Book 2 for The Neighbors is available at Amazon.com 

Plenty of Daughter/Father, Wife/Husband, Mother/Son, Sister/Brother ballbusting and CBT!

Thanks for buying my new books. The response has been great!

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It's a series of ballbusting stories set in suburbia.

Title: The Neighbors, Book 2 

Author: Joe Gonzo

Excerpt:

Greg trudged home on a sweltering Saturday morning, the sun already blazing. He dropped his duffel at the threshold, the thud echoing through the silent house. The sudden quiet was deafening after the roar of the college campus, the throb of final parties still echoing in his head. The cul-de-sac hummed with the distant whir of sprinklers and the growl of lawnmowers, the first summer weekend after finals bursting with suburban life. Greg had expected something—his mother’s chatter from the kitchen, his old man’s snores from the couch—but the house was tomb-silent.

He prowled through the entryway, gagging on the stench—bleach mixed with something sharper that burned his nostrils raw. A sound from the living room made his muscles tense. Greg's mouth opened for a greeting that died in his throat: his father—six-foot-four of once-dominant muscle—knelt naked on the carpet, trembling. Blood-red nylon strangled his genitals, cutting deep purple welts where the metal clasp bit into swollen flesh. His face was unrecognizable—a roadmap of tears and snot, black marker stabbed into his skin: "PIG" carved across one side of his forehead, "SLUT" gouged into the other, the letters still wet and dripping down his temples.

Greg staggered back, bile surging up his throat. "Jesus fucking Christ," he choked out, "Dad? What the—what have they done to you?"

His father's head lifted, eyes vacant as a corpse. "Welcome home, son." Blood leaked from the corner of his cracked lips.

Amy stalked in from the kitchen, coffee mug steaming, dressed in cutoffs that barely covered her ass, tank top stained with something dark. Her hair hung in greasy ropes, face flushed with a predatory glow. "Hey, baby boy. Long drive?" Her smile stretched too wide, teeth gleaming wet.

Greg's lungs seized, heart hammering against his ribs like it might shatter them. "Mom... Jesus... what the fuck have you done?"

Tracey slithered down the stairs, nipples jutting obscenely through a threadbare shirt, eyes burning with feral hunger. She hurled a towel at his face. "Gonna puke, college boy? Better kneel down first. That's what men do in this house now."

Greg couldn't tear his eyes from his father's mutilated face. "Why—why would you—"

Amy slammed her mug down, coffee splashing over her knuckles without a flinch. "Because he needed to learn," she hissed, stalking closer. "Like all men do."

Tom trembled on his knees, the leash cutting deeper as his cock strained uselessly beneath it, purple and fat with blood. The nylon leash was wound so tight it looked like it was trying to sever him at the root, choking the shaft as it pulsed with each of his heartbeats. He tried to keep his eyes cast downward, but every time his gaze flicked up, it found the reflection of Greg’s horror, wide and helpless, staring back at him from the living room mirror. Greg’s stomach flipped, bile souring his mouth, but he couldn’t look away. His father’s arms were lashed behind his back with zip ties, shoulders bunched in agony, knees spread indecently wide. The rug beneath him was soaked dark, a sticky slick of blood and urine that stank like livestock.

The house was a cathedral of suburban ruin. Bourbon bottles lined the edge of the mantel, half-empty, glass shimmering with fingerprints and streaks of something darker—maybe blood, maybe just the sticky residue of kitchen disasters now left permanently to rot. The television, always the heart of the old man’s domain, was shattered, a web of cracks running from corner to corner, the screen frozen on a warped image of a family sitcom. Greg’s hand hovered over the phone in his pocket, thumb trembling as he considered the 9-1-1 he should have dialed the instant he stepped inside.

He took a step backwards, heels crunching glass. “I’m calling the police,” Greg croaked, the words barely audible over the steady, involuntary whimpers leaking from his father. He lurched for the door, but Tracey was already there, blocking the exit, feet planted wide, arms folded across her chest. Her face was flushed with a sickly, fevered delight, lips peeled back in a smile that was all canines and contempt.

“You’re not going anywhere, Greggy,” she sneered. The nickname landed like a slap—an echo of his childhood, but twisted, cruel. Her voice was deeper now, older, edged with the confidence of someone who had committed herself to this insanity. “Not until you play by the rules.”

Greg looked for a seam in her posture, a weak point. She was still his little sister—five foot seven, rail-thin, always the scrapper but no match for his wrestling years. He tried to bowl her over with a shoulder, but Tracey moved like a viper, sidestepping his lunge and catching him at the hips. Her hands were callused, nails chipped black, and she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his shorts, pulling him off-balance. Greg braced for a slap, but instead she rammed a knuckle into his gut, right above the cock, a nerve cluster that made his legs fold instantly. He hit the wall, then the floor, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs.