The Bossy Bitch in 3401
By MillieDynamite.
When the mysterious leather-clad woman moves in across the breezeway, well, change happens, shit happens. Franky’s in for a revolutionary, life-altering, mind-bending encounter with the Bossy Bitch.
“I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Dorothy Gail, from The Wizard of Oz
Often, life isn’t all bright and cheery. We fall into patterns, develop a comfort with the shape of things, dare nothing, and gain nothing. At times, our complacency’s roots are grounded in an event. For Frank, his hum-drum existence had started when his high school sweetheart left him for another, more exciting person. So, Frank settled into a monotonous routine. Fearing for his heart, he risked nothing, expected nothing, and his prospects evaporated. Having no expectations, Frank was never disappointed. He also never experienced the overwhelming joy of experiencing something entirely different.
Living life with his hand as his only lover, for Frank, was utterly comfortable. After all, his hand didn’t have headaches, mood swings, or other lovers.
In his work, he was perfectly adequate. So very suitable for the task he performed. As if his mathematic ability, which made him ideal for data entry, wasn’t enough of an insult, Frank realized no promotion would ever be offered. And he would never hear a hint of advancement. This pleased him, for promotion would bring about responsibility with further opportunities.
In truth, those burdens would weigh him down. He might not live up to others’ hopes, or worse, they would push him up the ladder until his insufficiencies exposed him as a fraud. He had enough money. He didn’t need a new car or a bigger apartment–why hazard anything when you could lose everything?
He did not attempt to have a love life. Women leave you, stomping on your heart in the process. He didn’t need his heart warmed by another woman only to have rip ripping his soul out later. The danger of a relationship wasn’t worth the reward. He had his hand and the internet–life was tolerable. His life wasn’t glamorous or electrifying. He lived an ordered existence. If he could find a woman who delights in his shortcomings, a woman who would be satisfied with his inadequacies, would be a lady worth meeting. He understood no such woman existed.
Frank didn’t like change. His neighbors, a gay couple with a small child, had lived across the breezeway for more than two years. He enjoyed watching them through the peephole or the slits in the blinds. He loved to see them play with the kid. So when the gay couple left, he worried what kind of people would move into the apartment.
The apartment stood vacant for two weeks. The complex painted the domicile, replaced the carpets and appliances. While spying on the movers, hauling the old dishwasher, stove, away and installing new ones, Frank wondered if management only replaced things when they had new tenants. He had lived here for five years. No one changed anything for him. Then again, he didn’t want anything replaced or altered. He was comfortable with the stains on the carpet. He enjoyed the sound of grinding when the dishwasher cleaned his dishes.
On Saturday at the end of the second week, a young woman–a few years younger than him, say twenty-two or twenty-three–looked at the apartment. She seemed like a biker bitch to him. That wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all. He didn’t need freaks in his life, not a freaky lady living across the breezeway.
The following Monday, sitting in the break room at work downing coffee, Frank told his only friend Dave about his distress over the changes how he had a perception of dread gnawing away at him.
“I think–not positive, but pretty sure–they rented the place to his tough chick,” Frank said.
“What do you mean?” Dave asked as he joined Frank at the tiny break table.
“She’s muscled up, wears leather, y’know, chaps and a jacket,” Frank told him.
“When you say muscular, like a bodybuilder?”
“No, she’s just super fit, rippled belly, tight everywhere. Like maybe she’s a fitness instructor,” Frank explained. “She had the attitude, too, the better than you manner. You could see her arrogance in the way this girl strutted around. Her jacket was flung over her shoulder, and she held the coat with her index finger. So, I think, I mean, well, she looks–well, like, um, she’s a dyke.”
“I don’t think lesbians like the term,” Dave said. “Butch might be okay. So, you really believe she’s a beaver eater?”
“I don’t think,” Frank said, clearing his thoughts he wanted to explain things better. “She’s rough. She smokes cigars–not ladylike. I don’t like women who smoke cigars. She has an unpleasant look about her, hard eyes…you get me.”
“No, I don’t,” Dave said.
“I’m saying. She’s like some biker, babe. She rode a Harley. They just left her there on her own. The girl meandered around the breezeway, the apartment, the yard in front of the building. She just made herself at home for an hour, smoking her cigars, drinking a beer, and looking at everything.”
“I didn’t like it. I don’t like the woman. But, everything’s changing, and I can’t stop it,” Frank said.
“Yeah, I understand. You ever think maybe things might change for the better?”
“Nothing ever changes for the better. Girlfriends decide you’re not good enough, not man enough, and poof!–they’re gone.”
His life had fallen into a pattern. For years, his weeknights were filled with TV dinners and TV shows. The man’s Friday and Saturday nights hadn’t changed, not one jot. First, he had two beers at the bar near the apartments, after which he went home and read a book.
For Frant, this woman living across the breezeway from him, this would be a major disaster once the bitch moved into Apartment 3401. Frank didn’t want some wild child in the apartment across from him, disrupting his life. He could just see it, her throwing loud parties, coming in at all hours leading some dude like a puppy on a leash. David just didn’t understand.
The break concluded, the two men went back to work, entering numbers into spreadsheets. Frank shook the woman from his thoughts, consumed with his work. His tedious, boring work, blessedly free of strife or change, was comfortable. Numbers never change, never lie, and never leave. They’re always there when you need them.
The following morning at the break, Dave got how aggravated Frank appeared. He held his tongue for some time. Until the grunts and exclamations, at roughly regular intervals, forced him to ask the question and open the door for Frank to complain about something, anything. The little outcries, finally, compelled his friend to ask. This is what Frank does: bitch, bitch, moan, whine, and bitch more.
“So, what’s wrong now?” Dave asked, wanting to just curl up in a ball and cover his ears.
“She was back last night looking around,” Frank said. “I don’t understand all this window shopping. The manager left her there on her own for hours. I don’t understand how the apartment got locked up after she left.”
“So, she rolled in on her ‘hog’ again?”
“No, she drove a Vette, can you believe it? A freaking Corvette. Who can afford that kind of car?” Frank fiddled with his coffee, burned his mouth on his first sip. “Shit,” he said. The profanity was new. David had never heard Frank curse, not since they met in fourth grade.
“Man, calm down. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” Dave said. “Still dressed like a gang member?”
“No, she wore some pink, slinky outfit which clung to her every curve. She still had curly blonde hair, but minus the biker bitch outfit. She looked more feminine last night.” Frank took another sip of his coffee as he thought about the woman. “She was quite fetching, actually.”
“Fetching?”
“Y’know, pretty…Well, no, cute, no, not cute, lovely. Well, better, gorgeous! Yeah, that’s the word, man. I sure don’t need a woman like her across the breezeway from me.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you understand,” Frank said.
“Again, no, I don’t understand. I don’t comprehend what you are implying at all.”
“I don’t need a beautiful woman staying across the hall from me, making me think about…sex…all the time,” Frank said. “She had her earbuds in, I guess listening to music from her phone, and she danced around the living room. And let me tell you, this dancing wasn’t regular dancing. No, she moved her hips and her body…like…like…like she was laying down with someone.”
“Frank, you’re my oldest friend, but man, you’re weird. What are you doing, jacking your wiener while you watch her through the peephole?”
“Of course not,” he said, and his cheeks flushed beet red. “You can’t think.”
“Shit, you do. Oh man, you look through the peephole and jerk off.” His friend broke into laughter.
“Not the peephole, the blinds in the living room. I only masturbated once,” Frank confessed.
“If she moves in, there will be more times you whack off, many more times,” Dave teased.
As the day dragged by, Frank found it impossible to push the woman out of his mind. The numbers failed him. He couldn’t concentrate on them. The pure simplicity of the figures, his fortress of solitude, offered him no freedom. He had no way of escaping from his growing obsession with the woman. Frank hoped she didn’t take the apartment. He prayed she didn’t.
That night she didn’t show. Nor the following evening. Frank felt relief mixed with a degree of disappointment. She was about the sexiest woman he had ever seen. He didn’t need this kind of distraction in his life. A woman so far out of his league, all he hoped for, was jacking off while spying on her. What kind of man does such a thing? No sort of man–that’s what boys do.
When Friday rolled around, Frank and Dave sat at the booth, in the bar, and talked about weekend plans. Dave had a date with a woman he visited on weekends. He was always mysterious about her. He called her his “fuck buddy.” Frank suspected she was married. For his part, Frank told Dave he found a Grisham thriller to read, one he had missed somehow. Dave shook his head, muttering under his breath about Frank’s absence of life.
“Shit,” Frank said, “that’s her.” He pointed to a young woman at the bar. She wore cutoff jeans, a man’s sleeveless t-shirt, and tennis shoes. She was shapely. Her curly blonde hair had a somewhat unnatural tint, reflecting the colored lights over the bar. She flirted with a muscular, tattooed man. As she spoke to him, her foot would run and down his leg. He’d turn and frown at her, hold up his left hand, brandishing his wedding ring. Finally, she held out her hand to him, and he shook his head.
Dave and Frank eyeballed the spectacle of her wanton cajolery of the man. The friends stayed longer than usual and consumed much more beer than was ordinary for them. The woman kept after the man, pressing her ample breast against him and whispering in his ear, but he kept shaking his head. She was persistent, and finally, his resolve broke. He laughed with her, hugged her, and attempted to kiss her–his wife, hearth, and home was forgotten. She deftly deflected every attempt of his to kiss her on the lips.
“No, I’m not doing that,” he told the woman as they strolled to the door. She stopped, pushed him away, and held her hand out to him. He pulled out the bundle of money again, pulled off some bills, and put them in her hand.
The woman shook her head, and he peeled off three more bills and placed them on her palm. The woman pointed to the wedding ring, he shook his head, and she gave him an angry scowl. He pulled the ring off and shoved the gold ring into his pocket. The woman kissed him like he was her brother, and the couple walked out of the bar.
“She’s a whore,” Frank said.
“You don’t know that,” Dave said. “I think she has a Swedish accent. Not much of one, though.”
“It’s German or Russian, not Swedish,” Frank said. This little scene perturbed Frank, and he couldn’t say why. Still, if she moved in, he had a whore doing business across from him.
Due to the significant amount of beer he consumed, Frank didn’t drive home. Instead, he walked the two blocks. He saw the Vette and bike sitting in the parking lot outside his building. Another, bigger Harley Hog sat next to the woman’s motorcycle. Shrugging his shoulders, he walked to his front door. The moment the door opened, and the biker from the bar sauntered out of apartment 3401. The woman followed him out, waving her arms and cussing him with profanities in English and Russian.
“You keep your sorry ass away from me,” she said. “Another thing, I want the rest of my damn money by tomorrow, or I’m calling your mother.”
“Oh, leave mom out of this,” the man said.
She threw his leather jacket at him. He picked up the coat and stood there, daring her to do something.
“Rest of my money or I’m ratting you out to mommy. And don’t wear the fucking ring anymore. We aren’t married anymore. Stop pretending.” She slammed the door.
Frank stood on the sidewalk looking for all the world like a deer in headlights.
“My ex,” the tattooed man said to Frank. “I owe her a shit load of bread.” He had this snarled, pained smirk on his face. “Call her the bossy bitch in 3401. Lots of luck living near her. FUCKING MAN HATER!”
The door flung open, and she launched out of the apartment building. “Sam, get the fuck away from here,” she said.
“Later, brother,” Sam said as he hopped on his Harley. Frank raised his hand in a wave. The woman glared until the bike drove away down the street. Afterward, she went back inside and slammed the door behind her.
Frank went into his apartment, suffering the effects of the alcohol. He sat on his couch, picked up the Grisham book from the end table, turned on the small lamp, and read. Thirty minutes later, music coming from her apartment began to rumble his window. Folding the page corner, he put the book back on the table.
“Darn it,” he said, turning on the couch, rose, with caution, lifting the blind. A light blazed inside the woman’s apartment, the blinds raised, while the girl danced in the center of her living room. Her hips swayed to the rhythm as she ran her hands over her body. She wore a frilly blue negligee and matching panties.
Frank’s prick stiffened, his dickhead rubbed on the zipper of his pants. He tugged the zipper down, pulled his small cock and balls out of his pants, squeezing them as he spied on the girl. She twirled and pranced around a pole in the middle of the room. There hadn’t been a pole there before, had there? He pondered the question. No, the rod is new. The song finished, and new music blared.
She kept dancing. Working the straps off her nighty, she moved in a seductive series of ripples. Spinning around, the woman oscillated about the room for a minute; she let the gown fall to the floor. God, she moved, well, so sexy. Her body was magnificent, so supple, yet strong and formidable. Her breasts weren’t too large, with pink nipples encircled by pale areolas. She ran her hands over her body, touched her breasts, fondled them as her pink nipples hardened. Oh shit, that’s hot, he thought. This stuff had him going but good.
He started to stroke his dick. Reaching out, the girl took the pole in her hand, and on the next hard beat in the music, her body coiled upward, her legs high over her head. The shapely legs wrapped around the pole, clutching the bar tight with her beautiful, strong legs.
Letting her hands go and dangling upside down, her body undulated as she ran her hands over her hot physique, touching, pinching. She climbed the bar, using only those fantastic, well-formed gams until at last her toes touched the ceiling. All the while, her hands continued to explore her body, her firm, full breasts, her thin waist, her small round ass.
“Oh God, what I’d like to do to her hot body,” picking up his pace, rubbing his dork faster. All the while, she snaked around and down the pole. Without warning, the young woman dipped out of view, the song ended, and a new one blasted louder.
She returned to view, and her body snaked up the pole, but not like before. She merely spun around, working her panties down. Revealing a G-string, and continued to dance about the room, ballet-like yet seductive. There was a raw sensuality, a blatant sexual quality to her dance.
The pressure increased inside his balls, Frank began to spurt, one stream, a second. Small dollops of semen jumped from the end of his cock, splashing the fabric. They blasted onto his wall, the slime sliding down in a thick, whitish goo of globular globs. The gook trickled closer and closer to the back of his couch. He jumped off the couch and tugged himself away from the wall, leaped back on the sofa.
“Shit,” he said aloud, lifting the blind only a tad. He peered through at his hot neighbor. The song ended as she pirouetted around, tumbled to the floor. He thought she had finished but soon realized she had only looked for a different outfit.
She stood and pulled on new panties, covering the G-string. Covering herself, she put on a leather jacket and skin-tight leather pants. As she wound the pants up her legs and over her adorable round butt, his joystick shuddered. The heat burned in him. When she returned, the woman had donned leather, spike-heeled boots. She started up the music again, and sound erupted, rattling his window. Her arms moved above her head, and her body moved in a slow, deliberate dance. His penis grew hard in an instant.
As the woman’s body rolled and swayed to the music, he jerked off again. The beauty let the leather jacket slide off her shoulders and fall to the floor. She moved to the window, holding her right-hand face high, and curled her fingers, slid her hand up and down in short strokes, mimicking his actions. She kept a nasty expression on her face. When she picked up her pace, he followed suit. Soon more jizz splashed on the wall.
Frank realized, in one fearful moment, the blind wasn’t completely closed. The slats were at a sharp angle. He turned away, falling to the floor.
“Oh, man,” he said. The ceiling light had been on as well as the small lamp. The girl had seen him through the blinds. He hid on the floor, pressing his body down, trying to become part of the floorboards. His dick softened on the cold hardwood floor. Three relentless wraps sounded on his door.
“Open up, you, pervert, motherfucker,” the woman said, her accent thicker, sexier. Frank lay flat on the floor sobbing, ashamed, and afraid. She pounded on the door again, and the door clattered in its frame.
“Move your sorry ass over here and open this door, BOY,” she ordered.
Frank finally stood, put his pecker away, and zipped up his pants. With a defeated moan, sucking in a drink of air, he sighed. Busted, the thought. Frank opened the door, desperate with fear.
“Hey,” he said.
“Don’t fucking ‘hey’ me, BOY,” she snapped. She filled the doorway, the leather jacket covering her upper body, a brick gripped in her hand. Frank worried she would hit him with the block, but she dropped the gray block and pushed past Frank and into his apartment. She strutted straight to the sofa, turned to face him, with hands upon hips and her legs wide apart.
“Nasty boy, aren’t you? Come here, little boy, and explain this to me.” She wagged her finger at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shuffling to her. His dong twitched at her anger. Fear and lust combined to give him a strange reaction erection.
“You’re sorry for what?” She swung her hand in the air. “Go close the fucking, door. Don’t be a fucking moron.” Frank obeyed, and when the door was closed, she commanded, “Now, come here.” She pointed to the spatter of spooch trickling down the wall. “Explain what you were doing, you fucking, nasty boy.”
“I’m not a boy,” he said. Something about her attitude struck a chord with him. He felt his junk swelling, so he covered his crotch with his hands. She reached inside her coat and pulled out a cigar.
“You sure as shit is a boy,” she said, fishing out a match from the side pocket. The woman clutched the match in her fingers, put her thumbnail on the head, and racked across it. The flame leaped to life. She put the match to the tip of the stogie and sucked the fire into the tobacco. With quick inhales and exhales, she puffed thick plumes of smoke out of her mouth and nose. Puckered her lips, she blew over the match, extinguishing the blaze.
God, she’s sexy, he thought; the strength this woman exuded was an intoxicant to him, an aphrodisiac. His fear of her caused his cock to react.
“Jacked off watching me, didn’t you…boy,” she said.
“Well, not exactly,” he answered.
“Did you think I asked a question?” He nodded. “This wasn’t a fucking question. I make a statement. So, don’t fucking lie to me, boy. Your junk on the wall gives me all answers I need, boy.”
“Yes, ma’am, I masturbated while I gaze at you,” he answered her, ducking his head. His cheeks burned bright red.
“Masturbated? What the fuck? Are you a church person, what they call, preacher? Say word which is right, nasty boy,” she barked at him.
“Do you actually say ‘masturbate’? Do you like being a nasty preacher man who says such a lifeless word? Say this right, like aren’t stupid or uptight. Tell me you jerked your prick while you spied on me. Say you spit out your little boy spunk over the wall, wishing I was one getting your baby, size bone and not your fucking hand.”
He just stared at her, not sure what to do.
“Say it, motherfucker!” Her body shook as she yelled. “You want I should hurt you?” she wagged her fist at him.
“I jacked off while you dance,” he finally said.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Frank,” he said.
“What are you hiding, Frankie boy?” Her anger seemed to have burned out. She stared at his crossed hands.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Show.”
“I’d rather not,” he said. “Well, certainly nice meeting you.”
“Who gives a fuck, what you rather or not do? Not me. I’m not going anywhere yet. Move…your…fucking…sissy…hands,” she said.
“I’d rather not,” he said again. The intensity of the neighbor’s scrutiny made him uncomfortable and harder.
“Why, in fucks sake, you say what I say not to say? So little,” she said, twisting her lips to smirk, “tiny, peepee boy, right?” His stare shifted to the floor, and his head dipped further, nodding. “Move your hands, baby,” she repeated.
The expression on the girl’s face changed. He parted his hands, and his cheeks again flushed. A cruel amusement came over at the exposure of his little bump on the front of his khaki pants, the dark, moist patch covering the crown of the bulge. Reaching out, the woman unzipped his pants.
“Let Mr. Tiny out of his hole, for me,” she ordered. “I don’t touch nasty boys’ dirty, tiny, baby, lil’ buddies.” With a cruel twist, she jabbed the insult home. “I only touch men’s cocks. You understand the meaning, huge ones, right?” So, Frank worked fee his small three-inch, rock-hard dicklet, and little robin’s-egg-sized balls.
“What cute child’s dicklet you have, Frankie. So, short, stubby, and small like a twig,” she said, sucking in the thick cigar smoke. She bent down and released a curl of smoke around his tiny package. “Yankie on twiggy, Frankie. Come on, pull your little, how they say, tallywhacker, jerky-jerky, while I watch.”
He clutched it, his fat, stubby fingers completely covering his penis.
“Stop. Sit on the couch,” the cruel woman said and spat the insult, “boy.” Dutifully, he sat down and reached for his belt. “Oh boy, don’t you dare to take anything off. You let the tiny weewee peek out of your pants.” He continued stroking, and she gave him an angry scowl.
“Shit, little boy, I don’t see diddly squat. Take your hand off your nasty thingy,” she said. Puffing on the cigar, she sat next to him on the sofa with her back against the arm. She swung her legs up, placing her spike-heeled boot in his lap, next to his small penis. “Pull my, motherfucking, boot off,” she said.
Frank worked the boot off her dainty foot. She raised her foot to his mouth, running it over his lips, the ball, the arch, and heel. Finally, the girl wiggled her toes on his lips. “Lick them,” she ordered. Without hesitation or question, Frank stuck his tongue out, licking the tiny foot. “Make them little piggies wet, Frankie.” He worked up a lather of saliva over her toes. She put her toes on his tiny pecker and rubbed.
“You like this, boy?” she asked. He nodded in excitement. “Can I hear your head bob? Moron,” she snapped.
“No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am, I like very much,” he said. Already Frank felt the pressure building in his balls. His breathing became ragged as she worked her soft toes over his miniature pecker. Precum seeped from it, running down and adding to the lubrication.
“You’re a sissy boy, aren’t you?” she said. “Soft, little, pitiful, sissy boy will let me walk all over your worthless ass.” She teased him with cruel taunting. “You like being my useless little worm, don’t you? Turns you so hot when I tell you what nasty shit you are, doesn’t this, baby?”
He nodded his head. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, remembering she didn’t like him to nod. “Ma’am, this feels so good. But, oh, God, I can’t hold back for long.” She put the top of her other, booted foot on the other side of his wormy member, and quickened her pace. “Oh shit,” he groaned.
“That’s it, nasty, little boy, blast your dirty nut juice.” His twig of stick twitched and spat a stream high up in the air. The blast dribbled over her barefoot and boot leather, some falling over his tiny weenie as well. A second burst jumped up, not quite as high, falling on his pants, shirt, third, and fourth. She squeezed her feet together, milking the last drops out of his pecker.
“On the floor now,” she said. “Lick all gross, nasty, ball batter, you maggot. Clean my boot and foot. Be obedient, worm. Come on, little, sissy boy, eat your spunk.”
The young woman put her feet on the floor. Frank dropped down without hesitation and went to work. He gobbled up the thick semen, cleaning her boot and foot with his tongue.
Sucking in on the cigar, she smiled down at him. She exhaled more thick, hazy blue smoke into the air. She stood, put her boot back on her foot.
“Little-tot boy, you are going to be a fine neighbor,” she said as she sashayed to the door. Whirling back to him, she smiled. “You’re such a nasty little freak, aren’t you?”
Frank nodded. “Yes.”
“Dirty perverts need punishment,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “You can call me Miss Lidia. I’m a dancer at Cloud Nine. Now don’t make me hurt you, honey, ’cause I will. You understand this, right?”
“Yes, Miss Lidia,” he said.
“Come to the bar tomorrow night, spend lots of money and tip me, lots of money,” she said. “Later, in the dark of night, I punish you. You like pain. I appreciate this, and it will hurt you so, fucking, good.” She sauntered out the door, closing the door softly behind her.
Frank crawled up on the couch and looked out through the slits. In a flash he realized, he should be careful doing this. But, instead, he gawked at her as she practiced her dancing, jerking off until the wall had a thick lacker, and his peter ached.
Maybe change wasn’t so bad after all.
The End.
*This story has been edited to fix spelling, punctuation, & basic grammar, but the narrative and plot have remained the same. Just remember, even with the limited editing we do, it doesn’t mean any possible major flaws in this story were fixed.