Chapter 27: When You Pissed All Over My Black Kettle

The house had gone still again, the kind of soft quiet that settled after a long night. Sunlight angled through the blinds and painted pale stripes across the couch where Scott and Lena still sat. His phone lay forgotten on the table beside him; her notebook sat open but untouched, a pen resting across the page.

Ranger was stretched out on the floor in front of them, big golden body relaxed, muzzle resting on his paws. His tail gave a lazy thump now and then—just enough to say he was keeping track of things, even half-asleep.

Upstairs, the shower cut off. The pipes clanked once and went silent.

A few minutes later, light footsteps sounded on the stairs. Maggie appeared, hair damp and combed back, wearing nothing but a faded gray t-shirt that barely reached her upper thighs. The cotton still carried a little moisture, soft against her skin and translucent where it clung. No bra. No panties. Just Maggie—clean, tired, and utterly unconcerned about modesty.

Scott looked up at her with that small, crooked grin that always came when she forgot—or pretended to forget—how much skin she was showing. Lena tried not to follow his gaze but did anyway, eyes flicking down, then up again too slowly to be innocent.

Maggie crossed the room with the unhurried grace of exhaustion. She didn’t say a word, just went straight to the bar, pulled two glasses from the rack, and poured bourbon into each without measuring. The light caught in the amber as she turned back.

She handed one to Scott and kept the other for herself. “Sorry, Lena,” she said, settling on the couch arm beside him. “Didn’t think to pour you one. Normal people don’t usually chug Bulleit at nine in the morning.”

Lena’s smile was warm but distracted. “You’d be right about that. But I appreciate the offer.”

“Offer stands.” Maggie said, the hem of her shirt lifting slightly with the motion. “Long night. Our brains need something to wind down.”

Scott clinked his glass lightly against hers. “Here’s to shutdown procedures.”

They drank, gunning down the double shots in one gulp. They then leaned together and kissed. A long, lingering kiss that involved just a little touching of tongues. It was a ritual that had developed between them for Friday mornings. Have a drink, taste the whiskey on each other’s mouth. Fresh whiskey that could still sting the tongue on flesh. It was intimate. It was hot.

Scott looked up and saw Lena watching them with interest. Maggie noticed the same. She smiled.

“Fresh whiskey kisses are the bomb,” she told Lena.

“Really?” Lena asked, her interest quite apparent.

“Wanna try?” Maggie asked.

Lena licked her lips once, twice. “Maybe just one taste,” she said softly.

She got up. Scott watched as she walked across the room, curious as to who she was going to collect her whisky kisses from.

It was Maggie. Scott did not take it personally. He just watched from less than a foot away. It was more than just a peck. It never pretended to be anything else. It was a dance of feminine tongues and soft lips. Twirling, sliding, exchanging saliva. The kiss did not break after the whisky was gone. It just continued, grew more passionate.

Maggie’s hands slid up the back of Lena’s sweater, her fingers touching bare skin, hands pulling Lena forward until her only option was to climb onto Maggie’s lap. She took the option, their kisses breaking for a moment so Lena could attack the side of Maggie’s neck.

“Oh my God, you smell so good,” Lena muttered.

Maggie moaned a little and then turned her eyes to Scott. He could see passion in them. He could see love in them. Mostly passion though. She gave him a look, a piece of shared intimate couple communication passed only with the eyes.

We doing this, Dover? was the question.

We’re doing this, Winslow, was the answer.

Scott stood slowly, the front of his sweatpants already bulging out in front of him. He slid around Lena’s body, nestling himself into her from the rear, letting her feel his rapidly expanding erection pushing into her. His hands slid up under the front of her sweater, over her tight belly and up to the cups of her bra. She moaned into Maggie’s hair at the touch.

“Ever try it with a boy and a girl at the same time?” Maggie whispered to her.

Lena shook her head, speechless.

“Do you wanna?”

Lena nodded her head, eyes hungry now.

Over in the corner, Ranger watched them impassively, his muzzle still between his paws. He would have made a terrible personal protection dog. He was just letting those two perverts put their hands all over Mommy’s body.

Scott grasped the hem of her sweater and pulled upward, baring her belly. When he got to the cups of her white, lacy bra, Lena lifted her arms up, letting her two lovers pull the garment over her head. Scott reached for the clasp in the back and disengaged it with a practiced twist and pinch maneuver. The bra fell away, revealing those magnificent breasts capped with hard nipples.

“Boys are more aggressive than girls,” Maggie said clinically, her mouth still kissing and nibbling Lena’s neck—though she was working her way south. “Look at you. He’s already got your titties out. If it was just you and me, we’d still just be kissing. Maybe not even with tongues yet.”

“I’m ... I’m okay with that,” Lena panted, her body now flushed as Scott’s mouth began kissing the other side of her neck, working its way to the back of her neck and shoulders. “At this moment in time, anyway.”

Scott’s hands were back on her belly, feeling the soft, sexy flesh there, roaming between her belly button and the bottoms of her breasts. Maggie, meanwhile had found Lena’s left nipple with her mouth.

“Oooh,” Lena moaned, delighted. One of her hands dropped to Maggie’s bare inner thigh. It began to move upward.

“Yeah, baby,” Maggie whispered. “Touch my pussy. Feel how wet she is.”

Lena did just that. Less than a minute later, she was on her hands and knees on the carpet, her face buried between Maggie’s widely spread legs, one hand still on the thigh, the other up under the t-shirt, groping Maggie’s tits. Scott, meanwhile, was still behind Lena and had unbuckled and unsnapped her jeans. He tugged them and her pretty panties down to the bend of her knee, exposing that bare onion ass and the gates of heaven framed by it. She was already wet and swollen, the odor intoxicating. She was freshly shaved as well.

Scott mounted her from behind and fucked her aggressively while she ate Maggie’s pussy with the same aggression. Maggie played with Lena’s dangling breasts for a bit and then ran her hands along Lena’s back until she was grasping Scott’s hip-gripping hands in hers. She pulled her upper body forward. Scott leaned in to meet her. Their mouths connected and their tongues shot out.

“This is hot shit, YC,” she panted at him.

“Fuckin’ A, Number 4,” he returned. He then kissed her some more.

Lena came first, followed shortly by Maggie. Scott was feeling the machinery starting to turn when Lena said, “don’t come in me.”

“Uh ... okay,” Scott said, feeling disappointed. He had been maybe ten seconds away from the circuit breaker popping. He slowed his pace, letting him stay under control—though no less desperate for release.

“I want to try something,” Lena said. “Let’s go upstairs.”

They went upstairs, Lena butt naked except her socks, Scott missing his sweats and underwear, Maggie still in her sleep shirt with no panties.

“Fuck Maggie and come inside of her,” Lena said, pointing at the large bed.

“Uh ... glad to as long as Number 4 is good with it,” Scott said.

“I’m totally good with it,” Maggie said, plopping down on the bed and spreading her legs. “But what are you going to be doing?”

“I’ll keep myself entertained,” Lena promised. “But it’s very important that you come inside of her, Scott.”

“Why?” he asked, though he didn’t really care. He was on the edge, had already fucked Lena while she ate Maggie out, and Maggie’s pussy looked quite appetizing at the moment. Swollen, wet, freshly shaved. All that a pussy should be.

“I want to lick your come out of her once you’re done,” Lena said.

“Wow,” Maggie whispered. “That is so depraved. But ... so hot too. Really fuckin’ hot!”

“Shall we do it then?” Lena asked, desperation in her tone.

“Let’s do it.”

They did it. And God smiled upon them because it was good.

The Heritage Embassy Suites rose above the downtown riverfront, its mirrored windows catching the morning sun where the Heritage River met the Sacramento River. The confluence shimmered below—broad and slow and stately—and the iconic 1930’s draw bridge arched across the water in perfect symmetry with the hotel’s second-floor terrace. From there, the Delta Room offered a flawless view, and Judith Linden had made certain the blinds were adjusted to showcase it.

The room itself was immaculate: soft gold walls, carpet in muted river blues, tables dressed in white linen and arranged in a neat U-shape. At the head table sat a discreet brass plaque reading Board Members Only—Judith’s idea, of course. She’d brought in the catering from Birmingham Roasters herself, directing the staff with the clipped precision of a film director. Now, the spread gleamed beneath the recessed lights: two polished urns of coffee, one decaf, one full strength; trays of croissants and mini quiches arranged in concentric circles; a platter of sliced fruit glistening with condensation; and a row of bagels paired with a bowl of salmon cream cheese.

It all smelled of roasted beans, butter, and anxiety.

Judith stood near the window, hands folded neatly at her waist, her reflection framed against the river. Her pale blue suit was immaculate, her makeup understated but flawless. Everything about her posture suggested composure—but the pulse ticking faintly at her throat betrayed otherwise.

Behind her, Aileen Mark, the HOA treasurer, hovered near the catering table, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt. She was smaller, softer, and far less certain of herself. The worry was plain in her voice.

“Judith,” Aileen said quietly, “what if they really come after us? Lena’s been talking to people all weekend. I think they’re planning something.”

Judith turned, lips curving into a calm smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Aileen, please. You’re letting gossip get to you.”

“They’re saying we’ve been—” Aileen lowered her voice even further “—moving HOA money around. That we’re giving out contracts without bids.”

Judith drew in a slow breath, her smile tightening just enough to suggest patience rather than fear. “Even if any of those things they’re spreading have a grain of truth, I am the President. With power comes responsibility. It is my job to make the important calls—contracts, landscaping, community maintenance, all of it. Someone has to make the decisions.”

She straightened a stack of agendas at the head table, aligning the corners with deliberate precision. “That’s leadership, Aileen. And leadership always attracts jealousy.”

Aileen nodded slowly, though her eyes stayed on the door.

Judith glanced at her reflection again, smoothing her hair. “Now take a breath. Have a pastry. We’re going to handle this.”

Outside the window, sunlight flashed off the water, bright and cold. Inside, the air-conditioning hummed, carrying the scent of coffee and fear.

Judith checked her watch—9:46. Almost time.

The first of the homeowners began to trickle in, heels clicking softly against the carpet, voices hushed. Then the trickle became a stream. Ten, twenty, thirty—by the time the wall clock nudged toward ten, the seats were nearly full. She’d never seen attendance like this before. At most, their meetings drew a half a dozen—usually the same handful of retirees and PTA mothers who came for the pastries. Now there had to be forty, maybe fifty people. Almost all women. She spotted only two men in the crowd, both standing near the back with folded arms and that same look—half curious, half hostile.

What unsettled her more wasn’t their number but their manner. No one approached the head table to greet her. No smiles, no friendly small talk, no “Good morning, Mrs. Linden” or “Lovely setup today.” Instead, they filtered in quietly, taking their seats in clusters, whispering among themselves. A few glanced toward her and then away. Others didn’t bother with subtlety at all. They just stared.

They were glaring—eyeball-fucking her, as Scott Dover or Maggie Winslow might have said.

Judith’s fingers tightened around her pen. She forced a thin smile, hoping to meet one friendly expression. None came. The air felt heavier by the minute, the murmur of voices dull and unpleasant.

And then they arrived. All at once, like the opening act to a performance she hadn’t agreed to attend.

Scott Dover, the king of adultery himself—swaggering in like he owned the place, the same man whose very existence reminded her that moral decay was alive and thriving in Holly Creek. Adultery should be a felony, she believed, not just a social embarrassment. A proper society would have him in handcuffs.

Beside him was Maggie Winslow, the shameless lesbian who actually admitted it aloud, as if such things should be said in decent company. Judith still couldn’t understand why people like that insisted on broadcasting their degeneracy instead of quietly seeking help.

Then came Stacy Foxx—prudish, self-righteous, and blissfully unaware that her husband had been having affairs during his “business trips.” Judith knew, of course. She always knew. But she wasn’t one to gossip.

Samantha Belkin trailed close behind—the little homewrecker who had started this entire mess by throwing herself at Dover like some starlet in a cheap movie. A woman without shame, or a mirror.

And last, the ringleader: Lena Hastings. The Iranian terrorist herself. The woman who hated everything about America and yet chose to live among us. Judith almost expected her to have one of those Palestinian flags that were in fashion these days. And to have that ridiculous vicious dog with her. Disgusting.

They all walked in together, like a formation. And every whisper in the room seemed to bend toward them.

Judith sat straighter and fixed her smile again. It didn’t matter. She was the president. The room was hers—no matter how many of them had come to air their petty little nitpicks about her administration.

Judith glanced at the wall clock—10:00 sharp. She rose smoothly from her chair, a smile rehearsed to the millimeter.

“Good morning, everyone,” she began, her voice bright and carefully modulated. “I’d like to call this regular meeting of the Holly Creek Homeowners Association to order. I appreciate you all joining us today, and I’d like to thank the Embassy Suites for hosting us in such a lovely venue. Please, do help yourselves to refreshments.”