Upstairs Neighbor

Third fucking night in a row.

The bass is thumping through my ceiling again, some grime track on repeat, and it's gone midnight. I've got work in the morning. She hasn't got work ever, far as I can tell—just stomps around up there in her heels, music blaring, living her best council flat life.

Tonight I've had enough.

I pull on a hoodie and head up the concrete stairs.

She answers on the third knock.

"What?"

Chantelle—I've seen her name on the post—is everything I expected and nothing I was prepared for. She's maybe thirty-five, bleached blonde hair with dark roots showing, fake tan that's gone a bit orange on her hands. She's wearing a silky dressing gown that's seen better days, open enough to show the vest top underneath straining over massive tits.

She's got a fag in one hand, phone in the other, and absolutely no shame.

"Your music," I start. "It's gone midnight and—"

"You the bloke from downstairs?" She looks me up and down, takes a drag. "Thought you'd be older. Or uglier."

"I just need you to turn it down."

"Come in then." She steps back from the door. "Might as well sort this out proper, innit."

Her flat is exactly what I expected.

Leopard print throws on the sofa. Massive telly on the wall. Pictures of her and some kid at various ages. The kitchen counter's covered in Lambrini bottles and takeaway containers.

She turns down the music—not off, just down—and leans against the counter.

"So what's your problem then? Don't like a bit of Stormzy?"

"I like sleep."

"Sleep's overrated." She stubs out her fag, lights another one immediately. "Want a drink? Got some vodka somewhere."

"I just want to go back to bed."

"Bed, is it?" She smiles, slow and knowing. "That why you came up here in your joggers? Hoping I'd invite you into mine?"

"That's not—"

"Don't lie, babes." She pushes off from the counter, moves toward me. The dressing gown gaps open more, showing the full swell of her tits, the soft curve of her belly. "I've seen you looking. When I'm coming up the stairs, when I'm putting out my bins. You think I don't notice?"

"I wasn't—"

"You were." She's close now. Close enough that I can smell her perfume—something cheap and strong—and the cigarette smoke underneath. "Question is, what you gonna do about it?"

Her hand lands on my chest.

"Chantelle—"

"Shh." She presses closer. Her tits push against me, soft and heavy. "My Kyle's at his dad's tonight. I've got the place to myself. And you've got something I want."

She grabs my cock through my joggers. I'm already hard.

"Knew it," she grins. "Bedroom's through there. Unless you wanna do it on the sofa like a proper slag."

We don't make it to the bedroom.

She shoves me onto her leopard print sofa and climbs on top, dressing gown falling open. Underneath she's wearing a vest and knickers—both black, both too small, both doing absolutely nothing to contain her.

"Get your top off," she orders, pulling her own vest over her head.

Her tits spill out—massive, heavy, with big dark nipples. They're not perky, not magazine perfect. They're real, lived-in, swinging heavy as she moves.

"Fucking hell," I manage.

"Yeah, that's what they all say." She grabs my hands, puts them on her. "Have a proper feel then. Don't be shy."

I'm not shy.

I grab her tits, squeeze them, feel the weight of them in my palms. She moans, grinds down on my cock through our clothes.

"That's it, babes. Bit harder. I like it rough."

I pinch her nipples. She gasps, throws her head back.

"Fuck yeah. Been ages since I had a decent bloke." She reaches down, shoves her hand into my joggers. "Most lads round here couldn't fuck their way out of a paper bag."

"And me?"

"Jury's still out, innit." She pulls my cock free, strokes it. "But you've got the equipment. Let's see if you know how to use it."

She stands up just long enough to shove her knickers down.

Her pussy's shaved—or waxed, whatever they do—and already glistening. She doesn't wait for foreplay, just climbs back on and sinks down in one smooth motion.

"Oh fuck," she groans. "That's more like it."

She rides me hard from the start, no buildup, no hesitation. Her massive tits bounce in my face. Her thick thighs grip my hips. Her hands are on my shoulders, nails digging in.

"You feel that?" she gasps. "Feel how wet I am for you? Been thinking about this for months, you stuck-up prick. Coming home from work in your little shirt and tie, never saying hello—"

"I said hello—"

"You nodded." She slams down harder. "That's not the same. I wanted this. Wanted you to come up here and take it."

I flip her over.

She squeals—surprised, delighted—as I push her into the sofa cushions and thrust deep.

"Yes! Fuck yes, that's it—"

I fuck her like she asked for. Hard. Rough. Her arse ripples with every thrust, her tits squashed against the leopard print, her moans getting louder and louder.

"Don't stop—don't you fucking stop—"

"Neighbors might hear."

"Let 'em." She looks back at me, mascara already smearing. "Let the whole fucking estate hear. I don't give a shit."

She comes with a scream that probably does reach the whole estate. Her pussy clamps around me, her whole body shaking, and I follow her over the edge.

After, she lights a fag while still lying on the sofa.

"Not bad," she says. "Seven out of ten."

"Seven?"

"You finished too quick." She blows smoke toward the ceiling. "We'll work on your stamina."

"We?"

"What, you think this is a one-time thing?" She props herself up on one elbow, tits swaying. "You live right downstairs, babes. This is gonna be a regular arrangement."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I turn me music up even louder." She grins, all fake tan and smudged lipstick. "But you're not gonna say no, are you?"

I look at her—this loud, brash, absolutely shameless woman.

"No," I admit. "I'm not."

That was three months ago.

Now when the music starts thumping, I don't complain. I just head upstairs. Sometimes she meets me at the door naked. Sometimes she makes me work for it. Sometimes her mate Donna's over and they share.

The estate thinks we're together now. I haven't corrected them.

Chantelle's not what I pictured for myself. She's loud, she's common, she smokes too much and drinks too much and hasn't read a book since school.

But she fucks like she's trying to wake the dead.

And she never, ever turns down the music.