Want It Bad: A Kinky Romance

by Melinda DuChamp

  She was thinking about the hot guy moving in next door.

  Had he been serious about the Brazilian bet?

  Had he been serious about what parts of his body he shaved?

  Carla hadn’t given him the hundred dollars she owed him. She would tomorrow.

  But a big part of her wished she’d taken him up on double or nothing.

  Two

  “That guy I picked up last night was a total horn dog,” Janet said, rice dribbling down her chin.

  They were sitting on a bench and eating sushi at the Pike Place Market, Seattle’s go-to spot for fresh produce. Janet was dipping her tuna maki roll in enough wasabi soy sauce to frighten a fire-breathing dragon. Carla had opted for the less-spicy ama ebi, balling up the shrimp tails in her paper napkin.

  “All your men are horn dogs, Janet.”

  “True, but this one was a major freakazoid. Get this; when I’m blowing him, he wants me to stick my finger up his ass.”

  Carla wasn’t as shocked as she’d expected. “You think that’s freaky? I thought you were all about doing da butt.”

  “Come on, Carla. I just met the guy. I’m supposed to tunnel up the dirt trail on our first date? Give him the stinky pinky?”

  Carla shook her head. “So sucking a guy’s cock on the first date isn’t too personal, but you can’t touch his ass?”

  “I’m not talking about touching his ass. I’m taking about poking prostate. Carving my initials in his dinner. I mean, after a shower I don’t mind tossing a guy’s salad, but I draw the line at browning my manicure.”

  “You should write greeting cards. Do I even want to know what tossing salad means?”

  “Licking his asshole.”

  “Why is it called tossing salad?”

  “Maybe because if the guy isn’t hygienic, you can find croutons.”

  Carla pushed away her sushi plate. “That’s gross.”

  “It’s not bad. Some guys love it. Some girls, too. You’ve never had a man tongue you down there? He’s eating at the Y, then nibbled on the O?”

  “I swear you’re making this stuff up.”

  “I’m not. It feels great. Do you know the anus has over one million nerve endings?”

  “Prove it.”

  “How? Who would take the time to count them all?”

  Carla checked her watch. Still twenty minutes before she had to get back to the office.

  So tell Janet about Jake? Or not? Carla was bursting to talk about it, but there wasn’t enough time to get in all the details. Maybe it would be best saved for their next girls’ night out. When Carla had a touch of alcohol to loosen her lips, help her relax enough to make it a good story.

  “A guy moved in next door,” Carla blurted out.

  “Is he single?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Are you hot for him?”

  “I… I think I might be.”

  Janet gave her a bump in the shoulder. “You slut! Tell me everything!”

  Carla started at the beginning, from first seeing him at the moving truck, up until he mentioned the Brazilian.

  “He didn’t say that!”

  “He did.”

  When Carla told her the part about touching his back and the double or nothing wager, Janet howled like a coyote.

  “Please tell me you took him up on that, Carla. Please tell me.”

  “Of course not. Like I’m going to pay two hundred dollars to see if a complete stranger has shaved his schlong.”

  “I would have paid three hundred just to see you pay two hundred. He’s into you.”

  “We were just goofing around.”

  “I can move pretty fast, girl. But you got Jake to strip in front of you after knowing him all of five minutes. And he’s built?”

  “Like an underwear model.”

  “He’s coming over later for a beer, right?”

  Carla nodded. Prior to sushi, she’d picked up a six pack of assorted beers at a gourmet shop nearby. While many of her colleagues were wine snobs, Carla had always been partial to the bite of hops and the sweetness of malt. She’d selected six excellent craft brews, and depending on what kinds of beer he liked, she had it covered.

  “Go over to his place first and say you changed your mind and will bet double or nothing.”

  Carla shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

  “Chicken.”

  “I’m not chicken. I’ve seen a guy’s dick before. I’m not going to pay for it.”

  Janet rolled her eyes. “You’ve paid guys before.”

  “Never.”

  “My sister’s bachelorette party. You were cramming twenties down that stripper’s pouch. You yanked his junk so hard he shrieked.”

  “That was you.”

  “Yeah, I guess it was.” She paused, as if to savor the memory. “Like trying to uproot an elm tree. So what do you have against paying for it?”

  “I…” Carla wasn’t sure how to answer that.

  “A guy ever buy you dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you blow him afterward?”

  “I can’t remember. Maybe.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing as paying?”

  “What? No! Of course it isn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Carla fell back on lawyerspeak. “There was no contract. You’re talking about implied-in-fact agreements. But there is no implication that if a man buys you food, or flowers, or a box of candy, that he’s guaranteed sex.”

  “So he’s not expecting a hummer?”

  “Him expecting it and me being required to give compensation are two different things.”

  “Ever pity fuck someone?”

  Carla looked around, expecting to see Ashton Kutcher pop out from behind a tree. You’ve been Punk’d! “How did we get on this topic?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I… guess.”

  “I’m no lawyer, but doesn’t that mean you agreed to implied compensation? He wanted something, you gave it to him. So why can’t it be the other way around?”

  “What are you talking about, Janet?”

  “It’s a double standard. Guys can take a woman out, and then expect sex. Guys can outright pay for sex with hookers. Guys can even get sex by playing the sympathy card. Oh, my poor little pecker is so hard. Can you suck it for me? Pretty please? Why can’t girls do the same thing?”

  “So you’re saying I should go over to my neighbor’s house and give him two hundred dollars to see if he’s shaved down there?”

  Janet polished off her last piece of sushi, then swallowed it with a sip of diet Snapple tea. “How much money do you make a week, Carla? Two hundred bucks to you is like regular people tipping a cab driver. He made the offer. Take him up on it. Who knows where it could lead.”

  “Jail, for solicitation.”

  “Puh-lease. God gave you a pussy. Use it. If you don’t oil the gates every so often, they might rust shut forever.”

  Janet was crazy, of course. But for the rest of the day, Carla daydreamed about how that scene might actually play out. She could imagine Jake, standing in his doorway, with that smirk on his face and his blue eyes twinkling, slowly opening the button fly of his jeans…

  Not only did it prevent Carla from getting any work done, but by the time she punched out for the day she was uncomfortably aroused.

  • • •

  When she got back to her home in Windermere, Carla was surprised to see that her mailbox had been repaired. The new post hole probably took some serious effort to dig, and she regretted not seeing Jake do the manual labor. Maybe he’d gotten so sweaty he had to take his shirt off. Maybe it was such a chore that he was heaving and grunting the whole time, jaw clenched and muscles straining.

  And maybe Janet was right and Carla really was a slut.

  She threw the beer in the refrigerator, and checked the time. Six-fifteen.

  Now what was she going to wear for
her date?

  Scratch that. It wasn’t a date. She was inviting a neighbor over for a beer, because he changed her tire. Jake couldn’t be interested in her in that way. And she couldn’t be interested in him. What would her co-workers think? Dating an unsuccessful actor, more than ten years her junior? She could imagine the water cooler conversation, centered around words like cougar and cradle robber.

  This wasn’t a date. It was a drink.

  So what did a woman wear for drinks with her neighbor?

  Carla decided to stay with what she wore to work, a black pantsuit with a dark blue silk blouse. That way it wouldn’t look like she’d changed on his account.

  She checked the time again. Six-twenty.

  An hour and forty minutes to kill. Call Mom? Catch up on Grey’s Anatomy? Read a few chapters of the new Ann Voss Peterson thriller?

  Carla thought of her mailbox. How sweet it was that Jake had fixed it.

  Then she thought about the hundred dollars she owed him, from their bet.

  She certainly wasn’t going to follow Janet’s double-or-nothing suggestion. But it wouldn’t hurt to pop over to his house, pay him what she owed him, and thank him for the mailbox. Maybe she could even bring a few beers along with her.

  Was that being too forward?

  No. They were neighbors. This wasn’t a date. The time didn’t matter. And there was nothing improper about being neighborly.

  She selected two beers from the six pack—a 3 Floyds IPA and a Founders Stout—and walked over to Jake’s.

  Since Gloria Hotchland had moved to the drier weather of Phoenix, her home had been regularly cared for. Landscapers tended to the lawn and shrubs. Realtors made sure the windows were washed. But it still looked vacant. Empty homes were like dead people; the shell was there, but the soul was gone.

  Now, however, there was ample evidence of life inside the Hotchland house. A car—a new model Cadillac—was parked in the driveway. Several lights were on. And the sounds of a horror movie penetrated the front door; a woman, screaming for her life over the beat of synthesizer music.

  Carla raised her hand to ring the doorbell and paused.

  That was no horror movie. The woman wasn’t screaming in terror.

  She was screaming in ecstasy.

  Is Jake watching a porno?

  Or…

  Is he with a woman?

  Carla was 99% sure it was pornography, because in real life women didn’t make sounds like that. She backed away from the door. No one liked to be disturbed having one-on-one time with themselves. Smiling, Carla took a step off the porch and was ready to walk back home, her mind filling with images of Jake, naked, his erect cock in his hand, madly pulling on it and—

  “Oh, Jake!”

  Carla paused, mid-stride.

  Had someone in the house just cried out Jake’s name?

  Could it be possible that this wasn’t an adult film? That Jake was actually causing a woman to make sounds like that?

  Like in the cartoons, Carla could feel a little angel and a little devil suddenly appear on each shoulder.

  Devil: Go look. You know you want to.

  Angel: That’s wrong, and illegal.

  Devil: I bet you’ll see his big cock.

  Angel: How would you like someone spying on you?

  Devil: That would be hot. I bet he’s hung like a stallion.

  Angel: Go back home this instant. You’re not some peeping Tom.

  “I’m not some peeping Tom,” Carla said, feeling ridiculous for engaging in this clichéd, imaginary debate. She took two purposeful steps toward her house, two faltering ones, and then turned back around, “But I really want to see his big cock.”

  Carla found herself creeping around the house, toward the side window. She knew the floor plan from previous parties that Gloria had thrown, and the master bedroom was on the north side. As Carla approached, she saw the drapes were drawn over the large bay windows.

  Well, mostly drawn. There was a gap between them almost a foot wide.

  “Jake! Oh god oh god oh god!”

  Carla froze. Jake obviously had a woman in there. And he was obviously rocking her world.

  She turned to go back home, shaking her head, and thought about explaining the scene to Janet.

  Janet, of course, would ask if Carla peeked. She could practically hear her best friend say, “You mean you didn’t even look to see what they were doing? How fucking prudish are you?”

  “I’m not a prude,” Carla would insist.

  Then Janet would made some crack like, “You’re so prudish you were born with granny panties on.” Or, “You’re so prudish you wear a one piece in the bathtub.”

  Which wasn’t fair. Carla was maybe a bit sexually conservative, especially compared to her friend, but she wasn’t a prude. Unlike Janet, she respected people’s privacy. Especially when they were engaged in an obviously intimate moment.

  “No more, Jake! I can’t take another one! Ooooooh, yesssss!”

  Okay. Now Carla had to look.

  She’d be quick. Just a very fast peek inside, to see what Jake’s girlfriend looked like, and see what he was doing to make her squeal like that. Maybe it was a practical joke. When Carla was ten years old, she broke her leg roller skating, and she didn’t scream that loud. Maybe Jake saw her walking up the driveway and was pranking her.

  Carla snuck up to the window, intending to bob her head up, then immediately retreat. But once her eyes focused on the scene in the bedroom, Carla became paralyzed with awe.

  The metal framed king-size bed was positioned at an angle in the room. Jake stood at the bottom of it, shirtless, his upper body glistening with sweat, defining each muscle. He wore black leather pants, and from Carla’s side view, Jake’s need was obvious. His manhood strained against the tight leather, long and thick and perfectly outlined as it was pressed against his thigh.

  In front of him, a woman reclined on the bed, arms stretched above her head, wrists handcuffed to the bedpost. Her ankles were chained to the foot of the bed, legs splayed wide. With one hand, Jake worked a large black dildo in and out of her. With the other, he stroked her clitoris.

  She writhed and moaned, her hips bucking up and down, squirming against his fingers, meeting his thrusts.

  Carla knew she should look away, run back to her own house, quit acting like some kind of creepy voyeur, but she couldn’t make herself move. She couldn’t make herself blink. All she could do was stand there and stare, a flush sweeping over her skin, her pulse hammering in her ears.

  Besides being mediocre, Carla’s sex life had also been predictably vanilla. Mostly missionary position. Foreplay that never lasted more than a few minutes. Never any toys, and certainly not anything as out there as handcuffs and chains. No man had ever come in her mouth, or on her face or breasts, or anywhere other than in the condom while he pumped away inside her, always finishing too quickly for her to really get into it.

  Seeing this woman, so vulnerable and helpless, being served by this young Adonis who made no demands and postponed his own obvious need felt a little surreal. A little amazing. And as Carla watched, her panties grew embarrassingly wet.

  Jake stopped rubbing his partner and lowered his face between her thighs. While still working the dildo in and out, Jake kissed her there like Carla dreamed men would kiss her mouth. Tender but ravenous, sensual but needy. With his free hand he cupped her bottom, pressing her into his lips and tongue, making the woman arch her back and pull against her restraints. She leaned her head back and cried out again, longer and louder than before, and that’s when Carla noticed the woman’s face.

  She was older. Not just Carla’s age, but at least twenty years older than that.

  The woman cried out again. “Oh, fuck me! Fuck me!”

  “Fuck me,” Carla whispered in disbelief. “He’s banging Mrs. Claus.”

  Jake continued to go at it, and Carla was rooted there, transfixed, getting more and more turned on. When the older woman whimpered, Carla felt hers
elf whimpering as well.

  Loudly whimpering.

  Jake lifted his head and turned in the direction of the window. His eyes locked with Carla’s for one second, two, and then his right lid lowered in a wink.

  Carla froze, wishing she could disappear, hide. She spun away from the window and dashed across the yard to her house. Once inside she flipped the deadbolt and braced her back up against the door. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her heart a hummingbird trapped in a too-small cage.

  He saw me.

  Jake saw me.

  He looked right at me.

  But it was more than that. More than her blatant voyeurism, her invasion of privacy, her being a terrible neighbor.

  He heard me whimper. He knew how watching him made me feel.

  Carla closed her eyes, seeing the scene again in her mind’s eye. The expression on the older woman’s face, a contortion of ecstasy Carla couldn’t even dream of knowing. The way Jake expertly worked her body, playing her like she was a musical instrument and he was a virtuoso. How he selflessly put the woman’s needs before his. And her age! She could have been his grandmother. What was a hot stud doing with a mature woman like that?

  But then, Carla knew what he was doing. She’d seen the woman’s expression, heard her screams. Jake was driving her insane with pleasure. Working the dildo in and out. Caressing her folds with his fingers, his lips, his tongue. Slowly. Sensually. Coaxing the cries from her, then demanding them. And with her wrists and ankles bound, the woman couldn’t escape, couldn’t get away, couldn’t even close her thighs. Much as she strained and pleaded and cried out, she was at Jake’s mercy, totally open to him.

  Carla moaned and realized her fingers had found their way to her crotch, and she was stroking herself through her clothing. Embarrassed, she glanced around the foyer, as if someone might be watching, even though she knew no one was there. Then she unbuttoned her trousers and lowered the fly enough to slide her hand inside.

  Her fingers felt cool against her abdomen. She moved them lower, under the waistband of her panties. To the wetness between her legs.

  Using the pad of her index finger, she stroked back and forth, then moved in circles over her slick heat. She brought her other hand to a breast, teasing the nipple through bra and blouse, fingernails rasping the fabric covering her hard peak.