Chapter Text
Sandra admired the hedge the way a jeweler might admire the facets in a perfect diamond, or the way a surgeon appraises the clean, bloodless edge of a workmanlike incision. The shears in her hand gleamed nastily in the August sun, and every snip landed with the crisp, satisfying finality of a gavel striking down on the guilty.
She squatted to clear the last few wayward tufts of grass from the walk, her knees creaking, her lips pursed in an expression that was halfway between delight and battle-readiness. Her garden was not, strictly speaking, a garden. It was an object lesson. A living rebuke to the slackers and the petunia-abandoners down the block. The mulch was a deep, ecclesiastical brown, raked so perfectly that any stray cat would have to fill out a permission slip just to set paw on it. The tulips stood at attention like a row of good little soldiers, and the ornamental grass by the mailbox shuddered in the breeze with the restraint of a flag at a military funeral.
Sandra wiped the sweat from her brow. There were no stains on her gardening gloves, because she’d bleached them between every job. The Homeowner’s Association pamphlet was tucked, laminated, into the crook of her elbow—a shield, or maybe a holy text. She could recite minimum hedge height and acceptable lawn ornamentation the way other women recited scripture. Not that she saw much separation between the two.
The sun was punishing, a white-hot judgment that turned the pavement to melted glass and the air to breathless, vibrating static. Sandra relished it. Adversity was just another word for opportunity, and she’d be damned if she let her roses wilt under her watch. She circled the big azalea by the porch steps, prodding at its roots, frowning when she spied a hint of yellowed leaf. Not on my property, she thought, and plucked it with surgical precision.
Dinner would be late tonight. There would be complaints. There always were. But no one in the neighborhood would be able to say Sandra Foy didn’t hold up her end. Anyone walking their dog past the Foy house would see, plain as day, what effort and pride and a steady hand could accomplish. The godly sort of order, the kind that didn’t just happen—it had to be wrestled, day after day, from the chaos that threatened to sneak in with every gust of wind or wandering seed.
She stood back, arms crossed, chin high. In her plain blue gardening dress and sensible sneakers, she looked like a general surveying a field of conquest: one immaculate yard, a flag planted in the soil against collapse. The only things that ever marred the view were the neighbors. And sometimes, just sometimes, Sandra caught herself wondering if even God felt the need to look away.
Then Sandra frowned, because she saw That Thing.
The new neighbor. That… strange… woman.
(Was she a woman? Not even Sandra herself was certain most days…)
The door banged open and the thing that emerged was… well. Not a woman, not in any sense Sandra’s mother or pastor or the Lord Himself would have recognized. It was a brute in a faded T-shirt (navy blue, some logo scabbed off by time and hard washing), pajama pants that sagged like a flag half-mast, and a slouch that radiated laziness and casual indecency from forty feet away. Scuffed trainers, the color of old nicotine stains. Hair cropped close, hungry-sharp at the edges. The jaw, the roughness, the swaggering way the hips rolled—it was like watching a linebacker in drag, or a prison warden on her day off. You couldn’t look away, the way you couldn’t ignore a house fire across the street or the sound of raccoons fucking in the attic.
She—the neighbor, Jules, she remembered now—hauled out two transparent garbage bags, one in each hand: trophies, Sandra thought, of some indecent campaign. The bags squished and slithered, heavy with shame and refuse. As the woman hefted them toward the curb, the sunlight hit and Sandra’s brain did a kind of double-take: the bags weren’t filled with the ordinary detritus of domesticity. No, there was no sign of apple cores, no eggshells, no honest, God-fearing trash.
Inside, pressed up like the bones of some deep-ocean fish, were used tissues, limp and sodden, accompanied by hundreds of pale, tubular… things. Sandra blinked. Looked again. The things were white, a little yellowed at the tips, deflated. Like balloons. Not real balloons. Not for a child’s birthday or a church potluck. These were obscene, somehow. They curled around each other, knotted, some still glistening, as if whatever foul purpose they’d served had only just concluded.
Jules heaved the bags into the city bin, then wiped her hands down her hips, as if to say: job well done. She stretched, arms thrown overhead, T-shirt riding up just enough to show a pale slip of abdomen dusted with hair. The neighbor yawned, exposing a mouthful of teeth, wolfish and careless.
Sandra’s fingers clenched the shears so hard her knuckles blanched. She tried not to stare. She tried. But the mind groped for answers, scriptural or sanitary. Used tissues and all those… balloons? What was the nature of that garbage? What, exactly, was seeping from next door and threatening her property values, her peace, the world’s last shreds of decency?
It was a test. Had to be. Some parade of the grotesque, arranged by God or the devil or the city housing lottery, just to see how much Sandra Foy could endure before she opened her mouth and let loose a rain of judgment.
But Jules was already looking at her, and smiling.
Not a neighborly smile, either. Not the kind you’d see over a fence, or at a block party, or during a tepid Tuesday potluck with the Methodists. This was a grin stretched wide and a little too bright, a billboard for everything Sandra did not want prowling down her sidewalk. It was the kind of smile that made you check your purse twice, or grip your keys like a weapon, just in case.
Jules stalked over, slow even for someone with those big, ugly sneakers. She walked like she owned the whole block, hips rolling, shoulders loose, arms swinging low. Each step seemed designed to send a tremor up Sandra’s porch columns, as if the very idea of decorum was buckling in her wake.
Sandra froze. She’d meant to duck back behind her azalea, maybe pretend she hadn’t noticed, but she hesitated and that was all it took. She felt the heat climbs up her neck, prickling into her scalp, and she cursed herself for not wearing her sun hat. Or a body-length suit of armor. Or for not moving to a better zip code twenty years ago, before all this started.
Jules stopped just short of the property line, feet planted wide and steady, like she was squaring off at the start of a wrestling match. She sized Sandra up from head to toe. The shears. The spotless gloves. The prim hem of the dress, bleached past the point of memory. Jules whistled, low.
“You know,” she said, “that’s a hell of a getup for yard work. You always dress like you’re about to host the Queen, or is this just for me?”
Sandra’s mouth worked for a moment. Her tongue felt parched, but she managed to grit out, “It’s called self-respect. Some of us were raised with it.”
“Sure, sure.” Jules flashed her teeth, and Sandra didn’t like the way the sun caught on her canines. “I gotta say, blue really brings out your eyes. Makes ‘em pop.” She said “pop” with a little smack of her lips, like the word was a secret she was offering up just for Sandra.
Sandra’s hands worked the shears as if she could prune the very air between them. She didn’t dare put them down. “Thank you,” she said, because that was what you said, even if you’d rather chew glass.
Jules didn’t move. She just kept looking. Her eyes flicked up and down, lingering. “You got any plans tonight? Or are you planning to give the roses another round of tough love?”
Sandra scoffed. “I’m a married woman,” she said, loud enough for the tomatoes across the street to hear. “Happily. Just so that’s clear.”
Jules bobbed her head. Not a hint of shame. “Oh, I don’t mind. Married’s just a word, you know? Like ‘neighbor.’ Or ‘delicious.’” There was a pause, like she wanted to see how far Sandra’s jaw could drop before it actually came off the hinges.
Sandra glared. She could feel her pulse in her temples, hot and wild, like a trapped animal slamming against the bars of its cage. And still Jules just stood there, basking in the sun, breathing in the discomfort, letting it settle on her shoulders the way most people wore a shawl.
Jules hooked a thumb in the waistband of her pathetic pajama pants. “I mean, not to be forward, but there’s gotta be a little time for pleasure in life, right? Or do you just get off on yard work?”
Sandra bristled. “Some of us have standards.”
“Sure. Standards. Never said you didn’t.” Jules grinned wider, the tips of her canines flashing. She gave Sandra the kind of slow, up-and-down once-over that would have gotten a man excommunicated from three different denominations. “But you know, you’d look even better if you lost the gloves. Bet you got pretty hands under there.”
“Excuse me?” Sandra snapped, and immediately regretted it. Inviting the wolf into the sheepfold, she thought, and glanced down at her shears as if they could sever this whole exchange clean through.
Jules rocked back on her heels, unbothered. “Nothing wrong with being appreciated, Sandra. Even if the roses are the only ones who get to touch you.” She rolled the name in her mouth like a lozenge, savoring it. “Sandra. Good name. Strong. You know, my grandma was named Sandra. Or maybe it was the neighbor who used to yell at me for pissing behind her hydrangeas. All those ladies just blend together after a while.”
Sandra’s jaw worked. There was a taste at the back of her throat like old pennies. She refused to blink first. She would not.
Jules licked her lips. It was slow, deliberate, the way a cat might savor a bowl of milk just out of reach. “Well. If you change your mind about fun, you know where to find me. I’m usually up late.” She winked, the gesture so lascivious it might as well have come with a siren and a city citation.
Then she started to turn away, hips leading the charge, all indolence and promise and trouble bundled up in a saggy pair of pants.
The question burst out of Sandra before she could clamp it down.
“What was in those bags?”
Jules paused, eyebrow cocked, hand already on the gate. She swung back around, eyes hooded, and grabbed her crotch with a casual certainty that made Sandra’s ears burn.
“Honestly? Just get worked up sometimes. Happens to folks. Especially when there’s pretty neighbors prancing around, showing off their blue dresses in the hot sun.” She gave herself a little shake, just enough to make the bulge in her pants obvious, as if Sandra needed a neon sign or a written confession.
Sandra’s stomach lurched. The world tilted a degree off its axis. She could feel the sweat prickle under her collar and the air seemed twice as thick and twice as charged, like the opening moments of a thunderstorm.
Jules tipped her head back and barked out a laugh. It was deep, and bottomless, a sound that seemed to rattle every loose tile on Sandra’s roof and echo up the power lines. Jules let it roll, big and unashamed, like she was daring the whole block to join in or else shut their windows and cower behind the blinds. The laugh didn’t just come out of her, it broke loose, shoulders rocking hard enough to send her waistband sliding south another inch, exposing a thin, V-shaped cut of muscle and a line of hair pointing straight down.
Not a woman at all, Sandra thought, not even close, and nearly stabbed her own thigh with the shears trying to look anywhere else.
“Camping? Really? Now?”
Her husband hovered in the kitchen doorway, arms already full of duffel bags and plastic-wrapped bundles of cheap, chemical-smelling sleeping bags—the kind that promised “weatherproof” but couldn’t so much as repel a determined mosquito. He was grinning, sheepish, the way a man grins when he’s about to say something that ends with his wife refusing to speak to him for three hours.
“Apparently,” he said, “the kids decided. Or, well, Dana decided, and everybody else fell in line. You know how she gets.”
Sandra did. She also knew how easily her entire household was prone to acts of sudden, contagious lunacy, especially when it involved reckless experiments with nature. Last summer: the backyard slip ‘n slide, an ER visit, and three months of blue-stained grass. The year before: an indoor turtle habitat, which had not, in fact, remained ‘indoor’ for long.
She fought the urge to start cleaning something—not even a crumb on the counter, but her fingers itched for action, distraction, a reason to look away. Instead, she folded her arms, defensive. The shears were gone, but the posture remained, sharp as a hedge freshly razored.
“I’m not sleeping in a tent,” she said. “I’m not fighting off mosquitoes the size of small aircraft. And I’m not eating chili out of a can. I have standards.”
He pretended to pout, lips twisted in a parody of heartbreak. “Not even for a night? It’s just the weekend. Quick trip. They’ll come back covered in dirt and happiness, and you can claim all the credit for letting them go.”
Sandra gave him the look. The one that used to make the children flee, and now only made her spouse grin wider.
“I’ll pass,” she said. “Someone has to stay here and make sure the raccoons don’t break in and throw a rave in the pantry.” She hesitated, then added, “Besides, I could use the break. Maybe catch up on my shows. Fold some laundry the right way, for once.”
He was undeterred. Always was. “But can you handle it? Being away from us that long?”
He came closer, and for a split second she almost relented. Almost. Then the memory of dirt and toilets dug behind trees came roaring back, and she shuddered.
She kissed him, quick and fierce, just to remind him who was in charge, then pulled away and grinned. “I’ll try to be strong. I’ll even practice looking sad when you’re gone. Might cry into your pillow, if I remember which one is yours.”
He snorted. “The kids will miss you.”
“Lies,” she said. “They’ll have more fun. No one telling them to mind their manners or eat a single vegetable. I’d ruin it for them. Really, I’m doing everyone a favor.”
He laughed, kissed her again, and started shouting instructions at the children, who were already stampeding through the hallway like a herd of caffeinated ferrets.
They were gone by noon the next day. No husband, no kids, no yelling, no scolding. Just Sandra, alone in a house that, to her, was like a mighty queen’s castle. The flowers were her loyal subjects. The birds, her guardians. The butterflies, her envoys.
She circled the house, carrying her bucket of cleaning rags like a priestess circling a shrine, already rehearsing in her head the order of operations: dust the patio chairs, sweep the flagstones, give the grill a cursory once-over in case some reckless squirrel had attempted to nest inside. She moved with purpose, her sneakers making polite, rubbery kisses against the walk, her face set in an expression so serene it bordered on bliss. Alone in her garden, Sandra could almost pretend the world was as God intended, or at least as she willed it: clean, bloodless, and utterly orderly.
She was halfway to the patio when she heard it—a noise so out of place she nearly dropped the bucket. Not a bird, not the rustle of fresh mulch, but a deep, resonant sigh, as if someone had been holding their breath underwater and finally burst free. A sound so animal, so private, it felt like stepping into a confessional booth and finding the priest already mid-sin.
Sandra turned, reflexive, and caught a glimpse through the lattice of her privacy fence. The neighbor’s yard was a study in disorder: grass growing in wild, drunken swirls, a tangle of vines like the hair of an unruly child, and there, dead center, the large oak tree that stood like a disgraced patriarch, gnarled and sprawling.
Jules stood in front of it.
Correction: Jules loomed. She had her back to the house, shoulders squared, feet planted wide as if braced for hurricane winds. In one hand, bold as brass, she gripped her cock—a monstrous thing, thick and veiny, the color of raw dough and twice as obscene, jutting out from her body with a confidence that bordered on violence. She aimed it at the base of the tree with the casual expertise of a man painting a fence, and let loose.
The stream came out in a high, unapologetic arc, splashing down over a clump of wildflowers. They wilted instantly, hammered beneath the onslaught, petals folding like the flags of defeated armies. The sound of it was unmistakable: loud, almost luxurious, the hiss and splash of hot liquid on raw earth, punctuated by that low, guttural groan of pleasure.
Sandra’s breath locked in her throat. Her whole body went rigid, the way a rabbit hardens when a shadow passes overhead. She could feel every inch of her pulse, a staccato drumbeat climbing up her neck and into her jaw, her mouth dry and frozen open.
She should have looked away. She should have turned and finished her chores, or at the very least shielded her eyes, or prayed. But she could not. She watched, rooted to the patio stones, as Jules angled her hips and let fly another torrent, carving muddy channels through the flowerbed, painting the bark of the tree a slick and shining gold.
Jules’ head lolled back. Her eyes fluttered shut. She let out a groan that was half satisfaction, half challenge, as though daring the heavens to intervene. The hand holding her cock gave a little squeeze, working at the shaft, veins jumping beneath the skin. The arc of urine pulsed and shimmered in the raw sunlight—a golden parabola, impossible, audacious, as if the neighbor’s cock was a fire hose and the world’s only purpose was to be hosed down and made filthy.
Sandra could not look away. She had seen men piss before, sure, everyone had a husband or a son or a cousin who got careless at a backyard barbecue, but this was… it was not the same. Not even close. The cock Jules hefted in her hand was monstrous, proudly obscene, as thick as the handle on Sandra’s garden shears and twice as hungry-looking, the head purplish and swollen, glistening at the slit. It twitched as it spent itself, as if it had its own ideas about what ought to be conquered next.
It was vulgarity incarnate: a thing that should not exist, and yet here it was, swinging brazen in daylight, attached to a woman who didn’t care who was watching—or maybe cared too much, and wanted everyone to see. Sandra’s gaze, traitorous, snagged on the details: the knot of Jules’ fist around the shaft, knuckles pale with the effort, the patch of bristly hair at the base, the way her pajama pants slung so low on her hips it was a wonder they stayed up at all. She tried to remind herself that Jules was, technically, a woman. Two breasts, unmistakable under her T-shirt, flattened against muscle and attitude. But nothing about that cock said “woman.” Nothing about the way Jules jacked it, fast and greedy, said “normal,” either.
Sandra’s cheeks burned. Her whole body prickled with a kind of horror, so sharp it doubled back on itself and landed somewhere close to fascination. She felt the blush creep past her collar, staining the skin behind her ears, right up to her scalp. It was like being trapped in a confession gone wrong: she wanted to look away, slap her own hand, run and fetch the pastor—or the police, or at the very least the Homeowner’s Association—but instead she just stood there, helpless, heart pounding like a woodpecker trapped inside her chest.
What did a person even do with a thing like that? Sandra couldn’t begin to imagine. She didn’t want to. The mind lurched anyway, conjuring up ugly, lurid possibilities. She pictured that hideous cock, bigger and meaner than any man’s, slapping down on helpless flesh, pinning a poor woman to the sheets, or the dirty mattress, or the kitchen table, or Lord knew what else. She pictured Jules grinning, wolf-like, pounding away, the entire house shaking with every thrust. Disgusting. Simply disgusting. And yet it made her breath come fast, shallow, as if her own body was trying to betray her.
For a second, Sandra tried to conjure up her husband’s penis for comparison. She failed. The memory was pale and apologetic. Nothing like the monster Jules wielded, as if she’d stolen it from a gladiator and refused to give it back. It was a terror, that was the word for it. A terror and a threat. And why in God’s name did it have to live next door?
The urine blast slowly died down at last. Thank God, Sandra thought, licking her lips without meaning to. Just how much fluid was in those balls, anyway? She cursed herself for even thinking such a sentence, feeling obscene for letting it cross her mind at all.
Jules zipped up, crude and casual, like she was holstering a sidearm after a job well done. She even took a moment to admire her handiwork, one hand on her cock as she looked down at the wilted patch of earth she’d just abused. There was a smile on her face: fierce, reckless, alive. She didn’t care who was watching.
She probably wanted Sandra to watch.
That was the horror of it—the certainty that all this, every gross, lewd, perverted display, was performed for a captive audience of one.
The thought made Sandra’s scalp prickle. It made her knees want to buckle. She gripped the fence, knuckles white, and prayed silently that her husband and children would never, ever glimpse such indecency.
But the image remained.
God in heaven. No, not God—not in this house, not with that neighbor, not with that cock swinging out from her hips like a battering ram. Sandra’s stomach turned. She tried to picture a normal garden, a normal afternoon, the taste of lemonade or the gentle whir of the ceiling fan. Instead, all she could feel was the wild, seething heat between her thighs, slick and mortifying, as if just seeing the act had polluted her, marked her forever.
Every time she blinked, the neighbor’s cock hovered in her mind, massive and indecent, a threat and a promise. She caught herself imagining—not wanting to, Lord knew, but doing it anyway—the way it would feel, heavy and hot, if she touched it. If she wrapped her own hand around the shaft, thumb grazing the veins. Or worse, if it rubbed up against her, shoving the air from her lungs, pinning her down like an accusation.
She made a sound, half-whimper, half-snarl, and snatched a towel to dry her sweating hands. She worked the cloth so fiercely it nearly tore.
“Not normal,” she grumbled, nearly biting through her tongue. “That… woman. That… thing… is not normal!”
The house was quiet that night.
It made sense, of course, given that her husband and kids were probably making the most of their camping trip at this very moment. The last text she’d gotten from hubby dearest was only a couple hours prior; something about how spotty the reception could get “out here” and to try to relax for a change.
But how could Sandra relax when she couldn’t stop thinking about her neighbor’s… endowment?
She tried, oh how she tried, to focus on her book. The one with the brittle spine and the embossed gold cover, something recommended by the ladies at church. Virtuous, historical, the sort of thing you left out on your nightstand so the cleaning lady wouldn’t judge. Sandra perched at her tidy little desk, glasses perched at the tip of her nose, lips pursed in what she hoped was an expression of intellectual engagement. But the words kept sliding off the page, refusing to stick.
Her hand hovered over the text, index finger tracking the line like a conductor trying to keep a drunken orchestra in order. And for a while, that worked. Until she turned the page and the story, as if sensing her weakness, betrayed her.
It started so innocently. A governess, a gentleman caller, rain on the windows. And then… the scene shifted. Suddenly the gentleman’s hand was not on the Bible but on the governess’s thigh, and the governess, the wretch, was blushing and gasping and letting herself be tipped backward onto a chaise lounge. The words grew fevered, sentences running together, the paragraph lengthening, bulging with adjectives that made Sandra’s ears burn.
She snapped the book shut. Opened it again. Pretended not to see the phrase “his length, rigid and warm, pressed insistently against her skirts,” and tried to breathe through her nose. Not normal. Not necessary. She considered writing a letter to the publisher, or maybe the pastor, but her hands were trembling too hard.
Outside, the summer night cradled the house in a thick, electric dark, the sort of atmosphere that made the skin crawl and the mind wander. From her upstairs window, Sandra could see the neighbor’s house—the crooked gutter, the smear of light behind mismatched curtains. She’d often scolded herself for even looking in that direction, but tonight she was weak, her defenses eaten through by the day’s horrors.
She glanced up, meaning only to judge the state of the neighbor’s drapes. Instead, she caught a flicker—a stuttering, strobe-lit silhouette in the window across from hers. The bedroom, unmistakable. And there, framed in the harsh glow of a bare bulb, two bodies.
At first, disbelief. Then, recognition. Jules, unmistakable even in shadow: the broad back, the chunky thighs, the swagger that telegraphed through glass and darkness. She had a woman in her grip. Not just any woman—a neighbor. Sandra knew that hair, that sensible blouse now rumpled and half-slipped, the breasts mashed so cruelly against the pane that they flattened into pale moons. Mrs. Proctor, who’d once shared a tin of lemon bars with Sandra at a quilting bee. Now she was sharing something else entirely.
Jules rutted up against her, relentless, the beast unleashed. There was nothing polite or romantic about it. No, it was a frenzy of motion, hips slamming, arms braced wide as though she meant to drive Mrs. Proctor through the wall and out into the night. You could see the woman’s mouth, open and oval, pressed to the glass, fogging up the window. Every thrust jolted her entire frame and sent a shiver all the way up Sandra’s spine. She gripped the sill, unable to blink. The sounds didn’t make it through both houses, but the shapes did, and that was worse: Mrs. Proctor’s face mashed to the glass, eyes squeezed shut, mouth frozen in a silent scream of pleasure or panic—you’d need a microscope to tell the difference.
Jules never slowed. She’d braced one hand high on the wall, the other clamped under Mrs. Proctor’s jaw, dragging the woman’s head back so she had no choice but to take it, take everything that cock could dish out. Sandra couldn’t see the thing itself, but she could imagine it too well: rutting, pistoning, battering at its target with the momentum of a sledgehammer. Each slam bent Mrs. Proctor’s body forward, her hands clawing for purchase against the window, fingernails raking the glass in desperation.
Sandra’s breath caught. This wasn’t a tryst, or even a sin; it was a demolition. Mrs. Proctor’s breasts squashed flat, her skirt bunched high, her hips driven up and away from the wall with every assault. She’d gone loose, helpless, like a rag doll or an inflatable thing left too long in the sun.
Sandra counted the thrusts. She tried not to, but her mind ticked each one like a metronome: one, two, five, ten, each harder than the last. She could not reconcile the image—the upright, lemon-bar-baking, hymn-singing Mrs. Proctor, bent double, reduced to a vessel for that neighbor’s monstrous lust. She could not stop watching, either. Some part of her needed to see how far it would go. What kind of world allowed this?
The answer came with the aftershocks. Sandra saw Mrs. Proctor’s body seize, rigid, then thrash hard enough to rattle the sash. There was no mistaking that look: the hollowed cheeks, the eyes rolled back, the jaw slack with pleasure, not pain. She was cumming so hard she might break apart. Jules just pinned her and kept going, relentless, like she could wring out another climax, and another. She probably could.
How could Mrs. Proctor want that? How could she want it from… that brute? The rainbow flag on the neighbor’s mailbox. The garbage bags full of spent, sodden latex. That terrifying cock. It was all true, everything they’d whispered at the last Block Watch meeting, only worse. That Jules was a predator, a monster, a beast. But Mrs. Proctor was no victim. She was meeting every thrust, clawing for more.
Mrs. Proctor was married, God in heaven, as married as Sandra herself. Yet here she was, braced and begging, letting her neighbor hammer her into the wall like a trophy plaque.
How could she? How could any woman let herself be folded and used by a thing like that? Jules manhandled Mrs. Proctor with a confidence no husband on this street had ever shown. No apologies, no hesitation, just the animal certainty of someone who knew exactly what they wanted and how to take it.
Sandra’s thighs pressed tight together. She didn’t notice until her muscles started to ache, until the sweat prickled behind her knees. Her mind reeled, conjuring up the distant memory of her own marital bed: the apologetic grunts, the sheet barely disturbed, her husband’s weight settling in for all of three unspectacular minutes before he sighed and rolled away. She’d never been bent over, never been filled like that, never had anyone take her so roughly she lost her sense of self.
She knew the truth, even as she refused it: Jules was more man than her husband would ever be.
Not just in the cock, but in the attitude, the appetite, the way she seemed to get off on the raw spectacle of it all. The audacity. The certainty. Sandra’s husband was a family man, a good provider, a man who built birdhouses for fun and let the children climb on his back until they all collapsed in a giggling pile. He could barbecue and recite the Lord’s Prayer and parallel park the minivan on the first try. That was his domain. He was a husband, a father, a fixture in the neighborhood the way a mailbox is a fixture on the curb. Reliable.
But Jules? Jules was a force. She wasn’t made to nurture, not really. Sandra could not picture her folding laundry, or mopping up spilled milk, or bandaging a scraped knee. At best, she could imagine Jules breeding new families into the women up and down the street. Just strolling in, jeans sagging, that monster cock swinging, and pinning some poor housewife to the nearest surface until she screamed the name of God or the devil, whichever one answered first. Sandra’s breath came short, her hands drifting lower, fingers pressed against the hem of her nightgown, as if she could seal the filthy thoughts back inside her.
She bit her lip, hard. The image only sharpened. The neighborhood, population swelling, every mother on the block suddenly flushed and stumbling, dragging themselves to the grocery store with sore hips and glassy eyes. Jules would have her way, and no one would stop her. She would breed the whole street, if she wanted, and Sandra’s hips would be next, wouldn’t they? Not just next, but inevitable, like a flood rolling downhill and collecting the weak and the unlucky in its wake. The thought slammed into her, so fast and so ugly she nearly gasped aloud: what would it feel like, to have that monster thing inside her? Not her husband’s sheepish, lukewarm attempts, but Jules, full-force, no hesitation, no mercy.
She tried to laugh it off. She tried. But the image clung to her mind with the persistence of mildew, spreading, blooming in the dark corners she never dusted. She pictured herself bent double over the kitchen table, wrist pinned behind her back, Jules behind her with that thick slab of cock riding up between her thighs, splitting her open, never mind the mess or the noise or the fact that the curtains were always drawn. There’d be no polite negotiation, no pauses for breath or comfort or prayer. There would only be the slam of hips, the slap of flesh, the sick, greedy sound of something obscene being forced deeper and deeper until Sandra was nothing but sound and sweat and surrender.
She could feel it, if she let herself. The weight of Jules' hands on her hips, spreading her wider, demanding more. The rough scrape of callused fingers, the pressure of Jules' chest against her back, hot and inexorable. The cock itself was the centerpiece, the star of the show: thick as a nightstick, veined and brutal, the kind of thing you saw in nightmares or warnings, never in real life. It would batter its way inside, taking up space she didn’t even know she had. The stretch would hurt. Of course it would hurt. Jules wouldn’t care. Probably liked it that way.
That was the root of it, the horror and the heat snarled together: Jules would use her. Not ask, not coax, not beg permission with mumbled apologies. Use. Like Sandra was just another hole to fill, a challenge to meet and conquer. She’d be bent over the fence, or the arm of the couch, or shoved up against the bathroom mirror, legs trembling and face streaked with tears and sweat, and Jules would just keep going. Hammering. Splitting her, owning her, marking her so thoroughly she’d never wash the smell off her skin.
The images tumbled, one after another, obscene and vivid as graffiti carved into a confessional. Sandra on her knees, dress bunched and mouth open, choking on the heft and the taste. Jules with her fist in Sandra’s hair, feeding her inch after inch, eyes hard and hungry. Or sprawled on her own sheets, wrists pinned above her head, Jules looming overhead, grinning, the cock slapping down heavy across Sandra’s stomach before plunging in, deeper than any husband ever had the nerve or the anatomy to manage.
She tried to be disgusted. She wanted to be. But her thighs squeezed together, slick and burning, and her hand drifted lower, shameful and unstoppable. The words in her head stuttered, broke apart, collapsed into raw sensation: thick cock, harder, more, want, need, now. Positions she’d never tried, orders she’d never obeyed, needs she didn’t even know she had. Not until that neighbor had moved in. Not until the shadows in the window made Sandra see, with brutal clarity, everything she’d never once dared say out loud.
She dared to imagine Jules bending her over the hood of the family car, or pinning her to the cool flagstones out in the tidy garden, where the mulch would stain her knees and anyone walking by could see, if they cared to look. Maybe that was part of the thrill: the risk, the shame, the certainty that she was being made an example of, that someone strong and depraved was using her body for nothing but pleasure and mess.
Other scenes tumbled into her mind, each one hotter and filthier than the last. Jules straddling her in the hallway, pajama pants hanging off one hip, cock slapping down onto Sandra’s belly, smearing sweat and pre-cum in a streak that refused to wash away. Or manhandling her onto the couch, flipping her onto her back, spreading her wide until every secret was on display. Maybe tie her wrists together with a gardening glove, just for the symbolism, and fuck her until she couldn’t remember her own name. Jules wouldn’t stop until she’d bred Sandra, until her belly was full and her thighs were shaking and the whole house stank of sex and defeat.
Her husband would never do these things. Would never ask; not even in a whisper.
Sandra jerked her hand away from her crotch like it had been caught in a mousetrap. Christ alive, what was she even doing? The answer oozed slick and shameful between her thighs, unmistakable, wet as the gutter runoff after a hurricane. She’d been sitting there, fingers pressed so hard against her own flesh she’d left angry welts through the fabric, and for what? For the memory of her monster neighbor’s cock, rutting and conquering and taking and—
She nearly hissed, half in fury, half in need. Her body was a riot now, nerves lit up end to end, every inch of her skin aching for something that would never, ever be allowed under her roof.
Sandra slammed the book shut, barely missing her own fingertips, and bolted upright. The chair screeched a protest across the hardwood floor. For a second she clutched the edge of the desk, knuckles white as the lilies she arranged every Easter for the altar, and took a breath so deep her lungs rattled in warning.
She was not going to do this. She was not going to let herself be conquered by filth, like a teenager with a contraband magazine and no shame. She was a wife. A Christian. A pillar of the block, for God’s sake.
And yet, her body was already moving. Down the stairs, hard enough that the banister trembled in her wake. Her breath came in short, angry bursts. She needed something, something hard and thick and unrelenting. She needed to get this out of her system so she could sleep, so she could face the morning without collapsing into a puddle of embarrassment and slick need.
The kitchen was dark, lit only by the blue stutter of the refrigerator’s digital clock. Sandra yanked open the fridge with a violence that nearly took the door off its hinges. She scoured the shelves: carrots, limp and apologetic; a zucchini, too soft and bruised; but there, in the crisper, a cucumber. Not just any cucumber. This was the kind the church ladies would have gossiped over in the produce aisle. It was thick, gnarled, the color of envy, and so heavy it dragged the plastic bag down like an anchor.
Sandra stared at it, dizzy with want and disgust. She was going to use this thing. She was going to fuck herself with it, right here in her own kitchen, and no one would ever know.
She peeled off her panties, half tearing the elastic, and hiked her nightgown above her hips. She braced herself against the counter, legs splayed wide, the tile cold against her ankles. The cucumber pressed against her slit, and the first touch made her gasp, low and desperate, the sound of someone losing a fight with themselves.
The thing was massive. She had to slick it with spit before it would even slide in, but once it did, she swore the breath left her body in a single, pleading rush. It filled her up, stretched her in a way her husband never had, thick and merciless, scraping the walls of her cunt like a rough hand through wet gravel. She pumped it in, slow at first, then faster, each stroke a new boundary crossed.
The kitchen was dark except for the sickly green light of the microwave and the pale fluorescence from the fridge. Sandra braced one hand on the countertop, the other wrapped around the slick, sweating cucumber. Her nightgown hiked past her waist; she didn’t care if she ripped it. Each time she shoved the vegetable into herself the air caught in her throat, the sound half-grunt, half-moan, raw and unpracticed. It wasn’t elegant, it wasn’t decent, but the slap and squelch of it echoed in the empty kitchen like a secret she’d never confess to another living soul.
She could feel herself dripping, thighs going slick, shame blooming in hot pulses up her belly and into her chest. Every thrust made her clench harder. The cucumber was too big, too rough, and still not enough. Her breath hitched as she found a rhythm. She spat a curse at the silent walls.
“Goddamn her,” Sandra muttered, jaw clenched, voice strangled with effort. “Bitch… fucking disgusting. Just has to strut around, flashing that… that thing…” Another thrust, harder. She gasped and kept going. “Not normal. Not even close. Some kind of sick joke. Sin on two legs.”
The cucumber bottomed out, and the jolt almost made her knees buckle. She gripped the counter until her knuckles showed white, sweat beading on her brow. “Pervert,” she hissed, and the word tasted like vinegar. “Freak. Walking disgrace.” Her hips rolled, desperate for friction. She thought of Jules’ hands, rough and veined, palming her cock like a trophy at a county fair. Sandra squeezed her eyes shut and saw the neighbor’s silhouette, the flex of muscle, the cock thick and glistening, slapping against the helpless ass of Mrs. Proctor.
Sandra’s voice rose, a low, frantic chant. “You think you can just do that? Walk around with your cock out, shoving it into whoever you want… you think you’re a man? You think you’re above God?” The cucumber pumped faster, her grip turning feverish, obscene. “Not in this house. Not ever. You’re nothing but a whore. A dyke. Bastard. All you do is fuck and destroy. Make decent women into sluts.”
She found herself panting, words tumbling from her lips in a stuttering, animal rhythm. “You ruin everything. Don’t even care who sees you. You’d fuck me too, wouldn’t you? Shove that monster cock up inside me, split me in half. Probably laugh while you did it…”
She could feel her orgasm coming, a pressure-cooker heat rising from the base of her spine, up and up until her ears rang. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. The cucumber slammed into her, wet and furious, and she pictured Jules pinning her arms behind her, shoving her face-first into the countertop, that cock plunging deep and merciless.
Sandra’s mouth opened. The words came out harsh and grotesque, louder now. “Fuck you, you filthy dyke. Fuck you and your freak cock, your big swinging cock, you swinging freak, you–” Sandra’s voice cut off in a gasp, knuckles whitening on the countertop, cucumber ramming home with a brutal, graceless punch. Her knees nearly buckled. She braced herself, hips up and out, thighs trembling like a sinner at the altar. If anyone could see her now… if that bitch next door could see her now, bent double in her own kitchen, rutting on a half-washed vegetable like a sow in heat.
“Ugly bitch,” Sandra snarled. The guttural noise was barely even human, more a sob than a curse. “You think you’re better than us? Walking around with your cock out, like you’re God’s own gift? All muscle and filth, stinking up the neighborhood. Some dyke with a monster between her legs. You’re disgusting. You ruin everything you touch–”
The cucumber bottomed out again, and the white-hot rush of sensation nearly made her scream. Her cunt clenched, greedy and furious, milking the ridged length. She was drenched, slick running down her thighs, pooling on the linoleum. She could smell herself, could practically taste her own shame in the humid dark. But the fantasy only got louder, more obscene, the neighbor’s cock growing in proportion to Sandra’s hate. She saw it–huge, battering, slapping against her ass until the skin broke out in bruises, the veins bulging, the head angry and dark and wet. She saw Jules' hands, strong and ugly, pinning her, holding her still so she couldn’t squirm away.
“You’d do it, wouldn’t you,” Sandra spat. “You’d fuck me. You’d fuck me like a dog, just to prove you could. Bend me over the fence, over the goddamned mailbox, show the whole street what kind of pervert you are…” The words tripped over themselves, slurring together, morphing into a chant as she shoved the cucumber in, harder, harder, trying to fill the emptiness that burned behind her navel.
“You show off, you animal, you–you’d split me in half, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t even ask. Just shove that thing in, rut until I break, until I’m screaming your name, you sick dyke, you–you animal, fuck–!”
Her body betrayed her. The orgasm hit like a landslide, sudden, savage, blinding. Sandra bit the pad of her own palm, stifling a shriek, legs locked, ass jerking back helplessly onto the cucumber. Her cunt clamped down, pulsing around the makeshift cock, drawing it deeper, greedy and humiliated and lost. The world went white, then red, then nothing at all.
She sagged over the counter, gasping, drooling a little. Her pussy squelched around the vegetable as she tried to pull it out, every nerve ending screaming. She was still cursing, breathless, the insults coming out in a ragged string of filth:
“Bastard… whore… fucking dyke… think you can just–just come into my house, put your cock wherever you… f-fucking… fucking… fuck—!”
Another tremor ran through her trembling frame, and the slick, juicy cucumber pushed out of her sopping wet pussy before landing on the kitchen floor with a dreadful SPLAT!
Tomorrow. Sandra would confront that thing tomorrow. She had to give this beast a piece of her mind. She had to, for the good of all the neighborhood women. She would make sure that Jules wouldn’t corrupt any more of them. She would be like a martyr in their eyes, she thought giddily. The very picture of icon of diligence.
She could hardly wait.
⬇️ * * * ⬇️