C*cky Neighbor
Fettucine Holliday
Contents
About the Author
1. The Story
Noodles to Support
About the Author
Fettucine is a limp, overcooked spaghetti lounging on a pool chair by the ocean. “Don’t throw your sauce at me, sir!” she shouts at scandalized passerby. Noodle nudity is an equal right.
Copyright © 2018 Fettucine Holliday.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
If a legal fund is put together for those affected by #cockygate, some of the proceeds of this book sale will go to those defending freedom of dick slang speech.
Created with Vellum
1
The Story
“Shhhhh, Sean,” I coo at my cockatoo, trying to make him silence his squawks. “We don’t want to make a bad first impression.”
Throwing the cover over his cage, I knock on the door to apartment 4D. My heart is hammering in my chest; I’m about to meet my new roommates, and I couldn’t be more nervous. I’ve only ever lived with women before, so this will be a first.
My new roommates are men.
It’s so shocking and scandalous! People of the opposite sex, living together outside of the bonds of marriage. I feel faint just thinking about it all. Normally I wouldn’t do something so sinfully tempting, but my fiancé just broke up with me and I figure, what’s the worst that could happen? An orgy? Probably an orgy.
I knock on the door, and hear a man moving inside the apartment. When he opens the door, I’m absolutely flummoxed by the slab of steak standing before me.
This man looks like a model out of a dandruff shampoo commercial, that’s how mouth-wateringly hot he is. If he shook his head and flakes of oily skin showered me I wouldn't even be mad about it. I’d just open my mouth and try to catch them on my tongue as they fall, like a kid catching snowflakes on Christmas morning.
“Hello,” he drawls, his voice liquid, like hot dijon mustard on a Florida summer day. Lounging against the door frame, he stares down at me from a great height. “If you’re selling cookies, you should know I’m a gluten free vegan heroine addict.”
“Uh, no cookies.” My cockatoo Sean squawks in his cage, and I glare over at it. No bird will get in the way of me flirting with a knockoff Ken doll come to life. “I’m your new roommate.”
“I don’t live with women,” he says, a caveman lawyer scowl beetling his brow. “What, is your name confusingly androgynous or something? Payton? Chris? Alex? Blair? Ashley? Whitney? Taylor? Are you about to move in with a bunch of men who think you’re also a man?”
“No.” I frown up at him from my diminutive height. “That would be very dumb and extremely unlikely. My name is Hannah with an H at the end. Palindromes are a family tradition, because of our dyslexia.”
“That makes complete sense to me,” he responds. “I’m Jettt with three Ts, because there was a copyright dispute over the name Jett with two Ts. No roommates here, expected or otherwise. I live by myself.”
“I guess I was mistaken about where I’m moving in,” I say, glancing down at the piece of paper in my hand that has my new address on it. I scrawled the information on an old receipt in pink highlighter, and now it’s smeared all over the place, for obvious reasons. “I think I’m supposed to be in 4F.”
“You’re my neighbor, then. Guess I’ll help you move in.”
He reaches down to grab the bird cage before I can stop him. Sean screams out, “Your pussy is dry, your pussy is dry!” and I turn fifty shades of scarlet.
“Um,” Jettt stares at me, “your bird seems very concerned about your… here kitty kitty.”
It was something my cockatoo overheard my former fiancé say, but I’ll cut out my tongue with a dirty circumcision scalpel before I admit that to Jettt. “I adopted him from an abusive situation.”
“How noble of you.” Sean calms down, thankfully, and Jett helps me get my stuff one door down. “I hope you like your new roommates.”
“Thank you.”
He turns to go, making me wish I had Gumby arms and could stretch out far enough to grab him and drag him back. I’d like to ride that Roman Emperor nose until I’m squawking harder than my cockatoo.
I knock on the door to my new apartment and wait, but no one answers. Jettt pauses in front of his door, glancing over me with his freshly-cut-grass-colored eyes. Knocking again, I shift back and forth on the balls of my feet.
Then I hear some noises within. Leaning close, I listen in to the voices that echo inside. “Touch my butt with your butt!” a masculine voice cries out. “Put your gay penis next next to mine, yeah, that’s right.”
Flushing from head to toe, I realize what’s going on. My male roommates are doing the birds and the bees all on their own. Or is it the birds and the birds, or the bees and the bees? I never did know which metaphor penetrates which. My lesbian mothers explained it all to me with finger puppets that had wig hair glued to them.
“I’ll just wait out here,” I say to Jettt, who’s still watching me from next door. “They’re, uh, a little busy.”
As if on cue, Sean screeches, “Suck my dick like you mean it!” I’ve never regretted accepting my fiancé’s proposal more. I’m going to have to read Jane Austen fanfiction to my cockatoo to get him to stop embarrassing me.
Jettt says, “I think he has the right idea.”
“I’m sorry about my dumb bird.”
“Sounds pretty smart to me.” He makes a come-hither motion with his fingers, and I nearly come in more way than one. “How about you and I be neighborly, and I let you stay at my place until the gay butt rubbing is over?”
“That would be nice,” I say, as the grunts, groans, and slaps in my new apartment grow louder and louder.
We move my stuff back across the hallway, pulling it all into his bachelor pad. Taking a few hesitant steps inside, I look around at Jettt’s place. It’s very masculine and manly. There’s a poster of the Y chromosome on the wall, and the carpet is mostly made out of crushed chips and pretzels. He had a blowup sex doll sitting on the sofa; when I glance over at it he quickly stuffs it in a closet.
“Sorry.” Scuffing his toes in the layer of crumbs beneath our feet, he gives me a shy smile. “I didn’t know I’d be having guests.”
“It’s okay. My bird yells sex stuff at strangers.”
“I like your bird.” Pacing over to me, he stares deep into my soul with those moldy cheese green eyes of his. “Tell me, Hannah, why did you decide to move in with a bunch of strange men?”
I glance down at the carpet, face burning. “Well, it wasn’t because I have a burning need to do the deed.”
“Are you sure about that?” His voice purrs at me like an old cat with lung cancer. “Because the last time I checked, lady people don’t move in with dude people unless there’s sexy times happening. It’s the oldest trope in the rulebook, and I think you want to skim that book until you get to the naughty scenes then read them over… and over…”
I press my thighs together to clamp down on the burning Capzasin feeling coming out of the venus flytrap I hide beneath my skirt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jettt. I… I never think about things like that.”
“Oh really?” He paces over towards me, feet skimming along the crunchy carpet. “So you have no interest in smacking your lips against my tan pool noodle?”
Every word he says is like an arrow right to my Sunday school region. I want to put a hand between my legs and sniff it. “How do you know?” I whisper.
“Because I’m an arrogan
t, overconfident, cocksure man.” He smiles at me like the cat that caught the canary. “You might even say that I’m impudent and egotistical. I have a thingy in my capris and it sucks up all the blood that would otherwise go to my brain.”
“Sounds… perfect.” My fiancé was always too busy playing Magic: The Gathering to pull his fun size baseball bat out and give my twirl a whirl. “Can I borrow a cup of sugar, neighbor?”
“Sure,” he says, pouncing on me and pulling me close enough to smell the blowup sex doll pussy on his lips, “but I have to warn you, this sugar will be sticky.”
“Okay.”
“Like seriously, it’ll sting your eyes. I have terrible aim.”
Giggling at how seductive he is, I lean in until I can see the hair sprouting out of the mole on the side of his face. “Give it to me, nearest proximate man person. Put your ting ting in my ping ping.”
Jettt kisses me like an old man sucks pudding off a spoon: eagerly, and with an unnecessary amount of teeth. His mouth tastes like department store purse pleather and the burnt stuff you scrape off your stove once a year. Sucking my lower lip into his mouth, he moves his tongue back and forth on it for a long, long time, never breaking for anything else.
Seriously, he does it for like a whole minute, if that minute happened right before Daylight Savings Time and was then repeated for another sixty minutes because of some dead president.
When he breaks the kiss off to stare down into my eyes with his fake-Christmas-tree-colored gaze, half my lip feels numb and the other half wetter than a Mississippi swamp. “I’m going to show you on a tour of my boudoir,” he says all romantic-like, “and then show you my sandworm.”
“Do me,” I moan hungrily.
“For at least a minute, I will,” he promises.
His room is just past the leather couch, which has been scratched to hell by a cat I smell but never see. Everything about Jettt screams overconfident male, from the cheap body spray that lingers in his living room to his complete lack of hygiene or standards. This apartment yells with stiff turgidity. It’s enough to make my femme fatale go squish squish.
If this is what living with a man before marriage is like, no wonder society makes it totally taboo. I’d be a one woman slip ‘n’ slide if I woke up every day in this sin bin, knowing I was one room over from a hunka hunka man meat.
With a flourish, Jettt opens up the door to his bedroom and reveals the room where it happens. The walls are undecorated, all serial killer style, with a barely made mattress sitting on the floor. Cat hair dust bunnies cling to the corners of the room, mingling with all the man things: dirty boxers, magazines that make you slip when you step on them, disposable dishes half-covered in food that may or may not be eaten later in flagrant ignorance of sell-by dates.
I’d swoon, but there’s no stable furniture to fall back onto. So I settle for clutching my chest. “I’ve never seen such a manly man male cave before.”
“It’s all for your pleasure, baby,” he says, throwing his arms wide as he backs into the room. “Now it’s time for me to push your skirt up and clumsily fuck your polliwog.”
I can barely wait. Walking onto the mattress—it’s not thick enough to really require a step up—I turn towards him as he sweeps me into his arms. His lips find mine (after only a little confusion that somehow starts with him kissing my half-closed eyelid) and he licks my mouth like a dog trying to find peanut butter between two couch cushions. It’s that eagerness that makes me grab his hand and draw it down to my hot, moist chi chi.
“Oh, you like being touched in your original sin? Good to know.” He moves his hand back and forth until there’s a squeaking sound. “Most women just want my sausage, but for you I’ll do the stuff I usually save for my sex doll Elaine.”
I moan and ask him, “What type of sausage is it?”
“French,” he says against my mouth, “but not the good, fresh kind from the supermarket. It’s more like a sausage smuggled through customs and forgotten in the bottom of an overstuffed suitcase.”
Moaning, I rub myself on his digits just thinking about it. “The best kind of sausage.”
“Let me show you. First, though, you show me yours.”
“Gladly.”
He helps me take my clothes off, his mozzarella stick fingers fumbling with my bra. I pull my skirt and panties down, then reach back to help him with the twelve clasps that keep my top undergarments together.
When I’m finally naked and afraid, he looks down at my boobs and honks them with his hand. “Awooga,” he says quite seductively. Then he takes my hand and pulls me down onto his mattress, which dips uncomfortably close to the floor in the middle when our weight settles down on it. “You’re so sexy. I bet you’ll like my floppy tree branch.”
I squirm at his words. “Show it to me.”
“First, let me take care of you, human woman I just met.” Staring into my eyes with his mildew-in-a-bathtub-colored eyes, he pets my legs and arms against the grain of my hair. “I want to lick the feminist sculpture class assignment between your thunder thighs.”
Opening myself up to him, I lay back as he moves his head down to my dirty kitty cat. His mouth opens and he flicks out his tongue. I grab his hair and guide him with my hand, insistently pressing him close enough to squish down his nose. I can tell from the frightened look in his eyes that he’s no expert at this, but he’s no DJ Khaled either. Guiding him to what I want seems to work, and soon enough he’s licking deep into my black hole with a tongue like a prehensile alien tentacle in a horror movie.
“Yeah, that’s it!” I shout, crying out as I stare up at the improbably dirty ceiling of his bedroom. “Here it comes!”
Quaking all over, I climax very easily. My legs clamp down over the sides of his head and pin him down. He squirms and that just makes it so much better.
When I’m finally done, Jettt climbs out from between my legs and stares down at me worshipfully. “Wow. Elaine has never done that.”
Coyly, I tell him, “Show me your chub chub and I’ll show you a few other human things I can do.”
Eagerly, he whips his shirt off and fumbles with the zipper of his pants. That arrogant, conceited, confident, cocksure, boastful, presumptuous (the right word is just on the tip of my tongue) look comes back on his face. He warns me, “I’m about to show you my third forearm, but first I have to warn you: it might just be enough to make you faint.”
“Good thing I’m already laying down,” I point out, leaning back far enough that my arms brush up against the bare corner of the mattress, where his sheet has come undone and he hasn’t bothered to tuck it back in. “Show me what you’re working with. I’m ready for it.”
“You asked for it.”
He peels his pants off, revealing the overripe banana beneath them. Disposing of the brown fruit, he then reveals his actual body.
His skin is taut and dry like the top of an unmoisturized snare drum. The weirdly box-shaped planes of his chest lead down to a set of legs like that robot from the reboot of Lost in Space.
Nestled between those impossible legs, stuck in an unruly jungle of untrimmed pubic hair, is a cock the size of two pounds of supermarket ground beef. I stare at it, wide-eyed, my gaze travelling briefly to the meatballs wrapped in filo dough hanging beneath, then back up to the mushroom cloud tip.
“Why does it look like an assortment of groceries?” I ask him, reaching out to brush my fingers along the waxy surface.
He shrugs. “It’s been like that ever since I decided that showering properly is too feminine for me.”
Oh, how I want him to devour me. No man has ever been this… well, manlike. Licking my lips, I lean back onto the single thin pillow on his bed and spread my legs in a V shape.
“Do me, Jettt with three Ts.”
That’s all the prompting this cock—arrogant cowboy needs. Grabbing his big ol’ thingy, he slams into me and pierces my witch’s cavern with his unregistered trademark. I moan and thrash beneath him as he thrusts into
me, hitting me G-spot over and over again with incredible accuracy. The slimey unwashed filth clinging to his pink flesh cylinder only makes it that much slicker and hotter. Finally, a real man is doing me good.
As he lays his pipe inside me, Jettt reaches down and tugs at my nipples until they’re almost as erect as his penis. I gasp with overwhelming pleasure, and in the other room I can hear Sean scream out, “It looks like a baton stabbing a pile of pre-chewed bubblegum!”
I cry out as I orgasm again, then again, each amateur thrust of Jettt’s ham tube driving me to new heights of ecstasy. This is better than that one time my ex-fiancé did the dishes without me asking.
Pulling out of the hot pink envelope flaps between my legs, Jettt positions his cock right in front of my face. He stares at me with his lime-flavored-candy-colored eyes, hand moving on his stuff so fast it practically blurs. I see it coming when he makes that ridiculous face, but I still gasp in surprise as he spills his expired ranch salad dressing on my cherubin pink cheeks.
“Oh, Jettt,” I moan, licking the sour stuff off my lips. “No man has ever done me so good before!”
“And no man ever will,” he says smugly, collapsing next to me with a cock—er, um, oh no, wait, satisfied look on his face. Jettt adds, “This pipe is in the process of being trademarked, baby, and once you’ve had it you’ll accept no substitutes, because I threaten them with lawsuits if they even try.”
I sigh dreamily, fanning my face. “Please tell me that we’ll do this more often, neighbor.”
“Of course we will—as soon as I’ve broken up with Elaine.” He reaches under my head to yank the pillow out, putting it under his head instead. “I’ve always wanted a girlfriend that moves. Besides, where else will you get such top shelf peeny as this?”
“I am about to move in with four men,” I point out, defensive despite myself.
C*cky Neighbor Page 1