Bare Behind Bars / Isabella Gets Nailed / Stuck in the Window: 3 Stories of Interracial Infidelity in Dangerous Situations

by Felicity Fleming

  This did not seem to placate Isabella.

  “And you’re telling me this now? It’s nearly eleven o’clock. Are you telling me that you and your wetback friends have been sitting on your asses for the four hours because you couldn’t open the back door?”

  Miguel cocked his head on one side.

  “Like, yeah.”

  “And you’ve been on the clock this whole time?” Isabella’s face was turning red. “Jesus Christ!” She turned the knocked a beer can off the tailgate of the nearest truck. It went clattering down the driveway, sending a spray of foam across the asphalt. “You assholes are useless.”

  Stomping past Miguel, Isabella walked around to the back door of the beautiful house. She climbed up the three steps and peered in through the window.

  “There!” She called, assuming Miguel was still listening. “The fucking keys are right there! On the window sill.” She rattled the back door. It was locked.

  So that explained why the work crew hadn’t opened up and started the project. The realtor had left the keys exactly where she said she would; but let the door latch snap shut on the way out.

  “Stupid bitch,” Isabella rolled her eyes. “She’s next on the shit list.”

  But first thing was first.

  Storming back round to the front of the house, Isabella put her hands on her hips and roared at the assembled crew of carpenters and floorers.

  “Yo!”

  Disinterestedly, the all looked up at her. Some of them even put down their beers.

  “I don’t know which door you wetbacks crossed the Rio Grande on,” she spat, “or whose fake green card it is you’re using. Nobody sits on their ass while they’re working on my dime.”

  She spat on the floor.

  “You’re all fired!”

  Some of the construction workers started mumbling angrily. They exchanged glances; asking each other questions in Spanish. Then they turned to Miguel.

  “Hey, hey,” the foreman remained calm, holding up his palms and addressing Isabella. “We have a contract, lady. And, besides, you still owe us twenty grand from that last rebuild down in the valley.”

  Isabella rolled her eyes.

  “You’re fired,” she repeated. “All of you! Now get the fuck off my property, before I call the police.” And then her pretty eyes narrowed. “Or, looking at half of you, maybe I’d be better off calling the immigration department.”

  There were some angry grumblings from the assembled crowd of carpenters and builders, but once again Miguel managed to keep them calm.

  “Lady, you owe us,” he told her. “You can fire us from this project if you like, but we ain’t leaving until you’ve paid us for that last job, at least – and the four hours we spent waiting for your ass to show up this morning.”

  Isabella scowled.

  “Get yourself a lawyer,” she hissed, and then span on her heel and started walking back around to the rear of the house. “If you want your money, you can take it out of my ass.”

  And as far as she was concerned, that was the end of the conversation. The last thing she expected Miguel and his crew to see of her was her ass – round and firm and undulating away in a slightly-too-tight pencil skirt.

  But, as it happened, that wasn’t quite how things worked out.

  * * *

  “Shit,” Isabella scowled, as she climbed up the steps to the rear of the house a second time and tried the handle again.

  Locked.

  And the only keys were sitting on the window sill; not five inches away from her fingers – separated from her by just two sheets of double-glazed glass.

  “Shit,” she repeated.

  She needed to keys for a multitude of reasons – not least of which was the need to hire a new crew and get them inside to tear up the carpets and reframe the bathroom before Saturday’s Open House.

  Right now, she presumed Miguel and his crew were slinking away in their piece-of-shit Ford trucks, and it would be quite the scramble trying to find a crew to replace them this late in the project.

  So what could she do?

  Then she looked down at the door and had an idea.

  The previous owners of the luxurious house had owned a gorgeous German Shepherd; and installed an over-sized doggy door in the back so the pooch could come and go into the large yard as and when he pleased.

  Isabella actually hated the doggy door. Replacing the back door had been one of the first things on her to-do list for the home renovation. But in this instance? Perhaps it was going to save her ass.

  With a quick look over her shoulder, to confirm that Miguel and his lazy buddies weren’t loitering in the back yard, Isabella got down on her knees and tried the doggy door.

  It swung too and fro easily. While the realtor had been overly diligent about locking the back door, the silly bitch had clearly forgotten to lock the doggy door.

  Which, in this instance, suited Isabella just fine.

  She gave the width of the door a quick appraisal. Could she fit through it?

  Sure, she could. She didn’t do Pilates three times a week for nothing.

  Slipping off her jacket, Isabella got back onto her hands and knees and crawled up to the doggy door. This wasn’t going to be dignified – but five minutes on her knees and hopefully all her problems would be behind her.

  (A philosophy that had, in other circumstances, got her out of speeding tickets and an academic probation while at college.)

  With one last glance over her shoulder, she pushed the door. It swung inward.

  She poked her head through.

  So far, so good. She suddenly found herself staring into the empty kitchen.

  Turning her head, she looked up – to see if she could reach the keys, sitting on the window sill.

  If she could just get her arm through…

  Struggling, Isabella reversed out of the doggy door, and slipped both her hands through it first. Then she aimed her head inside and struggled to get through.

  Her shoulders jammed against the edge of the doggy door.

  “Nnnnnnghh!” Isabella stretched her arm up, inside the door. “Nnnnngh!”

  The window sill – and the keys – were frustratingly just out of reach.

  Biting her bottom lip, Isabella stretched. She still couldn’t reach.

  If only she could get her shoulders through the door. That would give her just enough extra reach.

  She hunched her shoulders together to create a narrower profile, and wriggled against the doorframe. Slowly – painfully – her shoulders slipped into place. A moment later, with a ‘pop’, they slipped through the doggy door and Isabella lurched inside a full six inches.

  “Yes!” With the door frame tightly around her ribcage, Isabella found herself half-in and half-out of the doggy door; and that meant she could swivel painfully around, stretch up and…

  Yes! She grabbed the keys!

  Triumphantly, Isabella tried to reverse out of the doggy door the same way she’d come. Her shoulders met resistance at the doorframe; and she found she couldn’t pull herself out.

  Not to worry, the attractive real estate developer figured. She’d gotten in. It was only logical that she’d be able to pull herself out again. Right?

  She struggled to pull herself out. The doorframe blocked her shoulders. After three or four painful attempts, Isabella accepted surrender.

  It wasn’t that she was too wide – after all, she had fit through the door originally. It was just she had the traction to push herself through; but there was nothing she could push herself to reverse the process.

  She struggled again – until she was sweating, and her shoulders were aching. For the first time, a spurt of panic hit her. Was she… stuck?

  Then she laughed. Of course not. She got in there, right? Surely if she couldn’t pull herself out, she could just push herself fully through the doggy door and then turn around and unlock the door to let herself out.

  Feeling slightly more relieved, Isabella dug her toes into t
he porch and pushed.

  Unfortunately, she’d underestimated her hip measurements.

  While the doggy door had just barely let her slip her shoulders through, there was at least an inch on either side of her womanly hips that was wider. That meant she wasn’t going to be able to slide through the door forwards.

  With a barely-stifled sob, Isabella tried to back out of the door again. She ignored the pain in her shoulders as she tried to slip back out; but after five minutes of struggling, wriggling and writhing, it became apparent she really was stuck.

  Isabella slumped, defeated.

  She was panting and out of breath. Sweat was pouring down her face. And she was still stuck head-first in the doggy door of this luxurious house.

  Tears swelled in her eyes as she thought about the humiliation of this current predicament. If anybody came walking into the back yard, all they’d see would be her round ass, sticking out of the doggy door.

  But the only thing more terrifying than the thought of being found in that predicament was not being found in that predicament.

  What if nobody came?

  And the more she thought about it, the more she realized nobody was scheduled to come that day. Or the day after. Most of this week was focused on the work crew stripping and reframing the house; and she’d just sent those itinerant wetbacks off with their tails between their legs.

  Holy shit, Isabella thought to herself. She might be stuck out here for days.

  Then a more rational instinct took over.

  She wasn’t out in the middle of the woods. This was suburban California. The house might be big ad imposing, but the nearest neighbors weren’t that far away. If she could just attract their attention…

  Ignoring her humiliation, Isabella swiveled her head around and cried out: “Help!”

  Her voice was muffled by the door. This would have been so much easier, she realized, if it had been her head stuck out of the doggy door, not her ass.

  But nevertheless, this was the best plan she had.

  “Help!” Isabella cried again. “Help! Is anybody there? I’m stuck!”

  After a few minutes of yelling, panic set in. She started screaming, instead.

  “Help! Please, God, help me! I’m stuck! Help!”

  Soon tears were rolling down her cheeks, and snot was pouring from her nose, and she was wailing in pure panic. “Heeeeelp!”

  And then she heard a creak on the stairs.

  She stopped mid-scream, and listened to the wood groaning as somebody stepped up behind her.

  Confirming it, a shadow blocked the window of the door she was stuck half-way in and out of.

  “Hello?” Isabella struggled to turn around, but she couldn’t. “Hello? Is somebody there?” She sobbed openly. “Oh, thank God. You’ve got to get me out of here!”

  And then that sob of gratitude got trapped in her throat.

  “Ms. Scalia?”

  The voice was muffled through the door, but unmistakable. A Spanish accent, deepened by years of smoking cigarettes.

  “Ms. Scalia?” The voice repeated. “Is that you?”

  It was Miguel.

  A chill went through every inch of Isabella’s trapped body. Of all the people she could have had discover her in this predicament, the last person she’d wanted it to be was the itinerant foreman she’d just reamed out and fired.

  “Ms. Scalia?” Miguel was asking again. “Is that you?”

  Isabella wanted to remain silent – to let the dirty construction worker walk off and leave her. But she realized that was hardly practical. Help had arrived; even if it wasn’t the help she wanted.

  “Yes,” Isabella called through the door. “I’m stuck.”

  There was a laugh that Isabella could barely hear through the door.

  “I’ll say,” Miguel was joking. “What the heck happened, Ms. Scalia?”

  “I was just trying to get the keys,” Isabella snarled. “I thought I could reach them through this doggy door.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s hardly important, anyway. Are you going to help me, or what?”

  There was a pause.

  “Well, me and the boys… We were just about to leave. Then I figured I’d walk back around one last time and try to talk some sense into you.”

  Isabella narrowed her eyes – although obviously Miguel wouldn’t be able to appreciate the scowl.

  “If you want to talk,” she growled, “get me out of here.” Not that it would make much difference, she figured.

  The stairs creaked again, and suddenly Isabella felt something brush against her backside – sticking out of the doggy door. She couldn’t be sure, but she figured Miguel must be standing on the top step, directly behind her.

  “Tell you what, Ms. Scalia,” Miguel said cheerfully – his voice much clearly now he was standing directly behind her. “How about we talk now, and we’ll consider getting you out afterward.”

  Isabella felt chills.

  “I’m hardly in a position to negotiate like this,” she spat back.

  “No,” Miguel purred. “No, you’re not.”

  And then, to Isabella’s horror, she suddenly felt his hand on the small of her back – through her clothes.

  “Get me out of here,” Isabella repeated. “And get your hands off of me.”

  Miguel laughed, and the hand on her back slid up and down, rubbing her back affectionately.

  “I can get my hands off you,” Miguel laughed, “or I can get you out of there.” He paused. “I can’t do both.”

  Isabella’s cheeks burned red. She realized he was right.

  “Well, I’m not going to discuss business with you like this,” she hissed.

  “Why not?” Miguel stroked her back. “I figure you do most of your talking out your ass anyway.”

  “How dare you!” Isabella’s cheeks burned red.

  “Well, listen, Chica,” Miguel said soothingly. “Why don’t we quickly discuss your business obligations; and when we’ve reached a mutually-beneficial agreement, I’ll work on getting you out of here.”

  He rattled the door. “It’s lucky you wanted to replace this thing. We may have to cut you out of it.”

  Isabella squeezed shut her eyes. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her.

  “O-okay,” she stammered. “Fine. What did you want to say?”

  Miguel started stroking her back again. This time, it was making Isabella uncomfortable, rather than just angry.

  “So, Chica,” he continued. “Me and the boys are still here. I know you told us to get outta here, but I had a feeling we’d be able to change your mind.”

  His hand slipped lower down Isabella’s back, until it was resting on the very top of her skirt-clad backside.

  “So how about it? You hire us back to finish the job, and we get you right out of there?”

  Isabella grumbled.

  She hated this. She hated the thought of acquiescing to this dirtbag – but circumstances were making her realize she had very little choice.

  It wasn’t just the fact that she was stuck. I mean, surely Miguel would have had to let her out anyway. It was the fact that even when she did get out, and got the sleazy foreman on his way, she’d have to bust her ass finding a replacement crew.

  Perhaps it was better just to swallow her pride and let him take back the job.

  “O-okay,” she nodded (again, not that he’d be able to see it.) “Okay, you guys can do the job.” She tried to force herself to laugh. “I mean, you’re already here, after all.”

  There was a moment’s silence; one that made Isabella even more uncomfortable than the hot and heavy weight of Miguel’s hand on her ass.

  “Deal,” Miguel eventually agreed.

  Isabella breathed a sigh of relief.

  Then he had to go and spoil it all.

  “But…”

  Isabella froze when she heard that hated word.

  “But,” Miguel repeated. “I have a couple of conditions.”

  Isabella said nothing.
>
  “First off, you write me a check for the twenty grand you owe us. Today.”

  Isabella nodded. And when she realized Miguel wouldn’t be able to see that, she confirmed with a sharp: “Okay.”

  But he didn’t stop there.

  “Next,” Miguel continued.

  “Next?” Isabella cried out. “What the fuck do you mean ‘next’?”

  “Next,” Miguel explained, “we need to renegotiate the terms of this job.”

  Isabella said nothing.

  “We can start,” the smooth-talking contractor continued, “by adding another 30% to the material costs. I’m barely breaking even on those as it is.”

  His big hand started to rub up and down Isabella’s back.

  “And then you can double the labor costs.”

  That was enough to snap her out of her fugue.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, Chica,” Miguel purred.

  “Double your costs?” Isabella was already doing the math inside her head. “Do you know what that would do to my profit margin?”

  She couldn’t see it, but she knew Miguel had just shrugged his shoulders.

  “Ain’t my problem.”

  “No,” Isabella hissed. “No!” She wriggled and writhed and tried to pull herself free. “You just crossed the line, buddy.” Her shoulders screamed as tried to pull them free. “Get me the fuck out of here, and then you can go and fuck yourself!”

  Miguel laughed.

  “Aww, honey,” he purred, rubbing her ass. “Sure you don’t want to reconsider?”

  “Get your filthy hands off me,” Isabella wiggled her butt from side to side, trying to dislodge his hand. “I said stop touching me, you dirty Mexican!”

  Miguel pulled his hand away.

  “About time,” Isabella spat.

  But there was no apology. Instead – Miguel coldly corrected her: “Actually, I’m from El Salvador.”

  And then he swung his palm down hard on Isabella’s ass – giving her a sharp, painful spank that echoed across the garden.

  “Aiiiiie!”

  The impact would have been enough to launch her straight through the doggy door she was trapped in, if it wasn’t for the width of her hips.

  “How dare you!” She screamed. “Get me out of here, you fucking wetback! So I can kick your ass!”