Sweet Bloom Crescent
Copyright© 2025 by DrGloss
Scene 1: Spark
Erotica Sex Story: Scene 1: Spark - When midsummer lust collides with one man’s disastrous fertilizer mix, a quiet crescent cul-de-sac erupts in moans, outrage, and laughter. The HOA’s order dies in the heat, and Sweet Bloom Crescent's first scandal is born.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Humor Group Sex Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory Anal Sex Exhibitionism Facial Oral Sex Foot Fetish Public Sex Nudism
Jolene Kane was in her flowerbed, elbows deep in marigolds, ass in the air, and Martin pounding her from behind with fireman knees locked for stability. Her blouse was shoved up to her armpits, gardening gloves still on, her face flushed beet-pink from sex and sun alike.
“DID I SAY STOP?!” she howled, her voice cracking like whippoorwills in heat.
“I WANNA FEEL YOU SHAKE THE ROOTS!”
Martin was gritting his teeth, arms shaking. “I’m ... tryin’ not to nut on the begonias!”
Her hips rolled back into him, bouncing fast. “DO IT ON THE PETUNIAS! They like the protein!”
Midsummer heat laid heavy over Sweet Bloom Crescent, the sun bleaching every red brick and white trim to a cartoon brightness that stung the eyes.
The kind of light that made flowerbeds steam and sweat bead across Victory flag bunting nailed to porch posts like it was May Day every day.
From the air, the whole neighborhood looked like a town planner’s wet dream - symmetrical lawns, birdbaths centered, driveways kiss-curved, one perfect cul-de-sac clit at the heart of it all.
But today, nobody was mowing. Nobody was barbecuing. The birds had stopped chirping two orgasms ago.
Because half the street was actively mid-fuck - and Russ Maddox, shirtless and barefoot, had just doused the entire block in what could only be described as The Flame’s own corpse stank.
But before the stench ... there was moaning.
One lawn over, Viola Kemp’s porch chaise creaked rhythmically under the weight of Ronnie’s full missionary thrusts.
Her legs were up, knees loose, one heel braced against the porch post where a hand-painted Sweet Bloom sigil gleamed gold under the eave. Her tits slapped lightly against her chest with every impact, slick with heat. Viola’s head lolled back, her braid hanging over the edge like a wet rope. Ronnie’s beard brushed her thighs when he leaned in for a bite.
“Baby, if you let me come inside this time-”
SLAP. Viola’s palm hit his bicep. “You can come on the cushion or not at all,” she drawled. “We got a rotation to honor.”
Two doors down, Tami Briggs was still flat on her back on the hood of Walter’s Buick, skirt pushed up around her waist, trying to keep a dewberry pie from sliding off her chest while Walter licked whipped cream off her nipple.
And at the far end of the crescent, on a second-story balcony over a dry-clean-only welcome mat, Mayor Alan Brigg sat in a wicker chair, his pants were open, dick in his hand, furious grip, his eyes locked on Viola’s slippery thighs and the way Ronnie’s hips met the cushion on every downstroke. He licked his lips like a man judging a pie-eating contest and wanting to be the pie.
His shirt was off, tie still on, his lap a disaster zone of urgency and shame. The HOA gavel lay beside him, unused. His tea glass sweated harder than he did. His forehead glistened. His knuckles were white. And when Viola let out a long, throaty moan, Alan’s cock twitched in his hand like it was begging for municipal funding. Then it hit. The smell. Dense. Tangy.
Wet hay over cat piss, laced with something organic that belonged in a compost bin after a murder. Martin gagged mid-thrust. “Whu-what the fuck?! What the FUCK?!”
Jolene froze, halfway through a bounce. Her ass clenched like a mousetrap. “Oh my fucking flaaaame- did you SHIT yourself?!” she screamed, crawling toward the sidewalk on hands and knees, gloves slapping mulch.
Martin stumbled back, holding his crotch like it could retreat on command. Across the way, Viola sat up fast, pushing Ronnie off her. Her thighs were soaked, glistening - not all from sex. She sniffed, and her face crumpled. “Oh sugar, that ain’t me. Ronnie, baby, check yourself before I wash you clean on the porch.”
“It’s Russ,” he croaked, coughing.
“It’s always fucking’ Russ.”
Viola pulled her dress down and stormed barefoot across the grass toward the curb. Ronnie followed her, still clutching the chaise cushion to his crotch. Mayor Brigg’s orgasm, once a sure thing, escaped him like a rebellious council motion. He stood up, swatting at the air, cock still bobbing like an angry pointer.
“This neighborhood will account for this disgrace - I’ll see it logged in Sweet Bloom’s record before sunset!”
Sure enough, from the center of the cul-de-sac came Russ Maddox, farmer tan bold, shirt off, chest dusted with graying hair, pushing a wheelbarrow with one gloved hand and holding a five-gallon bucket of horror in the other.
His jeans were rolled up, boots unlaced, and a grin stretched across his face like the sun had kissed it permanent. “Afternoon, neighbors!” he bellowed. “Sweet Bloom bless us every one!”
The smell intensified. Viola doubled over coughing. “Russ, what the HELL did you spread?!”
“Russ, what the fuck is that?!” Jolene screamed, gagging, still on hands and knees.
Russ held up the bucket like a chalice. “Amos’s own blend! Four parts chicken guano, two parts fermented moss mulch, one part goat placental rinse. Plus secret ingredient-”
Jolene was crawling on hands and knees now, tits out, gagging into her elbow. Martin stood there with his cock hanging, blinking as it slowly deflated in the thick funk.
Viola tried to wave fresh air toward her face, Ronnie just stared at Russ like someone figuring out which bone to break first. “STOP SAYING INGREDIENTS!” shrieked Tami from the Buick, pie now mashed between her tits. “OH GIVER I SWALLOWED SOME AIR!”
Across the street, Mayor Brigg’s orgasm withered like a cut tulip in salt water.
“It smells like your fertilizer ate someone and shat out the soul,” Alan shouted from the porch, still open, still raging. His dick bounced awkwardly with every word. “This is a violation of public order! I was MID-SPIRITUAL MEDITATION, you fertilizer-huffing REPROBATE!”
“You were jacking it to your neighbors clit wink!” Jolene bellowed, crawling toward her porch like a war survivor.
“Shut your municipal microdick!”
Alan’s voice cracked. “It was a vigil!”
Ronnie groaned. “A vigil with pre-come.”
Russ was still beaming, lifting a scoop of his mixture into the air like a priest at communion. “Smells like strength to me - nature workin’ the way it always has. What rots, feeds.
That’s just truth.”
Down the sidewalk came Josie Foster, barefoot, tits bouncing under a ripped lace corset, striped panties riding up, hair wild behind her like she was chasing a dare. She’d caught the scent two blocks away - now she sprinted in like the neighborhood was on fire and she wanted to hump the blaze. She took one breath - and shrieked like a banshee catching a cologne fart.
“Eeeee it’s wrigglin’ in my ears and sparklin’ in my nipples like I’m a cursed cartoon doll! Somebody stop the slime invasion!”
She stomped in place, nose pinched shut with two fingers, hopping in place like she’d stepped in hot gumbo. “Which one of y’all dunked the whole block in BUTTHOLE-JUICE perfume?! My nose is filing for divorce!”
“Russ!” ten people screamed.
“Ahaaa explains why you’re always half-hard in the alley, Russy! You stinky little SEX GREMLIN!”
Russ bowed low like he’d just taken a curtain call. “Guilty as charged!”
Josie bent backward like a gymnast and yelled straight into her own cleavage:
“NYAAHH! My poor nipples are drowning in stink-juice!
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