Stuck in the Window: A Lonely Wife Finds Herself Alone With Her Sexy Black Neighbor

by Felicity Fleming

  Stuck in the Window

  By Felicity Fleming

  Copyright © 2017 by Felicity Fleming

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Similarly, this publication cannot be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which in it published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Author’s Note

  A previous, abridged version of this story was sold as Stuck and Surprised by Simone Scarlet.

  CONTENTS:

  MAIN STORY:

  Stuck in the Window

  BONUS STORY:

  Sealing the Deal

  SNEAK PEAK:

  Roasted by an Old Flame

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  Stuck in the Window

  Don't get me wrong. I love my husband - but sometimes, it's kind of nice to have a weekend without him.

  So when he was sent to Philadelphia on business, I made the most of it. That Saturday, I got up late, lounging deliciously in my big, fluffy bed. It seemed so much larger and more luxurious without his dead weight taking up half of it. Then I had a long, leisurely breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes and syrup - and didn't have to make any for him, so mine were fluffy and delicious, right off the griddle. Finally, I took a long, hot shower - able to take all the time I wanted without him banging on the door, telling me to hurry up.

  By the time I emerged, all pink and pristine, I was feeling wonderfully relaxed. And despite thoroughly enjoying not having hubby home, I wasn't entirely selfish. During my hour long shower, I'd at least taken the time to shave every inch of my long legs and smooth snatch ready for his return.

  I was just blow drying my long, black hair when the doorbell rang.

  Typical!

  Rolling my eyes, I put down the hair-dryer and pulled on my fluffy pink bath-robe, padding barefoot to the door.

  I arrived just in time to see the mailman strolling down the driveway. Tucked under his arm was what I assumed to be the special delivery I'd been waiting for.

  "Hey! Wait up!"

  I swung open the door and ran after him, wincing as my bare feet hit the gravel.

  Fortunately, I didn't have to run far. The mailman wheeled around at the sound of my voice: "Sorry, ma'am. I thought nobody was home."

  A likely story! He just didn't want to wait around.

  Irritated, I snatched my special delivery and signed for it with a flourish. Then, as Mr Mailman drove off in his silly little van, I painfully tip-toed across the gravel driveway back to the front door.

  Which was locked.

  I rattled the handle. It didn't budge.

  I must have pulled the latch as I ran out. Force of habit, since I do the same thing every morning on my way to work.

  Rattling the front door again didn't help - and I remembered that the deadbolt on the back door was locked as well.

  This was just wonderful! Here I was, stuck in nothing but my bathrobe - trapped outside my own house!

  Fortunately, it was nice out. The breeze was gentle and the sun was warm.

  Wrapping my robe tighter around myself, I braved the driveway barefoot. Wincing as I trod on the sharp gravel, I crept around to the side of the house and breathed a sigh of relief. One of the basement windows was still open, left up on its latch. It looked like a tight fit, but I was pretty sure I could squeeze my way through the window into the basement.

  I lifted up the hem of my robe and knelt down in the flower bed, feeling the soft soil squish around my knees. Typical, I scoffed. I'd need another shower after all this.

  Wrenching open the rusty basement window, I pondered how best to enter.

  Feet-first, my robe would ride up around my waist and my feet wouldn't be able to touch the floor. If I went head-first, at least I'd be able to stretch out my hands to reach the shelves and pull myself safely through.

  It was a bit daunting, climbing in head first, but it looked like the best way to do it.

  So hefting up the window sash, I got on my knees and slid my head and shoulders through the narrow window.

  I made it maybe a foot. Then there was a sickening crunch.

  I felt the wind knocked out of my lungs.

  The rusty old clasp had broken. No sooner had I forced the front half of my body through the narrow window than the sash came crashing down on my shoulder blades - painlessly pinning me in the window frame. Fortunately, I hadn't injured myself - but it still knocked the wind out of me.

  And it was a fine mess to be in.

  Now the window had broken, my head and shoulders were stuck in the basement, while the rest of me was stuck outside. I was still on my knees, too - bottom stuck straight up in the air.

  I struggled back and forth, trying to get free. It was no good.

  Squeezing forward dug the sash into my spine, while pulling back wedged it up against my shoulder blades. With my arms hanging uselessly inside the window, I couldn't even get enough leverage to push my torso up and raise the sash.

  And believe me, I tried. I flattened my palms and tried to `climb' up the rough concrete wall, but all I'd end up doing is sliding down again.

  Stuck in this embarrassing position, I did what any girl would do. I cried for help.

  I've got quite a set of lungs on me, which was fortunate since most of my voice was muffled by the basement walls. But eventually, I heard the sound of feet crunching on the gravel driveway and a worried voice demand: "Hello? Did you shout for help?"

  I recognized the voice. It was Armstrong, my next door neighbor. He was a lovely guy - a big, handsome black man with a warm laugh.

  "Armstrong!" I cried. "Please help me! I'm stuck!"

  It must have looked pretty weird. All Armstrong would have been able to see would be my butt, sticking up into the air and covered by my fluffy pink bathrobe.

  "Mrs McBride?" His chuckle rumbled. "Is that you?"

  "Well, I'm hardly a burglar," I scoffed. "They don't normally wear pink bathrobes."

  "No, ma'am, they don't," he laughed. I heard his boots crunch in the gravel as he took a step closer. "Looks like you've got yourself into a dilly of a pickle there."

  "Could you help me up?" I asked - surprised that the thought hadn't already occurred to him.

  He laughed again - it was a lovely noise, like logs crackling on a roaring fire.

  To be honest, I was feeling a little flustered. Armstrong was a very handsome and attractive guy - quite the favorite with the housewives on our street. It was pretty weird to be in such a vulnerable position. It wasn't just that I was totally trapped. With my ass stuck up into the air, it was almost like I was offering my butt to him. Not to mention, I might as well have been naked, apart from that th
in, fluffy bathrobe.

  "Now, before I help you out," Armstrong considered in that warm, sexy voice of his, "I had a quick question."

  "Can't it wait?"

  "Not really," Armstrong continued. "In fact, quite the opposite. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to find you in a position like this again."

  I blushed. Not that he'd have been able to notice.

  "I was just remembering," Armstrong purred, "that Christmas party last year."

  I blushed even harder.

  "I remember," I admitted. It had been the street's Christmas party and Armstrong had held it at his place, inviting the whole block for drinks. He'd even gone so far as to dress up as Santa Claus for the kids - and as the evening had worn on (and more drinks had been poured) there were some not-so-little girls who decided to sit on Santa's lap. I'd been one of them.

  "Do you remember what I asked you?" Armstrong asked.

  “I do," I squeezed my eyes shut with embarrassment. "You asked me if I'd been naughty or nice."

  "And what did you say?"

  “I told you I'd been very, very naughty."

  The truth was, I had been. I was more than a little tipsy that night and I'd been flirting outrageously with Armstrong that evening. Nestling into his lap, staring into his eyes. I told him I'd been `very, very naughty' and needed a good spanking for Christmas.

  Now that had all been in good fun. As flirtatious as I was - I hadn't meant anything by it. After all, I'm a happily married woman. But as I knelt there, trapped in the window, I remembered how my husky voice had coincided with something very big and hard appearing in Santa's pants.

  Wiggling around on his lap hadn't helped, either.

  "It seems to me," Armstrong chuckled, "that poor old Santa Claus isn't going to get another opportunity to deliver his Christmas present any time soon."

  I blinked.

  "What?"

  There was another crunch as Armstrong dropped to his knees on the gravel. Then, to my embarrassment, I felt him grab the hem of my robe and lift it up.

  "What on earth are you doing?" I demanded. "Stop that this instant!"

  But he didn't. In fact, Armstrong lifted my robe up completely, exposing my backside and thighs to the cool breeze.

  "Stop that this instant!" I yelled. "Armstrong, this is highly inappropriate!"

  I then felt his warm, calloused path stroke my exposed cheeks. They were still damp and greasy from my shower and a slathering of baby oil.

  "Now Mrs McBride," Armstrong warned, "both you and I know you were hitting on me pretty hard last Christmas. You must have felt the bulge in Santa's pants."

  "I just thought that was a very large candy cane."

  "No," Armstrong chuckled, "I was just pleased to see you."

  He was rubbing my butt cheeks in wide, circular motions now. His hands were big and rough. His calluses felt delicious against my soft, oily skin.

  "In fact, I know you felt the bulge," said Armstrong thoughtfully, "because you kept wiggling on it."

  Oh, curse those cups of mulled wine I'd had! He was absolutely right, of course. I'd flirted incorrigibly. But in my defense, I wasn't the only one. Half the housewives on the block must have been hitting on sexy, single, exotic Armstrong.

  "I'll tell you what, my dear," Armstrong purred. His fingers were stroking my legs now, dangerously close to my inner thighs. "How about you be a big, brave girl and take your Christmas caning and then we'll see what we can do about getting you out of there?"

  Now I know I should have said no. I should have yelled at him and threatened to call my husband - or the police. But the truth was, his warm, rough hands and deep, rich voice was turning me to butter. I was feeling trapped and vulnerable. Stuck on my knees, I was unintentionally offering myself up to him. My soft, round, freshly oiled ass. Even my shaved and baby-soft pussy, which I'd carefully made smooth in anticipation of my husband's return.

  It wasn't my husband that was making it quiver now. It was Armstrong and those damnable hands of his. My clit was throbbing as his fingers traced a path ever closer to my moist snatch.

  I squeezed shut my eyes and tried to resist him one last time. I knew deep down that if I told him `no,' Armstrong would stop immediately and help me out of the window like a true gentleman.

  But I didn't want to say no.

  "Alright," I whispered huskily.

  To reward me, Armstrong slid a rough, warm finger between the lips of my pussy. Not inside me... Just enough to part my dampness and stroke my clit. His brief touch elicited a deep, guttural moan from me.

  And then he was gone.

  I heard the sound of his boots on the gravel, straightening up. Then I heard him march to the willow hedge dividing his property from ours and the sound of rustling undergrowth.

  "W-what are you doing?" I demanded. He didn't respond.

  Instead, I heard the snap of a breaking branch and then the rasp of leaves being torn off it. Then the whistling whisk of a bare branch being swung forcefully through the air.

  I bit my bottom lip.

  Of course, I couldn't see it - but I didn't need to. Armstrong had clearly taken a long, lithe branch of willow and stripped it of its leaves. What was left would be a flexible, sharp little switch.

  "You can't be serious!" I protested.

  Armstrong didn't say anything - but a moment later, I felt the tickling sensation of him running the flexible switch up and down my tingling thighs.

  "Armstrong, please!" I begged. "Not that!"

  Armstrong chuckled again.

  "It's your choice, my dear," he purred warmly. "If you'd rather stay like that, I'll leave you be right now. But I should warn you. Next door have their Great Dane out and I don't think they're getting him spayed until next month."

  I closed my eyes in frustration. Maybe Armstrong would be cruel enough to leave me pinned in the window until my husband got back - my ass in the air and my robe pulled up around my shoulders. I'd be utterly helpless – and if to reinforce that point, I heard my neighbor's rambunctious Great Dane bark playfully.

  "Very well," I murmured.

  "Good girl," the tip of the switch lightly tickled the lips of my pussy. "Be brave."

  It's not like I had any choice in the matter!

  The tickling, teasing switch was removed and I heard the gravel crunch as Armstrong got into position.

  "By the way," he announced, "I think the neighbors are out in force today. The sound of this might not be too alarming," I heard the willow branch whisk sharply through the air, "but if they hear you screaming or crying out, you can bet they'll be over trying to see what's wrong."

  I suddenly visualized all my neighbors, peering at my exposed backside as somebody other than my husband criss-crossed it with red stripes.

  "I'll be quiet," I promised.

  "Good girl," Armstrong purred wickedly. The switch swished through the air again.

  The gravel crunched. Through the glass, I felt his shadow fall across me.

  "I'm going to give you fifty two," he warned me. "One for every week you were naughty."

  "Fifty two!" I cried out, almost loud enough for the neighbors to hear. "I can't survive fifty two!"

  "You can and you will," Armstrong warned. "In fact, you'll no utter a noise except to thank me after each strike."

  Fifty two? I hadn't even had one, so I had no idea what to expect. In some ways, that made the anticipation so much worse. How would I be able to cope with one swish of that sharp little switch? Let alone fifty two of them?

  "Please, no," I pleaded. "I can't take that much."

  "Well, that depends," Armstrong purred. "Perhaps we can negotiate. But let's see how you hold up, first."

  And with that, I heard the swish of the branch whistling through the air and then an almighty crack as it made contact with my buttocks.

  For a second, I was surprised only by the noise - which was certainly loud enough for everybody on the street to hear. But barely a heartbeat later, I suddenly felt a strip of pure, re
d heat paint a path across both by buttocks and I cried out in pain.

  "Ssssh!" Ordered Armstrong - and I struggled to stifle my groan.

  That initial `thwack' had been bad enough - but immediately afterwards, that thin line across my ass began to throb. Tears sprang from my eyes. I squeezed them shut, trying desperately to cope with the pain. It was like somebody was pressing a hot poker across my bum, the heart throbbing in time to my heartbeat.

  "What do you say?" Armstrong demanded.

  I didn't say anything. I was whooping in great lungfuls of air to cope with the pain.

  Through gritted teeth, I eventually managed to gasp: `T-thank you."

  "Good girl."

  There was the whisk of the branch again and then the sharp slap of birch against buttock.

  I stifled the cry, emitting a guttural groan as the throbbing pain spread itself in another thin line across my ass. Suddenly, the pulses of pain were in stereo, criss-crossing each other.

  "You should see your beautiful bottom," Armstrong purred proudly. "X marks the spot."

  "Thank you," I groaned.

  The next swish bisected my thighs - landing on the strip where my ass meets my legs.

  "Thank you!" I almost shouted, trying desperately to control the intense heat. "THANK YOU!"

  Another swish! Another thwack! This time, the only spot X marked on my thighs was my pussy, which was the centre point of the two criss-crossing switches.

  Tears were rolling down my cheeks. I was whooping in great lungfuls of air. I felt like I was melting - utterly helpless.

  Armstrong must have realized that. There was a crunch of gravel as he knelt down and stroked my throbbing ass.

  His fingers were rough and calloused, but felt cool and gentle. He rubbed his big hands in rough circles, that helped soften the throbbing welts in my skin.

  "There, there," he said soothingly. "You're a good girl. And only forty eight left to go!"

  "Oh, God..." I groaned.

  "Be a brave little baby," Armstrong whispered huskily.

  He wouldn't have been able to see it, but I shook my head from side to side.