5. Pool Deck
The unlit water slapped the tile like it didn’t know the board.
Margaret lay on the lounge chair bound and blind, tea towel soaked at the edges from her own mouth and the kitchen and the safe, wrists crossed on her chest where they’d set them after the carry.
Night air on her tits, tight, church-committee skin that had been under a cardigan through new business.
Vinyl slats under spanked hips. The first man out of the office was still in her — short mean strokes that walked the chair toward the water — filming down the line of the towel and the pearls and the wet place he disappeared into the treasurer.
Other phones made a little constellation around the slats, red lights she could feel on her throat.
Someone said her husband had left the porch light on for a woman who was getting fucked beside the pool heater he’d written three emails about, CC the whole board, tone in every line.
“Tone,” the man in her said, into her, into a lens. “Always the tone. Paragraphs. She can take the tone. He talks. She spreads.”
She came on that.
A hard shake on vinyl, squirt running between the slats toward the deck drain, a moan that jumped off the black water toward condos with their sliders shut.
Ecstasy with no sky in it. Blind. Tied. Official.
She told them to rotate. She told them the window rule still held even without a serving window: if you were watching from the glass doors you walked out and you used her.
A second man pulled the first out shining and shoved in while the camera handed off like minutes.
Court shoes on wet tile. Tennis pro — she guessed from the grit on his palm and the way he talked about a lesson her husband had booked and cancelled in a paragraph with three follow-ups.
He rage-fucked her through the aftershock.
Short. Ugly. Hair pulled under the towel.
Margaret twerked what the slats allowed, a filthy little roll onto a man she couldn’t see, tidy conservative ass taking board hate in the open air.
She asked how many phones. Nobody gave her a number.
A slider across the pool stayed black. A third silhouette came from the clubhouse glass — the serving-window rule moved outdoors — and waited his turn with a phone already up, recording the treasurer on HOA furniture.
Grant’s vice-chair voice told the lens she had adjourned herself.
The agenda was at home. Highlighted. Useless. 6B passing in a recliner that didn’t know about the drain.
Margaret opened her knees wider in the dark and took the next stroke like minutes, and the water kept slapping, polite, empty, a neighbor who wasn’t going to file a complaint.
The third man didn’t wait for a clean handoff.
He shoved in beside the tennis pro’s last stroke, a sloppy trade on wet vinyl, and Margaret cried out into the tea towel because she couldn’t see the size coming, only feel the chair walk and the night air on the stretch.
Phones swung in. Someone filmed the place he disappeared into the treasurer.
Someone filmed her bound wrists jumping on her own chest, pearls ticking slats.
The board member — she knew the loafer on tile, the man who’d lost the sticker vote — talked about the parking-sticker war while he rage-fucked her, every stroke a lost motion, every slap a laminated page.
“He wrote an appeal. Six pages. CC everyone. She signed the treasurer line like a good wife. Look at the good wife now. Skirt up. Towel on. Taking the board.”
She came again.
A hard squirt on his slacks, on the slats, a tick into the chlorine smell, ecstasy so thick she laughed under cotton and asked them to say the appeal number for the cameras.
They didn’t know it. They made one up and fucked her to it, counting mean.
Grant walked the edge of the chair with a phone and narrated to the dark sliders like minutes: the treasurer was in session, the husband was under a porch light, 6B was highlighted and dead.
A fourth silhouette came out of the clubhouse glass.
Night cleaner or a late fob. Serving-window rule, outdoor edition.
He stood at her head. Margaret opened her mouth under the towel’s edge without being asked, a treasurer finding work.
He used her throat. Two cameras on that, red on her pearls.
The man in her cunt spanked her in time with the wet sound of her mouth, red on red, church-committee skin that had sat through new business.
She drooled on HOA vinyl.
She told them not to take the blindfold off if a light went on in a condo. She told them her husband checked boxes in a porch glow and they could check her in the dark. She told them to keep filming the towel so he never got a face, only a voice they were erasing with their hips.
The water slapped.
A phone battery died and another phone took its place like a second.
She didn’t get to rest. She didn’t get a name.
She got the line, and the insults, and the red lights, and she took them like the dues count she’d lost on the island, in absolute ecstasy, asking for the next man before the last one had pulled out.
A condo light flicked on and died.
Somebody’s bathroom. Somebody who didn’t look out at the unlit water or the phones or the treasurer on HOA vinyl.
Margaret heard the men freeze for one stroke — a held breath, a camera dip — and then Grant laughed the vice-chair laugh and fucked the pause out of the line, mean, deep, talking to the lens about how her husband would have written a six-page incident report.
She came on the scare. Blind. Bound. A hard squirt between slats toward the drain, moaning *don’t stop don’t stop they didn’t see* into the tea towel.
The phones stayed on her. The water stayed black.
The next man in the rotation pulled her up onto her knees on the slats, wrists still tied in front, and the towel slipped just enough that she almost saw a shoe — court white, or a boot — and someone yanked the cotton down again so the voice wouldn’t get a face even in her head.
They took her from both ends on the chair.
Mouth and cunt first, a rhythm that walked the lounge toward the water.
Then mouth and ass, spit and her own slick and a little pool-damp on his hand.
Rage and jokes about the agenda voice poured into both holes.
She drooled into the vinyl straps. She asked them to film the slats and the drain and the treasurer getting used like common area, like mulch, like a motion that had already carried.
Grant read another text off her phone.
*you okay?*
She couldn’t answer with a cock on her tongue so someone took her bound thumb and typed *almost done counting* and the deck laughed, ugly, quiet enough for sliders.
Margaret shook and nodded under the towel and backed onto whoever was in her like the message was minutes, like 6B were passing in a recliner while she took the board in the dark.
The glass doors opened again.
Another silhouette. Serving-window rule, night edition. The line didn’t close. The deck didn’t adjourn. She was in absolute ecstasy — tied, filmed, insulted, full — and she pulled off a mouth long enough to tell the new man to wait his turn in the glass, look first, then walk out.
“House rule,” she whispered. “The only motion that passed. Don’t you give him a face. Tell the voice the treasurer’s still in session.”
Water slapped.
A phone changed hands.
The porch light, somewhere behind the buildings, stayed on for nobody who was coming yet.
They lost the polite rotation.
Too many hands. Too many phones. Margaret on her back again, then on her side on wet vinyl, bound wrists shoved above her head against the chair frame, tea towel dark with spit and steam and night.
One cock in her mouth. One in her cunt. A third man waiting at her ass with spit on his fingers, impatient, talking about the voice.
She took what landed. She came until the shakes stacked — a squirt when someone said *laminated,* another when someone said *porch light,* a third when Grant used the gavel voice on purpose.
“Treasurer acknowledges the insult. Treasurer opens the floor. Treasurer does not recognize the husband. 6B is tabled. The count continues.”
She laughed around a cock and nodded under cotton, ecstatic, ruined, a modest woman chairing her own wreck.
A man she didn’t know finished in her — a pulse she added to the kitchen and the safe — and another replaced him before she’d closed around the empty.
The night cleaner filmed her face under the towel from an inch away, red light on pearls.
The tennis pro spanked her in time with a joke about the lesson her husband had cancelled in a paragraph.
The board member wiped his cock on her pearls and put it back in her mouth so she’d taste the sticker vote.
She pulled off long enough to tell them she was in absolute ecstasy and to stop asking if she was okay unless they wanted her to text it to the voice with her bound thumb.
“Don’t you ask. He asks. I hate that he asks. Film me. Talk. Next.”
The glass doors stayed empty for a minute.
Then they weren’t. Last fob. Last look. Serving window in a sliding door. Last walk-out onto tile. Margaret opened her knees toward the dark she couldn’t see and told it to hurry up before the porch light learned how to walk across the development.
They still hadn’t finished on her.
That was the last box. She wanted it on the treasurer — on the cardigan, on the towel, on the pearls, on the minutes she would never type. She wanted the cameras on the mess so the agenda voice would only ever be a man under a bulb who thought she was counting.
Water slapped.
Someone said *now.*
Not yet. One more stroke. The last man in the glass wasn’t in her yet.
The last man out of the glass didn’t look long.
He walked the window rule in three steps — look, phone up, join — and shoved into her while she was still telling the deck to hurry.
Margaret cried out into the tea towel, blind, bound, and came on the first mean stroke because the night had already stacked her too high.
Squirt on vinyl. Ecstasy with no sky. They used him as the signal.
Grant’s gavel voice said *now* for real.
They pulled out of her mouth and her cunt and her ass in an ugly messy trade and finished on the treasurer.
She held her face up under the towel’s edge so the cameras would get a mouth.
Grant first, vice-chair, the man from the serving window — a hot stripe on her tongue and her chin.
She swallowed what she could and stuck her tongue out for the rest.
The landscaper came on the cardigan and the pearls, dusty, mean, talking about mulch.
The tennis pro aimed at the hiked skirt and the wet tidy seam.
The board member painted the tea towel itself so the blindfold was part of the minutes.
The night cleaner added a pulse to her tits.
The last fob finished on her cheek with a joke about the porch light.
She moaned through all of it, laughing, wrecked, telling the phones to get the insult one more time.
They did.
*He highlights 6B. He left the light on. She was counting.*
They didn’t untie her yet.
Grant filmed the mess on HOA vinyl: unlit water, dark sliders, a modest woman dripping board and staff and night, wrists still bound, towel still on.
Margaret lay there and asked, hoarse, if 6B had passed.
Somebody said not at this meeting. Somebody said the treasurer had adjourned.
Somebody said the voice could wait under a bulb.