❝𝗝𝗲𝗻𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗮 𝗦𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝗕𝗼𝗼𝗸❞

Daddy Issues

JENNIE

Daddy! Oh God, fuck me, Daddy!

I yank my pillow over my head, but it does nothing to hide the noises from next door. The walls are thin in this building.

It's after midnight, and an unprecedented series of moans and groans have been spilling from my neighbor Lisa's apartment. Now that we're into the wee hours, the dirty talk is kicking into high gear.

And it's making me wet.

Please, Daddy, shove it in me.

I have a case going to trial in the morning, for God's sake. My briefcase and purse sit on a chair next to the suit hanging on my closet door. I need to clear my head and get some fucking sleep, but all I can hear are another girl's moans.

All I want is to be in her place.

Daddy, ow. OW! Ooooh, that hurts so good.

My thighs part, and I stroke my damp pussy. My fingers slide to my swollen clit. I'm in a state of shock that my nice, polite neighbor, a forty-something girl who's a chef at a fancy restaurant, is into this kinky shit.

Lisa is fit. She wears cute little glasses. Her black hair looks so silky and her hazel eyes crinkle adorably when whe smiles.

But I bet she's not smiling right now. Het face is contorted with lust as she looks down at me — no, her. Thrusting...pounding...maybe slapping. Would she do that?

A Tinder hookup. That's my best guess. She's half her age and I saw them introduce themselves to each other right outside her door.

Make me your SLUT, Daddy!

Jesus. I can't concentrate. She keeps jolting me out of my own fantasy. Maybe it's because the dirty talk sounds so chipper. So oddly impersonal.

Checking the time on my phone, I chuck it onto the nightstand. I can't perform on less than six hours of sleep anymore, much less bounce out of bed bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

I'm thirty-five years old, I don't have time for this shit.

I roll out of bed, my pussy throbbing for release. I'm tired. I'm annoyed. And I'm dangerously excited to think of Lisa all dominant and mean in bed. Precisely because she's always been such a good neighbor.

Whenever she bakes — basically every weekend — she leaves a plate of goodies on my doorstep. She invited our entire floor for a dinner party when she moved in, featuring spaghetti carbonara that caused me to die several ecstatic deaths and really good Chianti. She gets the paper delivered and always gives me the Sunday Times when she's finished. She even leaves the crossword for me.

I've had a crush on Lisa for months and done nothing about it. Because we're both consumed by our jobs. Because we're neighbors.

And now she's screwing someone literally young enough to be her daughter.

Who's screaming too loudly to let me sleep or fantasize.

Uhhh! Yeah Daddy, spank me! Harder, harder!

Stomping across my apartment, I grab my stereo speakers and drag them right up against the offending wall. I cue up the sassiest, perkiest dance music I can find and crank the volume way, way up.

Then I let out my frustration in a one-girl dance party — flailing, shimmying, singing at the top of my lungs.

It doesn't take long. In under a minute, there's a firm, pissed-off knock at my door.

Rap. Rap.

I switch off the music and catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror as I go to answer that ominous knock. My short brunette hair is practically standing on end. I rake my fingers through it. My heart is pounding, and it accelerates when I open the door to see Lisa. With sport bra, wearing plaid boxers and the body God gave her. No sign of the glasses.