Civic Suckhole: Part Two

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Neighborly Duties

Phil was already on the porch, his hand kneading the bulge in his jeans like he was trying to coax a genie out of a bottle, his face red and glistening with sweat even though the air was cool enough to make your nipples hard. He didn’t waste time with any of the usual neighborly bullshit when John opened the door. Phil’s eyes were glassy, his breath coming in short, horny little huffs, and John couldn’t help but notice the way his neighbor’s cock was practically trying to punch a hole through the faded denim.

“Phil,” John says hesitantly, though he already knows why the man is here. “What can I do for you?”

Phil’s laugh is short and humorless. “It’s not what you can do. It’s more what your wife’s mouth can do for me. I need a good relief hole.”

Phil’s words smacked John in the face, raw and filthy, like someone had just pissed on the welcome mat. Phil rocked back and forth on his heels, his hand still glued to his crotch, squeezing himself like he was checking for a pulse. John’s brain, traitorous as ever, conjured up the image of Phil’s wife—Margaret, the human saltine, with her pinched little mouth and those sex-repellent floral dresses that looked like they’d been designed to kill erections. He’d seen her at barbecues, shrinking away from Phil’s meaty paw, inventing new reasons to avoid being touched, like she was allergic to her own husband.

It wasn’t hard to figure out why Phil had come running over, desperate for a mouth that didn’t belong to Margaret the Nun. Anna’s mouth was the neighborhood’s new favorite toy, and Phil wanted his turn. Knowing all this didn’t make it any easier for John to step aside and wave Phil in, like he was just another guest coming over for coffee instead of a blowjob.

“Bedroom’s down the hall,” John hears himself say, his voice flat.

Phil didn’t bother waiting for instructions. He barreled past John, already yanking at his belt like he was racing the clock, his jeans halfway to his knees before he even hit the hallway. John trailed after him, his feet dragging on the hardwood, every cell in his body screaming to slam Phil’s head through the drywall, to do something, anything, except just stand there and let his wife’s mouth become public property. But the law was the law, and John’s hands just hung there, useless, as he followed his neighbor down the hall like a dog on a leash.

Anna was still on her knees, right where Bill had left her, like a forgotten sex doll waiting for the next customer. She hadn’t even bothered to wipe her face—Bill’s cum was drying in sticky, glistening streaks across her lips and chin, a crusty badge of shame. Her blouse was half-off, one shoulder bare, her hair a rat’s nest. But when she looked up at John, her eyes weren’t full of tears. They were wide, pupils blown, her breath coming in these quick, hungry little pants. Even with her face painted in another man’s spunk, John could see it—his wife was turned on, humiliated and horny, her body betraying her in the most obvious way.

Phil barely glances at John before waving him away dismissively. “Out,” Phil grunts, already shoving his jeans and boxers down his thighs. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, jutting upward with desperate need. “I don’t need an audience for this.”

John tried to say something—anything, really, because this was his bedroom, his wife, his fucking life—but nothing came out except a pathetic little croak. He backed out, pulling the door halfway shut, not even bothering to close it all the way. He couldn’t make himself leave, couldn’t force his legs to carry him down the hall like a man with dignity. Instead, he just stood there, pressed against the wall, heart jackhammering in his chest, listening like a pervert to the sounds of his wife getting used.

“Look at you,” Phil’s voice carries through the gap in the door, thick with lust and contempt. “Already got one load on your face and you’re still on your knees like a good little relief hole.”

John hears the sound of Phil’s hand gripping Anna’s hair roughly, hears her small gasp of surprise or pain. Then comes the wet sound of Phil’s cock pushing into Anna’s mouth, and Phil’s groan of satisfaction.

“Fuck yes,” Phil mutters. “Margaret won’t even let me touch her tits anymore. But you—you’re gonna take this cock all the way down your married throat.”

John’s hands balled into fists, useless at his sides. His cock, the little bastard, was hard as a rock, straining against his jeans like it wanted to join the party. He hated himself for it—hated that the sound of another man using his wife’s mouth was making him so fucking hard he could barely breathe. Through the crack in the door, every disgusting, wet slurp, every grunt, every little choking noise Anna made as Phil rammed his cock down her throat, came through loud and clear, like a soundtrack to his humiliation.

“That’s it,” Phil encourages, his voice strained with pleasure. “Get that tongue working. Show me what a good cocksucker you are.”

John’s hand drifted down, almost on autopilot, pressing against the throbbing bulge in his jeans. The shame was a hot, sick thing in his chest, tangled up with jealousy and something even uglier. He shouldn’t be hard. He should be storming in there, dragging Phil out by the balls, doing something heroic. But instead, he just stood there, palming his cock like a horny teenager, letting the law turn him into a spectator in his own marriage.

But he didn’t. He just stood there, outside his own bedroom, rubbing his hard-on through his jeans while his neighbor used his wife’s mouth like a public urinal.

Inside, Anna’s body was just as much a traitor as John’s. She could taste Phil’s precum swirling together with the leftover spunk Bill had left behind, her jaw aching from being stretched around thick cock for the second time in under an hour. But her cunt didn’t care about any of that—she was soaked, her clit throbbing, heat pooling between her legs like she was auditioning for the world’s most humiliating porn. Every time Phil’s cock slammed into the back of her throat, making her gag, it sent a filthy jolt of pleasure straight to her core.

Her hands clung to Phil’s hairy thighs, not to push him away, but just to keep herself steady as he pounded her mouth like he was trying to break a record. His fist in her hair hurt, yanking her head just the way he wanted, making sure she took every inch whether she liked it or not. Tears ran down her cheeks, mixing with the crusted cum already smeared there, and drool poured off her chin as Phil fucked her face like she was nothing but a hole for his use.

“Margaret never sucks my dick,” Phil grunts above her, his hips pumping faster. “Says it’s degrading. But you—fuck—you were made for this, weren’t you? Made to be a cum dump for men who need relief.”

Anna whimpered around his cock, the noise muffled and pathetic. Her thighs squeezed together, desperate for any kind of friction to soothe the ache in her cunt. She knew she shouldn’t be turned on—she should be disgusted, fighting back, anything but this. But her body didn’t care about shoulds. The mix of Phil’s rough use and the knowledge that John was right outside, listening to every filthy sound, sent a wave of shame-soaked arousal crashing through her.

Outside, John had his hand shoved down his jeans, gripping his cock and stroking himself in time with the disgusting, wet soundtrack coming from the bedroom. His other hand was flat against the wall, holding himself up so he didn’t collapse from the mix of shame and arousal as he listened to Phil grunt and fuck his wife’s mouth harder and harder.

“Gonna cum,” Phil announces, his voice tight. “Gonna feed you, slut. Swallow it all down.”

The wet sounds intensify, Phil’s grunting becoming desperate, and then John hears his neighbor’s long groan of release. There’s a moment of relative quiet—just Phil’s heavy breathing and small sounds from Anna as she presumably swallows—and then Phil speaks again.

“Good relief hole,” Phil says casually, as though he’s praising a well-trained dog. “Might have to stop by daily if Margaret keeps refusing me.”

John hears Phil’s zipper, the rustle of clothing being adjusted. He yanks his hand out of his jeans and steps away from the wall quickly, trying to compose himself before Phil emerges. When the bedroom door opens fully, Phil walks out with the satisfied expression of a man whose needs have been met.

“Appreciate it,” Phil says, nodding to John as he passes. He doesn’t seem to notice or care about John’s flushed face, his obvious arousal. “The law’s the law, right? Nothing personal.”

John can’t respond. He watches Phil walk down the hallway toward the front door, and only when he hears it close does he turn back to the bedroom.

Anna was wiping her face with the back of her hand, just smearing the mess of cum and tears around instead of cleaning anything. She was still on her knees, shaking, and when she looked up at John, her eyes were a cocktail of humiliation, arousal, shame, and something else he couldn’t name—something that made his cock twitch and his stomach turn at the same time.

They just stared at each other, the air thick with everything they weren’t saying. John couldn’t miss the flush spreading down Anna’s chest, her nipples poking through the wrinkled blouse like little accusations. Anna’s eyes dropped to the bulge in John’s jeans, the guilt and hunger written all over his face.

“We should get out of here,” John finally says, his voice rough. “Go to the mall. Get some air.”

Anna nodded, dragging herself up on legs that barely worked. They didn’t talk about what had just happened. They didn’t mention the raw, electric arousal still buzzing between them. They just moved through this new, fucked-up reality, pretending they could handle it one minute at a time.

***

The mall parking lot was packed, cars circling like vultures fighting over a corpse. The second they stepped through the doors, John felt it—the air was thick, predatory, buzzing with the kind of tension that made your skin crawl. Men prowled the walkways, eyes glued to every woman like they were picking out meat at the butcher’s.

Before they left, John had stared at Anna’s outfit—the skirt that barely covered her ass, the top cut so low it was practically an invitation—and told her, "You can’t wear that. It’s too fucking sexy."

She didn’t listen. She just looked him dead in the eye, something defiant and almost hungry in her stare, and strutted past him to the car like she wanted the whole world to see what was his.

Now, weaving through the crowd, John saw exactly what her outfit was doing. Every man in the place had his eyes glued to Anna, tracking the sway of her hips, the bounce of her tits, the bare skin of her thighs. John wrapped his arm around her waist, yanking her close like he could shield her, but it didn’t matter. The stares just got hungrier.

A pack of teenage boys gawked openly, elbowing each other and grinning like they’d just won the lottery. Some old guy in a suit actually grabbed his crotch as Anna walked by, not even pretending to be subtle. John’s grip on her tightened, his jaw grinding, but what was the point? Every man here could use her mouth if he wanted. John’s urge to protect her was about as useful as a condom at a gangbang.

Anna’s breath was coming faster, her body tense against his side, pressing in like she wanted to hide. But John could feel the heat rolling off her, saw the flush spreading down her chest. She was scared, sure, but she was turned on too—her body soaking up the attention even as her brain tried to run from it.

They make it perhaps fifty feet into the mall before it happens.

A young man—college-aged, muscular, wearing a university hoodie—steps directly into their path. His eyes lock onto Anna with predatory focus, and before John can react, the man’s hand shoots out and grabs Anna’s arm.

“You,” Ryan says, his voice rough with need. The bulge in his jeans is already obvious, his free hand dropping to adjust it. “I need relief. Now.”

“Wait—” John starts, reaching for Anna’s other arm, but Ryan is already pulling her away, his grip firm and unyielding.

“It’s the law, man,” Ryan says without looking at John. “Back off.”

John tried to follow, shoving at the wall of bodies that sprang up between him and Anna, but it was useless. He could only watch as Ryan dragged her off toward a clothing store, steering her through racks of cheap dresses toward the dressing rooms. Anna glanced back at him, eyes wide, but she didn’t fight. She just let herself be led, her body already going limp and obedient.

By the time John fights his way through the crowd to the dressing room area, Ryan has already pulled Anna inside one of the small cubicles and locked the door. John’s fists pound against the flimsy door once, twice, but Ryan’s voice comes through muffled and annoyed.

“Fuck off, dude. I’ll be done when I’m done.”

John’s hands fell to his sides, useless. The other shoppers just pretended nothing was happening, eyes glued to their phones or the floor. The sales clerk didn’t even bother to look up. This was normal now. Legal. John couldn’t do a damn thing.

He pressed his ear to the door, hating himself for being such a pathetic voyeur, but unable to stop.

Inside, Anna’s voice comes out shaky and protesting. “Please, I don’t—you don’t have to—”

“Shut up and open your mouth,” Ryan cuts her off. There’s the sound of a zipper, the rustle of clothing. “The President says you do have to. So stop wasting my time.”

John hears Anna’s small intake of breath, and then the unmistakable sound of Ryan’s cock pushing into her mouth. Ryan groans immediately, long and satisfied.

“Fuck yes,” Ryan mutters. “That’s a good relief hole. Get that tongue working.”

The sounds that follow are obscene and explicit. Wet slurping as Anna’s mouth works Ryan’s cock. The rhythmic thump of Ryan’s hips hitting the wall as he thrusts. Anna’s small gagging sounds when he pushes too deep, cutting off her air.

John stood there, frozen, back against the wall, his cock getting harder even as rage burned in his gut. People walked by, some giving him these little smirks, others pretending he didn’t exist. Everyone could hear what was happening in that dressing room. Everyone knew his wife was on her knees, choking on another man’s cock.

“Suck it, relief hole,” Ryan grunts, his voice carrying clearly through the thin walls. “Put that dick all the way in your throat. That’s what you’re for now.”

Anna’s muffled protests turned into wet, choking noises as Ryan shoved himself deeper. John’s fists clenched, his jaw aching. He should walk away, give Anna some shred of privacy, but he couldn’t. He just stood there, ear glued to the door, cock throbbing like he was the one getting sucked off.

Inside the cramped dressing room, Anna’s knees ache against the hard floor. Her jaw is stretched painfully wide around Ryan’s thick cock, and tears stream down her face as he fucks her mouth with brutal efficiency. His hand is fisted in her hair, controlling her completely, using her head to masturbate himself.

But her cunt was soaked, slick and needy. The thought of John listening outside, being used in public, Ryan’s filthy words and rough hands—it all sent a flood of unwanted arousal through her. Every time Ryan’s cock slammed into her throat, making her gag, her clit throbbed with shameful pleasure.

“Look up at me,” Ryan commands, and Anna’s tear-filled eyes lift to meet his. He grins down at her, his face flushed with exertion and arousal. “Yeah, that’s right. You’re just a hole for men to fuck now. A relief hole. Say it.”

Anna can’t speak around his cock, can only make muffled sounds as Ryan continues thrusting. Drool runs down her chin, her makeup is smeared, and her blouse has come partially unbuttoned during the struggle, exposing the lace of her bra.

“Gonna cum,” Ryan announces, his grip in her hair tightening painfully. “Gonna feed you, slut. Swallow every fucking drop.”

His thrusts become erratic, his breathing ragged, and then he shoves himself deep into Anna’s throat and holds there. Anna gags violently, her throat convulsing around him, and Ryan groans loudly as his cock pulses, pumping cum directly down her throat. He holds her there for several long seconds, ensuring she swallows it all, before finally pulling out.

Anna gasps for air, coughing and sputtering, as Ryan tucks himself back into his jeans with casual efficiency.

“Good relief hole,” Ryan says, zipping up. He unlocks the door and steps out, not even glancing at John as he brushes past and disappears into the mall crowd.

John stared at the open door. Anna stumbled out a moment later, lips swollen and shiny, makeup smeared all over her face. Her hair was a disaster, red marks blooming on her neck where Ryan had grabbed her. She tugged her skirt down with shaking hands, trying and failing to look like anything but a freshly used slut.

Their eyes met, and John saw it all—shame, arousal, guilt, hunger—mirrored right back at him. Anna’s hand found his, trembling, and he squeezed it like he could squeeze away what had just happened. They didn’t say a word as they hurried for the exit, desperate to get away from the hungry eyes and the stink of sex in the air.

The drive home was dead silent, both of them drowning in their own fucked-up thoughts. But when they pulled into the driveway, John’s stomach did a nosedive. Pastor Ted was sitting on the porch, hands folded in his lap, looking like the world’s most patient pervert. The old man smiled, straightening his collar, ready for his turn.

John’s grip on the wheel tightened until his knuckles went white. Anna made a tiny, broken noise beside him. They both knew exactly why Pastor Ted was here. The law didn’t care about God, or decency, or anything else.

"Fuck," John muttered, barely loud enough for Anna to hear, but he killed the engine anyway. There was no way out. No escape. Just another round of humiliation waiting on the porch.