was someplace else...far away.

When it was over, her husband was sobbing a bit to himself. Steve walked forward and grabbed Rose's tit. When he turned, still clutching his wife's breast like a bag of dirty laundry, Steve looked at the husband with disdain.

"Don't be a bitch, dude," he said, "Just party."

Before I could be seen, I turned to leave the premise. When I did, Rose turned a bit and Roscoe rose from her destroyed body. I saw the faint outline of a baby bump. Even in all her disgrace, she was a beautiful mother to be.

-

Out of curiosity, I logged into Rose's favorite text messaging app (I knew all of her passwords, naturally), and followed the progression of things. First, there was an angry exchange when her husband "found something out." Then a period of her shaming him into having been "mean" to her. Eventually there was some acceptance to "meet him" and "try new things." The husband, according to Rose, was being "unfair."

I skipped further down the message chain. There was talk of "how did he like it." He said he "liked it" but didn't say they "had to stop." Later there was discussion about how "free and open" Rose felt about "last night" and "how much it meant" to her "that he was having fun too." The husband didn't reply to that text.

Then there was a discussion of money. "We need a few hundred to get rid of it" the husband said. Rose said "we don't have that much because we had a good time." The husband said "we have to get rid of it, you promised." She replied: "don't take charge of my body, you don't own me."

Over the next few days, the texts from Roscoe came. He was some kind of megalomaniacal drug hound. Everything he sent was sadistic.

"you take my pills you take my cock, thats what it is"

"you want to party then i get what i want"

"don't talk back or you never gettin the hook up again"

But the best, the one that still turns me on to this day, was this exchange:

"you loved me in that moment. you loved fucking my cock n taking my cum and you wanted to be w me more than you wanted to be w him. admit it. admit it, cunt. in that second, me > him. i was all of you. admit it or we r done"

Apparently Roscoe liked to worm his way into a marriage just like yours truly. Another power monger. And from all accounts, he was right. I saw Rose's eyes that night. I know that her husband did too. Steve and Roscoe owned her.

According to the text messaging app, two minutes passed. Rose replied simply:

"I did."

The following messages were arrangements for her to stay with Roscoe "so we can fuck this out." I never quite knew what that phrase meant, but if I matched it with the images of her crying husband, it really, really turned me on.

-

I didn't go to the funeral. They found her in an alleyway behind some bar about a year and a half later. How she made it that long with no resources, I don't know, but with a body and a face like that I imagine she was an asset that could be harvested. The husband did an about-face at some point, or at least I assumed he did because I still saw him around the neighborhood for awhile until their house was put up for sale.

Steve never moved. One day I paid him a visit with a photo of Rose I had printed from her Facebook page at the local grocery store. It showed her baring her abs as a college cheerleader with a white vest barely containing her body. When I entered, I put it on his kitchen table.

"Cum on this for me," I said.

"What?" he replied, confused.

"Rub one out and cum on this for me. You owe me one for making all that happen."

He shook his head, but since I knew his dirty little secrets, he complied. I got a little turned on watching as he did the deed. I really did want to lick his Orion's belt. The pulsing nature of his triceps and his contorted face as he took to fantasizing about a young Rose made me wet. His healthy cock came all over the picture. It gave me a rise to watch her youthful face get rinsed with Steve's hedonistic seed. But the thrill was gone. It wasn't quite the same as the "real thing."

When Steve was recovering from his jerk off session, I stepped toward him and put my hand on his cheek.

"Kiss me," I said.

He leaned in and obliged. It was a good one too: soft but with intent. The man was so, so gorgeous. I pulled away.

"You wanna hangout, Helen?" he said, propositioning me. A big part of me wanted to, as a victory lap. But...I knew better. I could end up like his other lovers, after all. I smelled his breath and let the moment linger.

"Rose is dead," I murmured. I didn't see an ounce of emotional reaction from him.

"I don't know anything. Didn't do anything."

I nodded, "You're a real dreamboat Steve. Just what I needed."

Leaving the photo on his table, I turned and left.

-

Now the baby...I heard about him through the grapevine. Apparently her child was found in a dilapidated car not far from her body. He entered the foster system through the county once her parents declared they wanted nothing to do with him. I got my husband on board without much persuasion. Despite our distance and offbeat marriage, this was one language we spoke to each other very clearly. One you probably, or hopefully, will never know and never understand. And for that reason...try not to judge.

The social worker showed me photos: he was as brown as caramel. I was a little shocked. The first baby bump was clearly Steve or (as unlikely as it was) the husbands, so...the girl took care of at least one "problem." There was at least a chance the child was Roscoe's. It didn't matter to me. And it didn't take long for her to become mine.

"You really come across as an immaculate adoption candidate," the social worker said, "It helps so much that you knew the mother."

I nodded, "She was like a daughter to me. In a way."

A few weeks later, I pushed my new child in a stroller to my son's gravesite. I visited it at least once a week for all the years after his death. I never, ever missed a visit. That time, however, that time, for the first time...I cried.