The streetlight buzzed, casting a sickly yellow pool on the pavement. Violeta Parr, cape bundled tight, cursed her luck. School had run late, and now she was threading through the city's gut. A stench hit her—like rotting meat and burnt oil. She followed it to a stoop where a heap of rags snored. It was a bum, crusted with filth, his pants split at the crotch.

His cock lay exposed—a thick, veiny stump. The skin was a web of angry red bumps, weeping yellow crust. The entire shaft was a foul garden of corruption. Violeta’s breath caught. Her pussy throbbed, a slick heat pooling between her thighs. She knew she was ovulating—a primal ache in her womb. She should walk away. Instead, she knelt.

“Goddamn,” she whispered, fingers brushing the gnarled shaft. It was slick with smegma and filth. She straddled him, her soaked panties torn aside. The sponge of her cunt teeth, hungry. She sank onto the swollen head, feeling the fragile, diseased skin slip past her labia. He grunted, asleep.

She rode him, her clit rubbing against the rash. The risk of infection, of a bastard seed taking root—it made her come. Her juices mixed with his rot. She won’t last. But in the moment, she didn’t give a flying fuck.