"Oh, God, that's so good!"
I scrambled up out of sleep, confused as I looked around the strange room. Boxes on the floor. Pictures propped against the wall.
My new bedroom, in my new apartment, I reminded myself, placing both hands on the duvet, grounding myself with the luxurious thread count. Even half asleep, I was aware of my thread count.
"Mmmm... Yeah, baby. Right there. Just like that... Don't stop, don't stop!"
I sat up, rubbed my eyes and turned to look at the wall behind me, beginning to understand what had woken me up. My hands still stroked the duvet absently, catching the attention of Clive, my wonder cat. Butting his head under my hand, Clive demanded to be soothed. I stroked him as I looked around and oriented myself in my new space.
I'd moved in earlier that day. It was a gorgeous apartment: spacious rooms, wood floors, arched doorways — it even had a fireplace! I had no clue how to actually build a fire, but that was neither here nor there. I was aching to put things on the mantel. As an interior designer, I had a habit of mentally placing things in almost every space, whether it belonged to me or not. It drove my friends a wee bit mad at times, as I was constantly re-staging their knickknacks.
I'd spent the day moving in, and after soaking in the incredibly deep, claw-foot tub until well past prune, I settled myself into bed and enjoyed the creaks and squeaks of a new home: light traffic outside, some quiet music and the comforting click-click of Clive exploring. The click-click came from his hangnail, you see...
At 2:37 I suddenly found myself gazing stupidly at the ceiling, trying to figure out what had awakened me, and I was startled as my headboard moved — banged into the wall was more like it.
Are you kidding me? Then I heard, very distinctly:
"Oh, Simon, that's so good! Mmm... "
Blinking, I felt more awake now and a little fascinated by what was clearly going on next door. I looked at Clive, he looked at me, and if I wasn't so tired I'd have been pretty sure he winked. I guess someone should be getting some.
I'd been in a bit of a dry spell for a while. A very long while. Bad, rapid-fire sex and an ill-timed one-night stand had robbed me of my orgasm. She'd been on vacation for six months now. Six long months.
The beginnings of carpal tunnel were threatening to set in as I tried desperately to get myself off. But O was on seemingly permanent hiatus. And I don't mean Oprah.
I pushed the thoughts of my missing O away and curled up on my side. All seemed quiet now, and I began to drift back to sleep, Clive purring contentedly beside me. Then all hell broke loose.
"Yes! Yes! Oh, God... Oh, God!"
A painting I'd propped on the shelf above my bed fell off and rapped me soundly on the head. That'll teach me to live in San Francisco and not make sure everything is securely mounted. Speaking of mounted...
Rubbing my head and cursing enough to make Clive blush — if cats could blush — I looked back at the wall behind me again. My headboard was literally banging against it as the ruckus continued next door.
"Mmm... yes, baby, yes, yes, yes!" the loudmouth chanted... and concluded with a contented sigh.
Then I heard, for the love of all that's holy, spanking. You can't misinterpret the sound of a good spanking, and someone was receiving one next door.
"Oh, God, Simon. Yes. I've been a bad girl. Yes, yes!"
Unreal... More spanking and then the unmistakable sound of a male voice, groaning and sighing.
I got up, moved the entire bed a few inches away from the wall, and huffed back under the duvet, glaring at the wall the whole time.
I fell asleep that night after swearing I would bang back if I heard one more peep. Or groan. Or spank.
Welcome to the neighborhood, Caroline.
About the author: Alice Clayton worked in the cosmetics industry for over a decade before picking up a pen (read: laptop). She enjoys gardening but not weeding, baking but not cleaning up, and finally convinced her long-time boyfriend to marry her. Now, about that Bernese Mountain dog...
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