I hated my HOA. It was full of boring old people with nothing better to do than micromanage the lives of others. I paid my dues on time every month, but only to keep the pool open and keep the dreaded condo board off my back. I ignored their emails, and whenever a new notice was posted in the elevator, I made a point of looking the other way while I rode from the parking garage up to my unit. 

Every summer, they held elections for the condo board. As usual, I threw my ballot in the trash without even looking to see which of my neighbors were candidates. It was always the same handful of people who probably just rotated offices among themselves like a twisted, incestuous merry-go-round. One morning, I found a note shoved under my front door thanking me for my vote. I didn’t recognize who it was from, but I didn’t much care, either. The $400 a month I paid in dues should be more than enough to be left alone. 

In the last few months, I started getting more frequent emails from the condo board with increasingly excitable subject lines. Whoever the new board members were, they seemed to be embarking on an ambitious agenda. I ignored the communications like always, happy to stay out of whatever drama was going on. It was probably something stupid, like how soon you can put up Christmas lights or whether to keep the pool open past Labor Day. Even thinking about it bored me half to sleep. 

One night, I was sitting in my underwear watching TV when I heard a knock on the door. Thinking it was the delivery driver with my beef and broccoli, I slipped on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I immediately regretted not looking through the peephole first. 

“Greetings, neighbor, and happy November from your Condo Board representative!” 

I didn’t recognize the guy standing outside the door. He was older, maybe fifty-five, and had a bushy white mustache. He looked up at me, adjusted his bowtie, and smiled. 

“Hi,” I said, extending my hand. “Brian Collins.” 

The man flipped through the papers on a clipboard. “That’s right. Collins, unit 305. Sorry I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Collins. I don’t visit the lower floors that often.” 

I rolled my eyes. The lower floors. The only thing I hated more than the HOA was high-rise condo floor snobbery. “Thanks for making the trip. What can I do for you?” 

“I’ve got something for you,” the man said and then pulled a small box out of a canvas shopping bag. He held it out for me to take. “In keeping with Bylaw 7, Section 4, Paragraph 1.” 

I eyed his stubby sausage fingers and the box they held suspiciously. “I’m not familiar with that bylaw. What did you say your name was again?” 

“The board ratified the new bylaws approved by condo owners last month,” he said, deflecting the question. “All residents had the opportunity to read the draft and vote on them.” 

It felt rude to roll my eyes again so soon, so I nodded in lieu of a more visceral reaction. “Okay. Well, thanks, I guess.” 

I took the box. It was heavier than I expected. “What is it?” 

The older man eagerly clicked a ball point pen and made a check mark on his clipboard. “New bylaws can be a stressful time for any condo community. The board wanted to ensure all residents have everything necessary to ensure compliance.” 

“Fun,” I said flatly. “I guess peanut brittle was too much to expect.” 

My visitor seemed not to pick up on the sarcasm in my tone. He simply nodded and pocketed his clicky pen. “I’ll let you get back to your evening,” he said, peering over my shoulder into my unit. “See you at the next HOA meeting.” 

“Don’t count on it,” I muttered as I closed the door. Stopping by my bedroom door, I tossed the box onto the bed and went back to watching TV. 

That night in bed, I opened the box. Inside was a container filled with viscous, neon-green goo. It looked like something you’d make in science class and felt like that stuff they put in executive stress ball toys. I poked it with one finger. It was warmer than I expected, and the scent it gave off was hard to pinpoint, like a mixture of tennis balls and a cooked steak. A long moment passed before I realized I’d been huffing it, trying to get as much of the smell into my nostrils as I could. 

“Weird,” I said. I shook the box, and a small card fell out. It said simply To Maximize Your Pleasure in gold embossed lettering. 

I was incredulous. My condo board gave me… sex goo? I wondered who this “gift” was really intended for and what their reaction would be when they got whatever was supposed to be given to me. This had to be a mistake, and if I cared enough to make a fuss about it, I could probably create some HOA drama of my own. On the other hand, I’d already opened it, and the scent was weirdly enticing, and it had been a while since my last proper lay. 

“Fuck it,” I said as I wriggled out of my boxer shorts and sprawled out on the bed. My cock was already stiffening in anticipation of a good jerk-off session. The sex goo didn’t need to be warmed up—it felt like it was giving off heat of its own. I kneaded it a few times in my hands, forming it into a shape that looked vaguely fuckable, and then lowered it down onto my cock head. 

“Holy fuck!” I was not prepared for the pleasure that rocked my entire body. My toes curled, my pulse raced, and I was panting like I’d just done a hundred-meter sprint. I continued fucking the goo, but at a snail’s pace, lowering my hand over my cock bit by bit. My eyes rolled back in my head, and my chest was slick with sweat. I felt like I could cum at any moment, but I forged ahead. 

I’d never felt so much pleasure from a wank before, and if I was being honest, even my best-ever fuck didn’t feel this good. As I eased my goo-covered fist down my shaft, my mind became overwhelmed with pleasure. It was hard to think, hard to want anything but to massage this weird substance into my cock. Increasing waves of pleasure left me gritting my teeth in the expectation of a mind-numbing orgasm. I stroked slowly, teasing the cum out of my cock. My breathing quickened as I felt my orgasm build, and build, and build… 

When I woke up early the next morning, my head was at the foot of the bed ,and I was mired in a tangle of bedsheets. My t-shirt was stiff from dried sweat, and my boxers were on the floor. The last thing I could remember was beating off with that goo. 

I looked around the bed and couldn’t find it. I got up and looked on the floor. I even got on all fours and felt blindly around under the bed. It was nowhere to be found. 

“Where did it go?” I asked the empty bedroom. I stripped out of my t-shirt and went into the bathroom. When I caught my reflection in the mirror, I had my answer. Somehow, the goo had spread out across my cock and balls, encasing them in a smooth, shiny layer of neon green. My eyes were as wide as hubcaps as I looked at my reflection in disbelief. It looked like I was wearing a rubber jockstrap, but the pouch had fused to my junk and completely obscured it. 

I was speechless. I wanted help. I wanted answers. I wanted to attend the next HOA meeting. 

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