The hallway reeked of stale pizza and laundry soap. Flickering bulb cast long shadows on peeling wallpaper. My tiny studio door clicked half-shut behind me. Two months in this Midwest dump, still jet-lagged from France. Keys jingle in my sweaty palm. Footsteps. Heavy thuds. Heart skips. I turn. It’s him. Tim from across the hall. Barbe Rousse, we whisper. Six-foot-something, barrel chest, red beard glowing under the light. Sixties, but solid like a linebacker. Whisky breath hits me first.
“Carole, right? Late night.” His voice gravelly, Midwest drawl thick. Crushes my hand in his paw. Eyes linger on my jeans, white boots. Casual office day. No makeup. Regret it now. “Join me for a drink? Wife’s out. Kids asleep down the block.” Strange invite. Like the boss lunch, but closer. Too close. Walls paper-thin here. Neighbors snore through them. Risky. My pussy twitches anyway. Nod. Cross his threshold. Door whispers shut. Click. Light filters under it. Someone stirs next door?
The Contact
Inside, his place dwarfs mine. Trophy walls: deer heads, bear rugs. Photos of botoxed blonde wife, grown kids. Massive couch. He pours bourbon. Neat. Hand brushes my thigh. Electric. Sits heavy. Pulls me onto his lap. “Heard you alone. Need company.” Fingers unzip my jeans. Bold. I gasp. Muffle it quick. Bed creaks faintly from above—old lady upstairs. His mouth on my neck. Wet. Rough beard scrapes. I grind back. Feel his bulge. Short, thick. Massive head. Whisky tongue invades. Heart hammers. What if footsteps in hall?
He yanks my top. Bra snaps free. Fat fingers pinch nipples. Hard. I whimper. Bite lip. “Shh, girl. Neighbors.” Grins. Knows the thrill. Pushes me down. Kneel on scratchy carpet. Unbuckles. Cock springs out. Circumcised stub, veiny girth. Smells musky. Saliva floods my mouth. Suck him deep. Gulp. Slurp muffled. He groans low. Hand in my hair. Fucks my face gentle. Bed creaks louder upstairs. Freeze. Listen. Nothing. Resume. Drool strings. His balls tighten.
The Indiscretion
Can’t wait. Stand. Shimmy jeans off. Soaked thong clings. He flips me. Face down on couch. Ass up. Door light dances—shadow passes? Footstep in hall? Panic spikes arousal. Plunges in. Wide. Stretches me raw. Grunt stifled. Pound. Flesh slaps soft. Muffle moans into cushion. “Fuck, tight French pussy.” Bed above protests rhythm. Mirror shows us: my tits swing, his gut slaps. Sweat drips. Climax builds. He swells. Pulls hair. “Gonna fill you.” Hot jets flood me. I shatter silent, walls clench. Cum leaks down thigh.
He flops back. Snores quick. I wait. Pulse thuds ears. Slip clothes on. Sticky mess between legs. Creep to door. Peek. Hall empty. Crack open. Hinge squeaks faint. Step out. Cool air hits wet skin. Heart explodes. Footsteps—stairs! Cross arms over tits. Shadow woman from 3A descends. “Night, Carole.” Nods. Doesn’t smell sex? Dash to door. Key rattles loud. Inside. Lock clicks. Lean back. Breath ragged. Secret safe. Fingers dip in cum. Taste him. Neighbors sleep. I buzzed. Tomorrow? Knock again?