Want It Bad (4 page)

“Puh-lease. God gave you a pussy. Use it. If you don’t oil the gates every so often, they might rust shut forever.”

Janet was crazy, of course. But for the rest of the day, Carla daydreamed about how that scene might actually play out. She could imagine Jake, standing in his doorway, with that smirk on his face and his blue eyes twinkling, slowly opening the button fly of his jeans…

Not only did it prevent Carla from getting any work done, but by the time she punched out for the day she was uncomfortably aroused.

• • •

When she got back to her home in Windermere, Carla was surprised to see that her mailbox had been repaired. The new post hole probably took some serious effort to dig, and she regretted not seeing Jake do the manual labor. Maybe he’d gotten so sweaty he had to take his shirt off. Maybe it was such a chore that he was heaving and grunting the whole time, jaw clenched and muscles straining.

And maybe Janet was right and Carla really was a slut.

She threw the beer in the refrigerator, and checked the time. Six-fifteen.

Now what was she going to wear for her date?

Scratch that. It wasn’t a date. She was inviting a neighbor over for a beer, because he changed her tire. Jake couldn’t be interested in her in that way. And she couldn’t be interested in him. What would her co-workers think? Dating an unsuccessful actor, more than ten years her junior? She could imagine the water cooler conversation, centered around words like
cougar
and
cradle robber
.

This wasn’t a date. It was a drink.

So what did a woman wear for drinks with her neighbor?

Carla decided to stay with what she wore to work, a black pantsuit with a dark blue silk blouse. That way it wouldn’t look like she’d changed on his account.

She checked the time again. Six-twenty.

An hour and forty minutes to kill. Call Mom? Catch up on
Grey’s Anatomy
? Read a few chapters of the new Ann Voss Peterson thriller?

Carla thought of her mailbox. How sweet it was that Jake had fixed it.

Then she thought about the hundred dollars she owed him, from their bet.

She certainly wasn’t going to follow Janet’s double-or-nothing suggestion. But it wouldn’t hurt to pop over to his house, pay him what she owed him, and thank him for the mailbox. Maybe she could even bring a few beers along with her.

Was that being too forward?

No. They were neighbors. This wasn’t a date. The time didn’t matter. And there was nothing improper about being neighborly.

She selected two beers from the six pack—a 3 Floyds IPA and a Founders Stout—and walked over to Jake’s.

Since Gloria Hotchland had moved to the drier weather of Phoenix, her home had been regularly cared for. Landscapers tended to the lawn and shrubs. Realtors made sure the windows were washed. But it still looked vacant. Empty homes were like dead people; the shell was there, but the soul was gone.

Now, however, there was ample evidence of life inside the Hotchland house. A car—a new model Cadillac—was parked in the driveway. Several lights were on. And the sounds of a horror movie penetrated the front door; a woman, screaming for her life over the beat of synthesizer music.

Carla raised her hand to ring the doorbell and paused.

That was no horror movie. The woman wasn’t screaming in terror.

She was screaming in ecstasy.

Is Jake watching a porno?

Or…

Is he with a woman?

Carla was 99% sure it was pornography, because in real life women didn’t make sounds like that. She backed away from the door. No one liked to be disturbed having one-on-one time with themselves. Smiling, Carla took a step off the porch and was ready to walk back home, her mind filling with images of Jake, naked, his erect cock in his hand, madly pulling on it and—

“Oh, Jake!”

Carla paused, mid-stride.

Had someone in the house just cried out Jake’s name?

Could it be possible that this wasn’t an adult film? That Jake was actually causing a woman to make sounds like that?

Like in the cartoons, Carla could feel a little angel and a little devil suddenly appear on each shoulder.

Devil: Go look. You know you want to.

Angel: That’s wrong, and illegal.

Devil: I bet you’ll see his big cock.

Angel: How would you like someone spying on you?

Devil: That would be hot. I bet he’s hung like a stallion.

Angel: Go back home this instant. You’re not some peeping Tom.

“I’m not some peeping Tom,” Carla said, feeling ridiculous for engaging in this clichéd, imaginary debate. She took two purposeful steps toward her house, two faltering ones, and then turned back around, “But I really want to see his big cock.”

Carla found herself creeping around the house, toward the side window. She knew the floor plan from previous parties that Gloria had thrown, and the master bedroom was on the north side. As Carla approached, she saw the drapes were drawn over the large bay windows.

Well, mostly drawn. There was a gap between them almost a foot wide.

“Jake! Oh god oh god oh god!”

Carla froze. Jake obviously had a woman in there. And he was obviously rocking her world.

She turned to go back home, shaking her head, and thought about explaining the scene to Janet.

Janet, of course, would ask if Carla peeked. She could practically hear her best friend say, “You mean you didn’t even look to see what they were doing? How fucking prudish are you?”

“I’m not a prude,” Carla would insist.

Then Janet would made some crack like, “You’re so prudish you were born with granny panties
on.”
Or, “You’re so prudish you wear a one piece in the bathtub.”

Which wasn’t fair. Carla was maybe a bit sexually conservative, especially compared to her friend, but she wasn’t a prude. Unlike Janet, she respected people’s privacy. Especially when they were engaged in an obviously intimate moment.

“No more, Jake! I can’t take another one! Ooooooh, yesssss!”

Okay. Now Carla
had
to look.

She’d be quick. Just a very fast peek inside, to see what Jake’s girlfriend looked like, and see what he was doing to make her squeal like that. Maybe it was a practical joke. When Carla was ten years old, she broke her leg roller skating, and she didn’t scream that loud. Maybe Jake saw her walking up the driveway and was pranking her.

Carla snuck up to the window, intending to bob her head up, then immediately retreat. But once her eyes focused on the scene in the bedroom, Carla became paralyzed with awe.

The metal framed king-size bed was positioned at an angle in the room. Jake stood at the bottom of it, shirtless, his upper body glistening with sweat, defining each muscle. He wore black leather pants, and from Carla’s side view, Jake’s need was obvious. His manhood strained against the tight leather, long and thick and perfectly outlined as it was pressed against his thigh.

In front of him, a woman reclined on the bed, arms stretched above her head, wrists handcuffed to the bedpost. Her ankles were chained to the foot of the bed, legs splayed wide. With one hand, Jake worked a large black dildo in and out of her. With the other, he stroked her clitoris.

She writhed and moaned, her hips bucking up and down, squirming against his fingers, meeting his thrusts.

Carla knew she should look away, run back to her own house, quit acting like some kind of creepy voyeur, but she couldn’t make herself move. She couldn’t make herself blink. All she could do was stand there and stare, a flush sweeping over her skin, her pulse hammering in her ears.

Besides being mediocre, Carla’s sex life had also been predictably vanilla. Mostly missionary position. Foreplay that never lasted more than a few minutes. Never any toys, and certainly not anything as out there as handcuffs and chains. No man had ever come in her mouth, or on her face or breasts, or anywhere other than in the condom while he pumped away inside her, always finishing too quickly for her to really get into it.

Seeing this woman, so vulnerable and helpless, being served by this young Adonis who made no demands and postponed his own obvious need felt a little surreal. A little amazing. And as Carla watched, her panties grew embarrassingly wet.

Jake stopped rubbing his partner and lowered his face between her thighs. While still working the dildo in and out, Jake kissed her there like Carla dreamed men would kiss her mouth. Tender but ravenous, sensual but needy. With his free hand he cupped her bottom, pressing her into his lips and tongue, making the woman arch her back and pull against her restraints. She leaned her head back and cried out again, longer and louder than before, and that’s when Carla noticed the woman’s face.

She was older. Not just Carla’s age, but at least twenty years older than that.

The woman cried out again. “Oh, fuck me! Fuck me!”

“Fuck me,” Carla whispered in disbelief. “He’s banging Mrs. Claus.”

Jake continued to go at it, and Carla was rooted there, transfixed, getting more and more turned on. When the older woman whimpered, Carla felt herself whimpering as well.

Loudly whimpering.

Jake lifted his head and turned in the direction of the window. His eyes locked with Carla’s for one second, two, and then his right lid lowered in a wink.

Carla froze, wishing she could disappear, hide. She spun away from the window and dashed across the yard to her house. Once inside she flipped the deadbolt and braced her back up against the door. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her heart a hummingbird trapped in a too-small cage.

He saw me.

Jake saw me.

He looked right at me.

But it was more than that. More than her blatant voyeurism, her invasion of privacy, her being a terrible neighbor.

He heard me whimper. He knew how watching him made me feel.

Carla closed her eyes, seeing the scene again in her mind’s eye. The expression on the older woman’s face, a contortion of ecstasy Carla couldn’t even dream of knowing. The way Jake expertly worked her body, playing her like she was a musical instrument and he was a virtuoso. How he selflessly put the woman’s needs before his. And her age! She could have been his grandmother. What was a hot stud doing with a mature woman like that?

But then, Carla knew what he was doing. She’d seen the woman’s expression, heard her screams. Jake was driving her insane with pleasure. Working the dildo in and out. Caressing her folds with his fingers, his lips, his tongue. Slowly. Sensually. Coaxing the cries from her, then demanding them. And with her wrists and ankles bound, the woman couldn’t escape, couldn’t get away, couldn’t even close her thighs. Much as she strained and pleaded and cried out, she was at Jake’s mercy, totally open to him.

Carla moaned and realized her fingers had found their way to her crotch, and she was stroking herself through her clothing. Embarrassed, she glanced around the foyer, as if someone might be watching, even though she knew no one was there. Then she unbuttoned her trousers and lowered the fly enough to slide her hand inside.

Her fingers felt cool against her abdomen. She moved them lower, under the waistband of her panties. To the wetness between her legs.

Using the pad of her index finger, she stroked back and forth, then moved in circles over her slick heat. She brought her other hand to a breast, teasing the nipple through bra and blouse, fingernails rasping the fabric covering her hard peak.

She didn’t have to close her eyes to imagine herself tied to Jake’s bed. It was all she could think of, all she could feel. Having him tie her, lick her, push the toy deep inside, deliciously cruel.

How long had that woman been bound? An hour? Two? Three? What other perverted things had Jake done to her while she begged, helpless, for release? What perverted things was he doing now?

Carla’s orgasm built strongly, then overtook her with a shudder. Clenching her hand between her thighs, she kept moving her finger as long as she could stand it, mouth open but not making a sound.

And then it was over.

Chest heaving, she zipped her pants, fumbling with the button, then slid down to sit on the floor and tried not to cry.

She’d been wrong to spy on Jake.

Wrong to stay and watch.

Wrong to masturbate to what she’d seen, like some deviant peeping tom, unable to control herself.

The shame washing over her was full-body. And even worse than shame was the empty need still pulsing in her core. She wanted to strip off her clothing. She wanted another orgasm. She wanted to keep touching herself.

Carla thought of the Hitachi vibrator Janet had given her. Upstairs in her underwear drawer.

How would it feel if she were bound, legs wide apart, and Jake pressed that against her? What if, at the same time, he took her nipples in his rough hands, twisting and pulling, his hot mouth on her neck and…

Stop it!

Carla shook her head, blowing out a deep breath. She picked herself up, marched into the kitchen, and splashed cold water on her face. It cooled her cheeks and messed up her makeup and hair, but did little to control her ardor. After patting her skin dry with a towel, she sat at her dinette table and tried to focus on the most unsexy things she could.

Tax returns.

Baseball.

Pizza.

Sailing.

Most people thought sailing was invigorating, a great way to enjoy the outdoors. But when Carla had been a girl, she’d fallen off a boat in Puget Sound while spending the weekend with her dad. The idea of being trapped on a boat, waves tossing her up and down, water on all sides, made her shiver.

It also helped quench the fire in her loins. The memory of thrashing in the Sound was enough to make her feel decidedly unsexy.

In control of herself, Carla wondered what she should do next. Jake was still supposed to come by for a beer. He’d seen her. No doubt he’d confront her.

Or would he? Maybe he was just as embarrassed as Carla was. Maybe they could both avoid talking about it.

Or maybe a better idea was to just drop the beer off at his door with a note thanking him for his help, but explaining that she wasn’t feeling well. Then all she had to do was avoid him for the rest of their lives, and everything would be fine.