The New Neighbor (The Apartment)
By Jeremy Spencer
I was sitting around my apartment, like always. Nine o’clock at night on a Friday, of all days, and I’ve got nothing to do. I took a quick glance at the ceiling above me and wondered if she was up there. One floor up. Apartment six. I hadn’t heard any sounds that would indicate she was home, but that’s no surprise. She’s pretty quiet, except...
And then... I heard it... and my pulse started to race. The thump thump thump of that God-awful hip-hop music she likes so much. Almost without a conscious thought on my part, my hand drifted down and began stroking the outline of my cock. I could feel my dick expanding as the volume of the music increased, but I managed to keep it in my pants, at least for the moment.
Give her a few minutes, I told myself. It will be so much better if she’s had time to really get going. She won’t even have a clue you’re there.
I knew what I was doing is wrong, but I couldn’t help it. I had to see her again. The look in her eyes, the expression on her face, the little noises coming out of her mouth as her fingers do their magical dance between her pussy and her tits. It’s a thing of beauty, frankly, and I knew that in just a few minutes, shed be so into it, so completely gone, that she wouldn’t even hear me open her door.
Finally I couldn’t take it any longer and I jumped out of my chair. My cock had now been a solid piece of wood for five minutes, and to be honest, it was pretty much running the show. After reminding myself to be quiet - the floors of my building are prone to the odd bit of creaking and groaning even when people aren’t rushing up the stairs - I exited my apartment.
I tread as quietly as I could and within seconds I was standing in front of her door. Apartment six. My response was predictable... almost Pavlovian. As soon as I saw the brass number my cock gave a twitch. I looked away then back to the door. Twitch. One more glance away, this time for more utilitarian purposes. I needed to see that I was alone, for if I was caught... well, all Hell would break loose and I’d be out of a job... at the very least.
The building custodian isn’t really supposed to do what I was doing, you know?
I grabbed the set of keys in my pocket. I tried not to let them jingle as they normally do. I found my master key and - as gently as I could - slipped it into the lock. It turned easily. No surprise there... I’ve greased this lock - not to mention the hinges on the door - more times than I can count, for just this reason.
Once the door is unlocked, I took one more glance around then pushed it open a crack, just in case. I was in luck, the kitchen area was unoccupied. I hurried inside, nearly silent in my stockinged feet. I shut the door behind me and then stopped and listened.
The music was much louder inside the apartment, nearly - but not completely - obscuring the groans of passion coming from the bedroom, which is where I was heading. Or at least the hallway outside the bedroom. As brazen as this was, I wasn’t gutsy enough to walk right in. Not without an invitation.
As I padded down the hallway I began to hear things more clearly.
So I watched, to get a better image in my mind for later. Like I said, she was splayed out on the bed, her breasts heaving with each breath as her eyes focused on her television. The noise I heard - the loud, abrasive hip-hop - was coming from the stereo, and is what led me to her apartment in the first place, twelve weeks ago.
But the music is just a cover. A cover for the porn, and for the screaming. The porn was on the television. Usually muted. The woman was on the bed, and she has no volume control. Just loud, frantic, passionate moaning.
I noticed with mild interest that she had chosen a lesbian video. My perverted mind gave that a thought - because what guy doesn’t like the thought of two chicks getting it on - although I wondered where the “fuck her with that big cock,” comment came from. Probably one of the girls has a strap-on, was my assumption.
I listened with growing arousal to the combination of grunts, groans and squeals – not all of them from the woman on the bed, of course – but at some point it registered in my brain that she had started chanting.
“Jim,” she panted as she thrust the dildo into her sopping pussy again and again. “Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim!”
Jim. That’s me, and again, I wondered if she knew. If she did, she should really say something, and put both of us out of our misery.
I leaned forward for a better view, hoping to check my hypothesis, and then it happened. I felt something pushing back against the other side of the door and then a screech as something whizzed past my feet. A cat! I glanced back to follow the streak of gray as the cat raced into the living room and then I realized that the apartment has gone quiet. No porn. No music. No panting.
I turned back to the bedroom to saw her staring into the hallway, her eyes wide. With what? Fear, shock, anger, or... something else? We held each other’s gaze for what seemed like hours.
“You,” she said. I got a bit light-headed, and then things started to go black. I wondered how this could happen. Where everything went wrong. When did she get a cat? I knew I was going to jail, but it had been a hell of a three months. I tried to apologize but it was too late, and I slipped to the floor in a dead faint.
A few weeks earlier...
I can’t believe it... six messages! Such is the life of the handy man in a run down apartment building. And not even a full-time handy man. No, I get to fix faucets and redo electrical wiring in my spare time. But at least the apartment is free, and that’s nothing to sneeze at, I suppose.
Still, it was a Friday, heading into a holiday weekend, and the last thing I wanted was to be running around all day Saturday trying to get things squared away. So I’d decided to get a head start as soon as I got home from my “real” job of running a small supply shop for local welders and plumbers. Yeah, I know... exciting.
“Hey, Jim,” came the first voice on the machine. I breathed a sigh of relief. Mom. I hit save and advanced to the next message.
“This is a message for Mr. Bender,” intoned a recorded voice after a long pause. “We are calling to let you in on a money-making opportunity. If you’re stuck in a dead-end job, please...”
Delete.
“Hey! Jim, baby. It’s Lisa... are you ever going to call me?”
Nope. Not a chance of that. Psycho bitch from hell.
Delete.
So far, so good. Three messages down, and nothing work related... I was thinking there was a possibility of getting out of this unscathed, after all, and I started looking forward to a weekend of complete sloth. It was an appealing thought.
“Jim, it’s Carl up on the fourth floor.” I let out a groan. Carl is undoubtedly one of the dumbest people on earth. Without even listening to his message, I knew Carl could only be calling about one of three things: the pop machine, the candy machine, or the clothes dryer on the second floor. Thankfully it was the clothes dryer, since that had already been dealt with, and only Jim’s utter stupidity made an issue out of it. “Yeah... uh... I saw the Out-Of-Order sign on the dryer, but not until I’d already put everything through the washer. Anyway, um... I tried it, and it didn’t work. I figured maybe I’d get lucky, so I put more money in. And then some more, just in case. So, anyway, yeah... do you think you can help me get my five bucks back, or am I out of luck? Call me.”
Delete. Maybe I’d call him on Monday, but no way in hell would he be getting his quarters back. Served the idiot right... learn to read, buddy.
Two left.
“Jim, it’s Ron. Second floor. Just wanted to say thanks for getting my toilet working again. Bye.”
Ron’s an okay guy. We go bowling every once in a while, although I’m lousy and he isn’t as good as he thinks he is. Still, we get along, even if he causes me more work than necessary by jamming up his toilet by occasionally throwing paper towels and other junk down the crapper.
One more message. Could it really be? Nothing to do for an entire weekend? No way... I’ve never been that lucky.
So I hit play and immediately groaned. It was my boss, Shelly. And that’s never a good thing on a Friday afternoon.
“Hi, Jim. It’s Shelly in the home office. Give me a call.” Shelly thinks she’s funny, somehow. “Home Office.” Right. As if there’s something special about an extra bedroom being converted into a rental office. I suppose it is a “real” home office, but it’s still not funny. She’s not funny.
Still, it isn’t a good idea to get on Shelly’s bad side. As much as a few people in the apartment building like me, there are a few who refuse to understand that some problems are beyond my skills... and those are generally the tenants who gripe the most. So I picked up the phone and dialed Shelly’s number.
She picked up after two rings - professional as always. “Shelly Richards,” she answers in that sickly sweet phone voice she always uses. “How may I help you?”
“Hey, Shelly. It’s Jim.”
“Jim, thanks for calling.” Immediately the smooth saleslady voice is gone and it’s plain old Shelly. Which is fine. It’s the smooth-talking Shelly I hate. Regular old Shelly I can almost stand. Almost.
“So... what can I do for you today?” I asked. I had no desire to be on the phone any longer than necessary, in case she remembered that I promised to clean out the bushes and weeds in the back of the parking lot. And that was two months ago.
But she didn’t remember, or else she didn’t feel like mentioning it. Heck, she probably watches the clock as much as I do, especially on a holiday weekend.
“Jim, I just wanted to let you know that there’s a new tenant moving in on the second floor. Now, I’ll be coordinating the move-in, so you don’t need to worry about that. I just wanted to warm you, in case you start getting calls from someone you don’t know.”
“Okay, thanks.” I was hoping to end the conversation quickly, but Shelly wasn’t quite done.
“The tenant will be moving in sometime Saturday, and...”
“I’ll be gone,” I interrupted, thankful for an excuse, even if I had to invent one. “Family stuff. Hope that’s not a problem.”
“No... no problem,” replied Shelly, although it’s obviously a lie. She always tells me she’ll take charge of the move-in, but then, like clockwork, I’ll get a call fifteen minutes before the new tenant is due to show up, informing me that “something” has come up, and could I please be a dear and help out?
And I do, because I’m a sucker. But on a holiday warning, with fair warning, I’m going to be gone. Or if I’m not actually gone, there’s no way I’m answering my phone.
“Okay, then,” I answered. “Just stick the new tenant info under my door. I’ll get the name up on the mailbox sometime on Sunday. See you.”
I hung up as quickly as I could, then looked at my answering machine in complete and utter satisfaction.
“Six messages and nothing to do!” It was practically a gloat. “What do you have to say about that?” The answering machine, predictably, had very little to say, and even less when I unplugged it and headed for the kitchen.
My weekend was really shaping up. I had everything – a coupon for a free delivery pizza stuck to the fridge and a six pack of my favorite domestic beer chilled to perfection. Yep... that’s everything.
*****
Of course, nothing goes entirely as planned, and my weekend almost got off to a bad start Saturday morning. I was lying in bed, in that weird state of mind where I’m not really awake, but I’m still dreaming, although I’m sort of in control of my dreams. This time, I’d chosen an old favorite.
It was senior year of high school in my dream, and I’m at prom with Missy Jenkins, my next door neighbor and schoolboy crush since junior high, just like in real life. We’re in my car, an old Impala with a back seat big enough to stretch out on, which is exactly what we’re doing. I have my hand up Missy’s dress, and she’s reciprocating by sticking her hot little hand down my pants. We’re kissing like there’s no tomorrow, our tongues jostling and swapping spit while out fingers do a little exploring.
Anyway, I’ve got a really short fuse - this is my first real date - and just as I’m about to blow my load all over the inside of my tux pants, there’s a tapping on the window. This didn’t happen in real life, although it might have been for the better. Back in high school, I messed up my underwear something awful, and Missy wouldn’t talk to me for a week, and when she finally did it was to break up with me. Bitch.
No, this tapping was definitely something new. I look over my shoulder in the dream, only there’s no one at the car window. But still the tapping continues, getting louder and louder and louder and...
And then I realized that I was awake, and that the tapping in my dream was an insistent knocking on my apartment door. I almost called out for whoever it is to “hang on a minute,” until I remembered that officially I’m “not home this weekend.” Just as I’d expected, it was Shelly, probably looking for someone to take over the apartment inspection, but I was not going to bite. I stayed quiet and didn’t say anything and at last the knocking stopped and I heard Shelly take the stairs up to the second floor.
Satisfied that I’d once again stuck it to Shelly, I rolled over and went back to sleep.
*****
When I finally woke up I staggered over to the fridge and grabbed a piece of cold pizza from the night before. The clock said it was almost eleven o’clock, so I didn’t even feel guilty about the beer I washed it down with.
As I headed back to the living room, hoping to find a game on the television, I slipped on a piece of paper and nearly fell.
“Motherfucker,” I grunted as I grabbed the kitchen table for support. I checked to see what it was that I’d forgotten to throw away. Then I realized Shelly must have done as I asked, and slipped the new tenant info under my door.
I bent over and picked up the paper. “Jerry Hawkins,” it read. I glanced over the particulars, and discovered that Jerry would be directly above me, and am surprised I hadn’t heard him move in. Well... maybe he hadn’t moved in yet. I decided I might as well be a good neighbor and - after throwing on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt - headed upstairs to see if I could help out.
I knocked a couple times and even called through the mail slot, but no one seemed to be home, so I went back to my apartment and watched a game.
*****
Later on that evening I decided I should probably call back my mother and we had a short chat. I found out she was pissed because I waited an “entire day” to call her back, and once I finally did, it was too late to help her out, which was the reason she called in the first place - wanting a ride to the hairdresser or something.
“Sorry, Mom,” I apologized. “Couldn’t Dad give you a ride?” I had to admit it kind of bugs me that she’s always calling with this kind of crap. I’ve been on my own for about a decade now, and she and my dad are living about forty miles away. And my dad is retired, for goodness sake! What the heck does she need my help for?
“Oh, he was out golfing, again,” she sighed. “Don’t worry about it. I got Marge from bridge club to go with me. I suppose I’ll see you for Christmas?”
Now it was my turn to feel guilty... it has been a few months. “Don’t talk like that,” I answered. “I’ll come up sometime.”
“How about this weekend?” my mom asked brightly, and I realized that I had walked right into her trap. Fucking mom. So devious, God lover her!
Still, there wasn’t much choice now. “Sure,” I said. “I have some stuff to do at home, but I’ll see you in a couple hours.”
I tried to ignore my mom’s near-squeal of delight, then actually did ignore her while she attempted to fill me in - over the phone! - about everything that had happened since we’d last talked.
“That’s great,” I interrupted when she finally stopped to take a breath. “But I’m going to see you soon. So... I’m going to go, okay?”
I could only shake my head. Next time I move, I promised myself, it will be to a different state.
No comments:
Post a Comment