ENTER: Short stories of unexpected encounters

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The Penthouse

I love my life and the city I have chosen to live in.

I am the resident artist at an up-and-coming gallery in the heart of the city. My last one-woman show grossed a sliver over ten million dollars, thanks to rich young urbanites fascinated with my aesthetics ... and my name.
Born to generations of wealthy industrialists, I was destined to be successful, whatever I did. I am the only one in our family NOT to jump into the family businesses and that made me an oddity. Still, I am making my own filthy mountain of cash, without being a board room prisoner.
My bank account was generously funded every month by old geezers in suits who manage my inheritance. Every time my paintings sell, I add a drop to the sea of wealth in my name.
Compared to my cousins, I live a “humble” life. I live in a mid-rise Brutalist apartment building in a gentrified neighborhood. I inherited the structure from my grandmother, who built it in the eighties. The land on which my building stood and the blocks around it are owned by shell corporations my family controls.
A real estate management firm manages my building so I never had to bother with the mundane task of checking lease agreements and doing renovations. They rent flats out to expatriates and upwardly mobile families wanting a slick address.
The penthouse only had two units; while the rest of the building had ten or twelve depending on the floor. I had all the space I needed and a dedicated elevator from a private parking bay in the basement, in case I wanted a quick in and out. I could also opt for a grander egress by descending the grand staircase that separated my wing from the other. Mirrors on the sections of the wall made the penthouse lobby look larger than it was.
I never had a neighbor on my floor since I moved in six years ago — which was perfect, considering my idiosyncrasies. I never did drugs, as the idea of being a cliche of the artistic made me gag. On some days, I would clear my living space and paint on a massive canvas as light poured from the floor to high-ceiling windows — in the nude, pausing only for food and a fuck from visiting lovers. I would host sex game parties within my growing circle, with everyone getting fucked out of their minds more than once on the appointed night.
And my music. I would blast industrial rock from speakers embedded in the ceilings. The harsh bass gets me in the mood to create and makes me cum harder. It was the soundtrack of my bohemian existence.
Movers walking up my staircase woke me up at seven A.M. one morning. I called up the building guy, no answer. I opened my email and there it was: an email trail from months back asking if I was willing to lease the other flat.
The tenant was a European aristocrat taking a position as the conductor of the city’s philharmonic orchestra. His reps gave a significant bid that my team could not ignore. They sent me a copy of the signed contract and a dossier. I flipped through the file, filled with details of a privileged life and of news clips of him in concerts, polo matches, and beach vacations. I saw a stern handsome man with dark blonde hair, about ten years older than I was. His body was surprisingly muscular — he definitely worked out beyond swaying a conductor’s baton. Probing eyes, a commanding presence, and an accomplished musician — promising!
I clicked the file labeled “Paparazzi” and I could not believe my eyes. My new neighbor was photographed fucking some no-name redhead in Ibiza. I swiped feverishly through the photos until I found one with a full view of what he carried between his legs. As the workers completed the move outside, I took my vibrator and masturbated to this man in his naked glory.
I spent most of the next few weeks in my studio downtown, preparing for my next show, and had forgotten all about the new neighbor.
After a particularly intense day of painting, I had dinner with friends and came home for a quiet evening.
“Alexa, play the soundtrack of ‘Hell’,” I commanded and my space was filled with my latest earth-shattering experimental rock playlist. I tore off my clothes and sank into a rose oil-infused bath. I scrubbed my body, still speckled with errant paint drops. I paid special attention to my pussy which hasn’t seen any action in two weeks. Officially my longest dry spell!
I heard my music fade to a stop, just as I had finished drying off my hair. I walked out with my robe barely closed to find a man in my living room, working the command module of my sound system.
“Who the fuck are you?” I shrieked.
I recognized his face immediately. It was him. His hair was impeccably styled. He looked regal, even in jeans and a white cotton t-shirt that traced where his muscles rippled.
“The door was open.” Having gone to English boarding schools myself, I recognized the acquired accent of someone who spoke a harsher Germanic language. “I came to say hello. I am your new neighbor.” He lifted a bottle of L'Ermita Priorat 2012. “A gift.”
“Oh, sorry. I am not used to locking up. Access to this floor is restricted and I have been the sole resident for years.” My insides were getting very wet watching him take notice of my peaking nipples under my short silk robe that barely covered my crotch. “Shouldn’t I be giving you a housewarming gift though?”
“I did not catch you at home until tonight. I was hoping to get to know you better ...”
Yes, I would definitely fuck him.
“... until I heard the garbage you listen to. I don’t think I can be within hearing distance of you and your pedestrian taste in music. Have a good life.” He left the wine bottle on the foyer table and shut my double doors behind him.
Wait, what .... what the hell just happened?
It took a minute to process the insult to my artistic choices from my ... my ... my TENANT.
I ran after him, anger building up in me. “What did you just say to me?” He kept walking.
I had caught up to him in the middle of the hall between our suites, where a grand console table stood against a large mirror. A tall arrangement of roses adorned the typically serene space.
I stopped his advance and slapped him squarely across the face. By this time I had not even noticed my robe dropped open — my breasts and light brown patch between my legs openly joining the assault.
I was unaware of the effect I was having on this foreigner, whose urges peaked with delicate smells. The smell of my newly bathed body made his manhood bulge.
“I don’t care for uncivilized tastes. Is that so hard for you to understand?”
Now he is mocking my intelligence? My anger flared and I sprang at him. My untrained arms pounded on his chest and my legs kicked him where I could.
I was 5’ 9” but his six-foot frame easily subdued my attack by grabbing my arms and pinning me against the grand console.
We faced the mirror, staring at our reflections. My robe hung by a shoulder and he could see all of me. I could feel his erection trying to break free from his chinos against my ass. Our chests heaved as he continued to restrain me.
His expression changed. I have painted the colors of lust enough times to recognize it on a man. One arm held my small frame in a tight bind; while the other moved down between my legs.
His fingers made him a virtuoso of many musical instruments; and as I discovered, of a woman’s body. The first jab was an eager expert probe into the spot that made my legs weak.
My struggle was futile as I began enjoying what his hand was doing. I opened my legs and let it happen.
He breathed into my ear. “You are a savage one.” He noticed my eyes close and my pelvis sway to the rhythm of his fingers.
Son of a bitch, my head shouted. But my pussy was too busy getting wet from his touch.
Just as he was making me moan, his grip on me loosened and with ease, he flipped me around.
I was now sitting on the table, my bare ass on the cold marble. He took off his shirt and leaned close to me.
My breasts were against his. His one hand was on the small of my back and the other was pushing his fingers inside me.
He dropped his head between my legs and flicked his tongue expertly. He hardened the muscle and swirled it around inside me. He sucked and blew air into me — giving me a surprisingly satisfying jolt.
After minutes of mind-blowing oral sex, he stood up, our eyes level. “You taste like roses.”
He could see I was very close to climax. He dropped his pants and entered me, violently enough for the heavy marble table to move. My pussy vibrated wildly as he pushed inside of me. His thrusts were strong and forceful; like a maestro pounding angrily on a piano.
I climaxed first. I bit his chest and dug my nails into him. Not enough to draw blood; but I made damn sure he will remember this moment tomorrow.
“How are you liking your taste of savage?” I said under my breath, as he continued to drill me.
“You are the only woman who has slapped my face. And you, my dear, are the best fuck I have ever had.” His lips swooped in on mine and his tongue invaded my mouth calculatedly.
He looked at me again, his breathing labored but timed with the thrusts of his pelvis — a metronome to his freaking orgasm, which came with a low moan.
I jumped off the console table as soon as we decoupled. We faced the mirror that stood witness to the wildness of the last half hour, adjusted our clothes, patted down our hair, and gained some composure.
He took my hand and began to suck each finger. He put my palm on his cheek before saying, “Shall we have dinner, drinks, and a proper fuck tomorrow?”
I smiled.
Then I mustered all my strength and slapped him across the face again.
“I want you out of my building! Tonight!”

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