I know I shouldn't be offended by rudeness. Hell, I am rude. Especially with my neighbors. But I was pissed. How dare he? I wasn't going to let it go. I couldn't let it go. I was going to be too damn exhausted to go out that night and then all kinds of bad things were going to happen.
There was one perk to this guy though- an unlocked door. I grabbed the knob and swung it open, barreling into his apartment and grabbing all the hammers I could find off of his makeshift work station: a piece of plywood laid up on old metal saw horses as he looked down at the plans in front of him on that very table. He turned his head at me as I stole his tools, his face impassive.
I left as quickly as I had arrived, three hammers clutched to my chest as I went back into my apartment, locking all four locks, dumping his tools into my kitchen sink, and falling back into bed. I waited for it. A part of me was expecting him to have an extra hammer hidden somewhere and for him to continue his banging, only with more relish. But that didn't happen. Instead I was met with the much easier to deal with sound of a hand saw. I actually found it almost soothing and I fell back to sleep easily, waking up feeling somewhat less zombie-like around twelve-fifteen. Which wasn't so bad. I could still fit in a good three calls at lunch.
I got out of bed, put on the coffee, and grabbed my work phone in a bright pink case that boasted: Phone sex is OFF THE HOOK!
I laughed when I put the special order in online. Drunk at five AM on a Wednesday.
Four
The girl next door had a lot of sex. I mean, a lot of sex. Mostly during the day. Noon and on until around five when the groaning, moaning, and filthy talk stopped and I could hear her showering and her stereo turning on as she got dressed to go out. Again.
Every night.
I tried not to judge. To each his (or her) own. We all deal with our shit in different ways. I bury myself in work and half-kill myself at the gym. I work on my new apartment. She fucks nonstop and drinks almost to oblivion every night of the week, coming in at four or five AM, her heels clicking loudly on the linoleum in the hallway.
Since I moved in three days ago, I couldn't stop thinking about her. And it wasn't her drinking habits. Or her crazy high sex drive.
It was her eyes.
From that first day when I unlocked the apartment and saw her on her balcony in her panties drinking coffee, she had been invading my thoughts. When she had turned to face me with that delicate little face and big green eyes, I was done for. What man wasn't a sucker for a pair of emerald green eyes?
It didn't matter that she was rude and unsociable. Hell, I was rude and unsociable. It was half of the appeal to this place. No one was going to ask me to take in their mail or water their plants. No one was going to care what I did with my time. If she were some middle aged woman or some fat guy, I probably would have just inclined my head at them whenever I caught them on the balcony or in the hall.
Her slow, unconcerned about being noticed inspection of me had forced me to engage her.
“Neither.” That word had been stuck in my head ever since. Not just the word, the tone in which she said it. Like she didn't give a damn about me or what I thought about her. Which I found refreshing. It wasn't a common outlook for women. At least not in my experience.
I heard her stumble home this morning around five, still wearing the little black dress, tan fishnets, and thigh high boots. I could hear the boots hitting the floor as soon as she was inside her door. Then some shuffling and silence. She was my new wake up call.
Maybe a part of me felt a little guilty for banging early in the morning. But for the first few days, there was no complaints. No banging on the wall. No telling me to pipe the F down. Nothing. So I had just figured she was a deep sleeper.
When I walked to see who was banging like mad on my door, she had been the last person I was expecting. And she looked mad as a fucking hornet in her white silk pajamas. Her hair looked like she had been spending the last hour and a half being thrown around her bed instead of sleeping. Her eyes were small and red. Almost pained looking.
A part of me maybe felt bad a little. Maybe. The other part was too into what I was working on to give a shit. It wasn't my problem that she was a heavy partier.
But, damn when she pushed that door open and stormed in, grabbing all my hammers like a madwoman... it took everything I had not to bend her over on my makeshift table and make her scream all those filthy things she yelled at other guys during the day. A good, solid fuck that was what I was due for. But she was gone before I could even really shake the idea, slamming her front door for good measure. I could have been spiteful and gone into my toolbox and used one of my other hammers. I could have done that.
But that would steal the fun of going over there sometime in the near future and getting my stuff back.
All in all, it had been a good move even if the neighborhood and the building and the apartment were several steps down from what I was used to. It was a more expensive city. A downgrade was to be expected. But there was plenty of work to be had and I always liked a good home improvement project. The last place I'd lived, I had spent years getting it how I wanted to be. I always liked the idea of fixing things up myself.
When I got my hammers back.
Her timing actually wasn't bad. I needed to shower and get to work anyway.
I grabbed my wallet and my two black and metal cases with my guns safely nestled inside and headed out the door. I would be missing the porn show in the next apartment today. Which was disappointing. That woman had some inventive dirty talk.
Sometimes it was downright hilarious.
She'd once whinnied like a horse in the throws of it all.
I had to walk into my bathroom to laugh my ass off in private.
Five
I threw myself down on the chair at my tiny dining room table, resting my face in my hands. I hated new callers. It was good because you never knew who was going to be a regular and therefore a steady income, but that being said, learning a new guy's perversions was always a feat. Was I their girlfriend? Was I their streetwalker? Was I a kink? Did I need to be spanked and owned? Did I need to be the spanker and owner? Did he want me filthy or sweet?
“Yes,” I murmured, hearing his frustrated grunting. “Yes, baby. Right there. Like that,” I could hear his breath hitch and had the horrifying realization that he was crying. “You alright?”
Sniffling on the other end. “I miss her so goddamn much,” he cried.
So, apparently today... I am the therapist.
It's amazing how many men called in for a quick spank and ended up bearing their souls. They needed to tell me about how their wives never let them fuck them anymore. How she lost her sex drive after the kids. Or how they feel like freaks because they get sexually aroused by cartoon characters. Some of my most regular clients called and had a quick jerkoff session and then wanted to talk to me for half an hour about how awful their last date went.
At seventy-five cents per minute, I was making an easy two-thousand a week. Especially considering I was independent and didn't have to cut anyone else in, most of that money was going right into my pocket. And I only worked part time.
“Can you send me a pair of your panties?” new guy asked after he was done crying.
“I'm sorry?” I asked, sitting up straighter.
“Panties. Can you send me a pair of your panties? Like... after you've worn them.” No wonder his girlfriend had left him. She probably caught him digging through her dirty laundry and smelling her panties. Oh, the panty sniffers. “I'll pay you for them.”
“Of course you will.”
“What will it cost? How do we do this?” he asked, sounding excited.
“Fifty bucks per pair,” I told him, coming up with the number easily. I knew it was a thing. When you job is kink, you needed to keep informed of trends and rates. You could usually make a good seventy-five to a hundred for a pair of used panties.
Underneath it all, I had
good business sense. Even if my business was non-traditional. I knew what I was doing. And I was always ready to capitalize on new ideas. The pictures of my feet went for five dollars a pop. Especially when I did different things for them. Soaked them and got them nice and pruny, submerged them in honey or chocolate syrup. Foot fetish guys loved that.
So I was more than a little happy at the idea of a new business venture. I could get panties on the cheap. Wear them for a day... maybe two. Then send them out. Fifty bucks plus shipping.
“Plus shipping,” I added. “And we would handle it like we handle these calls. You log into my account but instead of my invoicing you for the time, you can just transfer the money each time you want a pair.”
“Okay. And I'll... add a note with an address.”
“Great, Tony,” I said, already thinking about the shopping I would need to do. The updating I would have to do to my profiles. And inform all my callers. “Yup. Uh huh. I know. It was really great. Tomorrow? How about... one PM? Great. Yes. Mmhmm. Bye.”
I checked the time, knowing I would probably have at least one more call before the men went home to their families. I went to my closet, picking out an outfit. I grabbed a polka dot t-shirt dress, black tights, a black faux leather jacket, and a pair of chunky black heels.
“Hello?” I said into the phone, slipping my pants down my legs. “Hey... Danny,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Nothing much. I am just taking my clothes off so I can take a shower. Mmmhmm, Danny. I am a very, very dirty girl.”
I reached into the shower and turned on the water. “Oh yeah. I am getting all wet for you. You like that?” I stepped under the stream, holding my upper body away from the water. “Yeah my teetee is so wet for you.” Literally, he made me call my vagina a “teetee”. What kind of damage did these guy's parents do to them? It was no wonder they needed to call and talk to me. “Do you want to touch it and see? Yes, I'll stand still while you inspect it. Yes.”
“That feels good, doesn't it, sweetie?” he asked, sounding husky.
Danny liked me virginal. Oh, the virgin fetish. Always going strong. Every man wants to be the first, the only. Maybe because they think if the girl has no reference to compare it to, then they wouldn't know he was completely unsatisfying. He wanted us both to be fifteen and first-time touching. He wanted me unsure. Turned on, but fearful. It was a careful balance to be maintained.
I make a whimpering sound.
“It's okay that it feels good,” he murmurs. “I like how you feel. I want to feel you on the inside,” he says and I know he is closing his eyes. Getting into it. “I am going to put my finger inside your teetee,” he says.
I pause a second, another whimper. “Ouch,” I say, discarding the knowledge that a finger probably doesn't hurt when you're fifteen and had been sticking tampons up there every month for the past three years. Then, “Ohhh,” sounding airy, surprised, elated at the new sensation. Phone sex operators have to know how to put on a show.
“You're ready for me,” he says and I shake my head. Oh yeah, one finger in the heater for two seconds and she's ready for your cock. That's totally how it works. “I am going to put my rod in you. And it's going to hurt. Just a little, I promise.” But he doesn't want me to sound like it only hurts a little. He wants me to cry out like he stuck a fist up there. So I do, the sound echoing off the shower walls. “Ow ow ow ow! Danny?” I cry out, sounding confused.
“You're okay. The worst is over now.” Ha. Fat chance. Stupid guys. “Oh, you're so hot and tight. Feel how your teetee is holding onto me so tight?”
Then it is all grunting as he gets himself really going, imagining his fist is my tight little pussy and he is thrusting wildly into it. I make gasps at first, half pain, half surprise, then it quickly becomes moans. Groans. Begging. A high-pitched, dramatic “Oh!” and I am finished. And his hands are all sticky.
“Oh, baby,” he says, back to his normal adult voice. “You get better and better.”
“Why thank you, darling,” I coo. Always sweet and accommodating. “You know,” I say, turning so the water runs down my cold back. “if you want the panties from today, I can arrange that.”
A pause. Interest. Hook, line, sinker. “They're pretty white panties aren't they?”
Sure they are. “Of course.”
“Great... how do I get them?”
An hour later, and soon to be a hundred dollars richer, I walked out my door and headed into town. Cheap panties. I needed a lot of cheap panties. All different styles and colors. Pretty white bikinis, maybe with a little bow for my virgin lovers. Red, purple, hot pink thongs for the somewhat normal guys. Lace ones. Silk ones.
If I timed things right, I could get more than one ready each day. I could wear one pair downstairs to workout in. I could wear another pair out on the town at night. Maybe even a third pair for sleep. Who knew. I wasn't exactly sure how strong an odor we were going for here. But if I got sweaty enough, and maybe got myself a little excited here and there... maybe that would do it. Who would pass up the opportunity to use their vibrator more often and call it business?
I got back to my apartment around seven-thirty, a huge bag of panties in my hand. A good thirty pairs. It would be enough to get me started. See how things went. It if was going to be worth it in the long run.
Each step up the walk, into the elevator, across the hall filled me with more and more dread. I never stopped home. Not even to change shoes when my feet were bleeding. Not when it was dark out. Dark in my apartment. Dark in my head.
But I couldn't exactly go out to a bar with a bag full of unmentionables.
I unlocked my locks, flicking on the light, ignoring the strangling sensation in my throat. It was fine. I was fine. I just needed to drop the bag in my room and head right back out. I had just closed my closet when there was a banging on my door. Loud, insistent, off the hinges banging.
My heart flew into my throat. That was such a corny, overused expression and I hated even thinking it. But that was exactly how it felt. It felt like it had pounded free of my rib cage and shot up into my esophagus. That was what dread felt like. The kind of dread that came from banging doors with monsters on the other side. The kind of dread that came from experience.
I backed up into my bedroom, my legs catching the end of my bed and sending me flying onto it. I was trapped. There was no other way out of the apartment. And that was stupid. That was something that I had never considered before. The need for a fire escape. Stupid, stupid me.
“Open up, Sixteen,” a vaguely familiar voice called. Not the voice I was afraid of. Not the one that brought back the memories. The one of my pain in the ass noisy neighbor. What the hell could he possibly want?
“Fuck off,” I called, walking into the living room, watching the door like it might push inward at any moment. He was big enough to make that happen.
“Open up or I'll take it off it's hinges,” he said and I knew he meant it.
“With what tools?” I called back, thinking of the hammers still in my sink.
“Awe sugar, it's amazing what can be done with a screwdriver if you know what you're doing.”
Oh, hell.
“Fine,” I grumbled, sliding the locks, but leaving the chain on and pulling the door open wide enough to see him through. “What do you want, Fourteen?”
“Well here's the thing,” he started, his light blue eyes watching me through the three inch gap. “some crazy bitch broke into my apartment and stole all my hammers.”
Frustrated, I grabbed the chain and pulled it. Mostly because I wanted to really see him when I put him in his place. “It's not breaking in if the door isn't even locked,” I said, opening the door up fully.
“Think the law would see it that way?” he asked.
“I think the law would see your construction noise at six in the morning to be a complete violation of the noise ordnance,” I countered.
“Nicely done,” he said, nodding and I thought he was going to ba
ck off. But then his arm shot out and slammed into the door, pushing it and me out of his way and stepping into my foyer.
“Get out,” I practically growled at him. Out. He needed to get out. I never let anyone into my personal space. No one. And yet there he was, a huge mass of man that made the space feel cramped and claustrophobic. I needed him out. Out. Out. Out. Who did he think he was barging into my personal space? A little voice in the back of my mind whispered that maybe I shouldn't have barged into his first then. But I told that nosy bitch to stuff it.
“I want my stuff,” he said, watching my hand as it went to my neck and stayed there. Unable to really suck in a breath properly.
“Fine,” I said. “They're in the kitchen sink. Just take them and go.”
He nodded at me, walking into the kitchen and I heard the scraping as he pulled the hammers out of the sink. “You did a lot of work in here,” he said, sounding impressed. “It came out nice,” he said, coming back toward me. But he didn't turn and go for the door. He walked past me, bumping my shoulder and moving into my living room. “It's very... clean.”
“Thank you,” I said through grinding teeth. He needed to leave. My chest was feeling tight.
Then he was walking down my hall, reaching into the bathroom and turning the light on. “Wow, this is well done. I like the table. That's different.”
At this point, I just stopped breathing. Literally. Nothing was coming in or going out. He walked into the hallway again, me following dumbly behind him. He reached for my bedroom door handle and I couldn't take it anymore. “No!” I yelled, pushing myself between him and the door, looking up at him, not caring if he saw the raw panic in my eyes. I just needed him out. Right then. He could not, absolutely could not go into my bedroom. “No,” I said again, more needy, more pathetic. Hating myself for it. “Please.”
He looked down at me for a long minute, his blue eyes searching mine. In the end, he backed up a foot, nodding. “Okay,” he said, turning and walking back toward the door. “See you around...”
For A Good Time, Call... Page 2