Mom the Neighborhood B!tch

Alex Thompson had always believed his mother was perfect.Not in the childish, mommy-can-do-no-wrong way most boys outgrow by middle school. No — even at seventeen, he still carried that quiet, reverent certainty. Elena Thompson was thirty-eight going on twenty-five, with long chestnut hair that caught sunlight like polished wood, emerald eyes that smiled even when her mouth didn't, and a body that seemed unfairly sculpted by some cruel deity who hated average women. Hourglass figure, soft where it should be soft, firm where it should be firm. The kind of mother other boys whispered about in locker rooms and then immediately felt guilty for imagining.She baked cinnamon rolls from scratch on Sunday mornings. She volunteered at the animal shelter. She still kissed Alex on the forehead before he left for school, even though he pretended to hate it. She wore modest sundresses that somehow looked indecent on her anyway.And his father? Richard Thompson was gone eleven months out of twelve. "Closing deals," he always said over grainy video calls. "Building our future." Alex had stopped asking what future looked like when the man only came home long enough to sleep, fuck his wife once or twice, and leave again with a suitcase and a promise to "be back soon."So it was just the two of them in the big colonial house on Maple Lane. Quiet. Safe. Perfect.Until the moving truck arrived next door.Marcus Kane stepped out of the blacked-out F-150 like he owned the whole cul-de-sac. Six-foot-four, shoulders that looked carved from dark oak, skin the color of strong coffee, and a slow, predatory grin that made the neighborhood wives clutch their iced teas a little tighter. He wore a plain white tank top that did nothing to hide the thick cords of muscle running down his arms, and when he bent to grab a box, every woman on the block who happened to be outside suddenly remembered they had gardening to do.Elena was watering the roses along the front walk when he first spoke to her."Morning, beautiful."The words weren't loud. They weren't crude. Just low, confident, like he was stating a fact everyone already knew. Elena startled, water arcing wildly from the hose before she caught herself."Oh—hi! You must be the new neighbor." She smiled the same warm, practiced smile she gave everyone. "I'm Elena. Welcome to Maple Lane.""Marcus." He didn't offer a last name. Didn't need to. He crossed the invisible property line without hesitation, boots crunching softly on the gravel path she'd edged herself last spring. "You always this friendly to strangers?""Only the ones who call me beautiful before they've even said hello." She laughed — light, melodic, the laugh Alex had heard a thousand times at parent-teacher nights and block parties.Marcus didn't laugh back. He just looked at her. Really looked. The way a man looks when he's already decided what he wants and how long he's willing to wait for it.Alex watched the whole exchange from his bedroom window on the second floor, geometry textbook forgotten on his desk. Something sour twisted in his stomach. Not jealousy—not exactly. More like… recognition. The same feeling he got when he saw the starting quarterback eye a cheerleader like she was already naked.He told himself it was nothing.That night Elena hummed while she cooked dinner. She hadn't hummed in months."You seem happy," Alex said, setting plates on the table.She turned from the stove, apron tied high on her narrow waist, cheeks flushed from the heat—or something else. "Just glad the new neighbor seems nice. It's good to have fresh energy on the street, don't you think?"Alex nodded, even though the word "energy" landed like a stone in his gut.The next afternoon he came home early from track practice—coach had canceled because of heat—and the garage door was halfway open. Strange, since Elena usually kept it closed when his dad's car wasn't there.He stepped inside quietly.The air smelled different. Sweeter. Musky.Then he heard it.A low, feminine moan. Not the polite, restrained sound Elena made when Dad was home on those rare weekends. This was raw. Hungry. The kind of sound porn actresses make when they're getting paid extra.Alex froze.Through the crack between the garage door and the wall he saw her.Elena was bent forward over the hood of her SUV, sundress rucked up around her hips, white lace panties tangled around one ankle. Marcus stood behind her, jeans shoved down just enough, one massive hand wrapped in her hair like reins while the other gripped her hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.He wasn't gentle.He wasn't slow.Each thrust rocked her forward, tits bouncing free of the low neckline, nipples dark and stiff against the cool metal of the hood. Elena's mouth hung open, mascara already smudged under her eyes, lipstick smeared across her cheek from where she'd tried to stifle herself earlier and failed."Fuck—yes—harder—"The words spilled out of her like she'd been holding them in for years.Marcus chuckled, deep and dark. "Thought you were the good wife next door. Look at you now. Dripping all over my cock like a bitch in heat."Elena whimpered. Not in pain. In surrender.Alex's knees almost buckled.He should have run. Should have screamed. Should have done anything except stand there with his backpack still on, cock traitorously hardening in his gym shorts while the only woman he'd ever loved got railed like a cheap whore ten feet from where he ate breakfast every morning.Marcus pulled her head back by the hair until her throat arched."Tell me who owns this pussy now.""You—" Elena gasped. "You do—fuck—Marcus—""Louder.""You do! Oh god—Marcus owns my pussy—!"Alex's vision tunneled.He didn't remember backing away. Didn't remember stumbling up the stairs to his room and locking the door. Didn't remember yanking his shorts down and wrapping a shaking hand around himself while the sounds from the garage filtered up through the floorboards—wet slaps, her broken moans, Marcus's filthy praise.He came harder than he ever had in his life, hating every second of it, hating himself more.When the garage door finally rattled closed twenty minutes later, Alex was still sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, cum drying on his knuckles, tears burning tracks down his cheeks.Downstairs, Elena called up the stairs in her normal voice—the same voice that asked if he wanted extra cheese on his tacos."Sweetheart? You home? Dinner's almost ready!"Alex wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie."Yeah, Mom," he croaked. "Just got back."He waited until he heard her heels clicking toward the kitchen before he stood up.In the bathroom mirror he barely recognized himself.Pale. Wide-eyed. Broken in a way he couldn't explain yet.But he knew one thing with sick, crystal certainty.The perfect mother he'd worshipped his whole life?She was already someone else's.And the worst part—the part that made bile rise in his throat—was that some diseased corner of his brain wanted to watch her fall the rest of the way.