She Is 5
Copyright© 2026 by RogueTen
Chapter 2
Drama Sex Story: Chapter 2 - A saintly yoga wife, her burned-out "nice guy" husband, and a creepy basement janitor slip into one messed-up loop of lust, guilt and voyeurism. This isn’t about cheating, it’s about something worse: when you suddenly realize it turns you on to see your perfect little world get dragged through the mud – and you don’t want it to stop.
Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual Drunk/Drugged NonConsensual Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Cuckold Sharing Slut Wife Wife Watching Wimp Husband RAAC DomSub Humiliation Light Bond Rough Spanking Gang Bang Group Sex Swinging Interracial Black Male White Male White Female Oriental Male White Couple Anal Sex Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism Facial Fisting Masturbation Oral Sex Spitting Squirting Voyeurism Public Sex Prostitution
Omar still didn’t fall asleep. He’d given his darkness too much rein; it raged inside him and wouldn’t let him rest.
Annette woke early. She thought she was the first one up. She pulled off the T-shirt she’d slept in, meaning to change -- and then she saw the smiling old immigrant in the doorway.
“Morning, my girl!”
Annette, shocked by his nerve, covered herself with the T-shirt.
But she didn’t notice how badly she did it: the halo of one nipple still poked out beneath the white fabric. The old man’s smile widened.
“Can’t you see I’m undressed?!” Annette hissed, furious.
“Sorry, my girl, I’ve just been waiting a long time ... didn’t want to wake you ... and I got so drunk yesterday, I’m ashamed today ... could you give me a painkiller? It hurts so much!”
Annette’s face -- stern as fate -- softened. She understood the old man felt awful and had probably been waiting a long time for her to wake, enduring it in silence. That patience, that helpless “care,” touched the beauty.
“Yes, of course, right now,” the soft-hearted yogi whispered. Her good heart drove her straight to the kitchen like that, with her breast slipping out from under the flimsy cover of the shirt.
The day was starting well for Omar.
And the rain had even stopped hammering the window. Though the “bitch” clearly wanted to ruin it.
After Omar swallowed the pill and sat down in the living room, Annette went back to her room. There, realizing she’d run out to help the old man without even properly pulling on her shirt, she flung it to the floor in anger.
Why am I running for him every time something hurts? she scolded herself.
But she knew she’d do the same next time, too, the moment she learned someone nearby was in pain. She’d run again, forgetting everything, rushing to help.
Not wanting to touch the shirt -- a symbol of her weakness -- Annette pulled on a tank top and twisted her hair into a bun. Her gaze was dark and grim: she hadn’t forgiven the old man for last night, and she meant to show strength.
Annette marched into the janitor’s room and began stripping his bed. To Omar, appearing behind her, it was a wondrous tableau.
The janitor decided not to announce himself, to savor the view of the “proper lady’s” magnificent ass. While she cleaned, Annette stood bent over most of the time, hips offered up by the posture of work. The old man understood her sudden urge to tidy his room didn’t promise anything good for him -- but he couldn’t help feeling grateful to fate for such a woman’s backside. How much does an animal named Omar need, living only for the instant, not thinking about tomorrow?
In the old man’s imagination Annette had already tugged her panties down and prepared herself for his big cock.
I’d fuck you like the last whore and you’d be happy, because that’s your bitch nature! Ready-made slut -- you can see it in your walk, in your whore body! You want money and a big cock! Oh, how sweet you’d moan under me ... the janitor thought -- the lowest of mortals who, in his fantasy, rose to the greatest of immortals. He stubbornly believed Annette was some “foreign whore.” What did he base it on? Simple lack of mind. But you shouldn’t underestimate the power of that argument.
Omar’s stupid, greasy pleasure was spoiled by Yuri appearing behind him. The noise had woken him. The men looked each other in the eye with Annette still bent over between them. It was obvious what Omar had been watching -- pressed to the doorframe -- before Yuri showed up. The looks of two enemies, two accomplices, met this close for the first time. The stink of the old man’s lust was unmistakable at such a distance.
It was a special moment. A bifurcation point. Yuri felt that right now he had to say something or do something, show the old man there were lines you don’t cross. And he -- a bank director, a strong man -- could do it easily! All he had to do was grab the hyena by the scruff and shake him a couple of times. Omar would shrivel on the spot and then be afraid to stick his nose out of his hole. The old man’s whole strength lay in Yuri’s weakness.
And Yuri could have refused that weakness, refused the darkness in himself ... but he didn’t.
He was the first to look away, and he went to take a shower. Behind him, it seemed, the old man was laughing. Yuri told himself he simply didn’t want to make a scene in front of his wife -- and he felt himself aging from thoughts like that. You age especially fast when you start hunting for excuses in the face of life.
“What’s this, my girl -- decided to do a little cleaning first thing?” Omar asked Annette meanwhile.
Yuri’s appearance and retreat gave him strength. The husband hadn’t found it in himself to give up the secret pleasure Omar offered.
“It’s rude to make a guest clean up after himself on his way out,” she smiled -- and there was steel in that smile.
“On his way out ... listen, I got drunk last night, I don’t remember anything. Am I right in thinking I did something? That’s why you’re throwing me out?”
“You understand correctly,” Annette said, dryly. “You ‘did something.’ More specifically -- you got drunk in my home to a, forgive me, piggish state. I won’t tolerate that. If you want to drink -- go do it elsewhere. I wanted to help you recover, not run a bar in my living room.”
“Forgive me, my girl, I’m at fault ... you have every right to be angry ... but please, can I stay one more day in the warmth? I feel worse today...”
“You feel worse because you drank yesterday.”
The old man was startled by Annette’s firmness. He’d thought everything was in his pocket, that he was playing the woman and her husband like notes on a staff -- but he’d gone too far when he openly came on Annette in front of Yuri. Pompeii died too when someone teased Vesuvius.
“But I don’t even have warm clothes, my girl -- pity an old man one last time!”
Annette’s face grew less severe.
“No warm clothes? ... But ... it’s turned colder ... how do you even get through winters without warm things?”
“I had them! But I hung them out to dry after washing and some nasty teenagers stole everything!”
“Stole them?! We should file a police report!”
“An undocumented man shouldn’t go complaining to the police,” the old man smiled stupidly. He looked so pitiful and grotesquely helpless that yesterday’s ritual of spraying his semen on the mistress of the apartment began to seem like a ridiculous dream. This silly old man, whose clothes got stolen by teenagers, couldn’t possibly have come on someone’s wife in front of her husband!
He wasn’t himself yesterday, he didn’t understand anything and now he doesn’t remember. Is it right to punish him now? ... Just a lonely, helpless old man, drinking himself senseless out of his own wretchedness, Annette thought, and the stern little creases in her face began to smooth out.
“All right ... you’re right, no police. We’ll deal with the kids ourselves somehow. And we’ll buy you clothes, of course. We’ll swing by the mall today.”
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