F*cked By My Hot Neighbor Part 1

Loud, desperate moans sliced right through the flimsy wall between my bedroom and my neighbor's place, hitting me like a punch to the gut. "Oh god, f**k me harder, daddy! Pound my wet, slutty p***y!" The woman's voice wailed out, all high-pitched and ragged, like she was right on the edge of shattering. I let out a frustrated groan and flipped over in my tangled sheets, yanking my pillow down hard over my head. It was useless. It always was. Those sounds just seeped in, no matter what I did. Jax, my neighbor, was going at it again. The guy was a total man-slut, no sugarcoating it. Shameless as hell, bringing a new chick over almost every damn day—sometimes two or three in a single week, like he was racking up conquests on some invisible scorecard. And the worst? Our apartment walls were paper-thin, the kind that let every filthy detail spill over. I heard it all: the rhythmic thumping of his bed against the wall, the sharp slaps of skin on skin, her gasping whimpers turning into full-throated screams, and his deep, gravelly commands that made my skin prickle even from here. Those women he f****d? They were never quiet. Not a single one. They howled and begged like porn stars auditioning for the lead role, their cries building in frantic waves that crashed straight into my room, invading my space, my thoughts, whether I invited them or not. I could picture it too vividly—the way he'd pin them down, thrust into them deep and relentless, making their bodies arch and quiver. He'd only been living next door for a little over a month, but the nightly symphony of s*x had started almost immediately. The first time, I bolted upright in bed around midnight, heart pounding, totally clueless at first. What the hell was that noise? Then it clicked, slow and humiliating, as her moans grew louder, more urgent, mixed with his low grunts and the wet sounds of him slamming into her. They went on forever, keeping me wide awake until damn near three a.m. I lay there in the pitch black, staring at the ceiling fan's lazy spin, my cheeks flaming hot, a strange ache building between my thighs that I tried to ignore. The next morning, I actually marched out into the hallway, fist clenched, ready to bang on his door and tell him to keep it down. I stood there, inches from the wood, pulse racing. But then I froze. What if he answered looking all smug and half-dressed, those dark eyes locking onto mine? I wasn't built for that kind of confrontation. I hated drama, hated drawing attention to myself. So I chickened out, spun on my heel, and scurried back to my own door like a coward. Now, the woman's cries ramped up again, even louder, a string of breathless pleas: "Yes, right there! Fill me up, daddy!" I buried my face in my mattress, muffling my own irritated huff, but it was no use. My body betrayed me, that familiar heat pooling low in my belly, spreading like liquid fire down to my core. My n*****s tightened against the soft cotton of my tank top, and I squeezed my thighs together, trying to will away the throb that started there. God, why did this happen every time? The absolute worst part—the one I shoved deep down and refused to examine—was how those sounds twisted something inside me. They made me wet, made my untouched p***y clench with a need I didn't know how to handle. Alone in my bed, I felt my face burn with shame, but I couldn't stop the images flashing in my mind: Jax's strong hands gripping hips, his mouth on sweat-slicked skin, his c**k—thick and hard—driving into a willing body over and over. I was twenty, a college sophomore, and yeah, still a virgin. It sounded pathetic when I thought about it like that. People would give me those pitying looks, or worse, that fake encouragement laced with judgment: "It's fine, really, no rush." But inside, it stung. It wasn't like guys hadn't tried. A few awkward dates, some fumbling make-out sessions in dorm rooms, but nothing clicked. I didn't want to just spread my legs for anyone. I craved that spark, that real pull, something that made me ache for it. And apparently, the one person stirring that up was the cocky bastard next door, the one who treated s*x like a hobby. I resented how much I wanted him. It pissed me off, like my brain was turning against me. But damn, Jax was hot in a way that hit you hard. His jet-black hair always tousled, like he'd just rolled out of bed after a good f**k—which, knowing him, he probably had. Those eyes of his, nearly black and piercing, framed by thick lashes, the kind that stripped you bare with one glance, making your stomach flip before you could even blink. His jaw was sharp, always shadowed with that sexy stubble, rough enough to scrape against skin if he kissed you—wait, no, stop thinking that. And the tattoos. I'd stolen looks in the hallway, heart skipping when he passed by in a tight tee. Dark lines snaked over his forearms, intricate swirls and sharp edges vanishing under his sleeves, hinting at more hidden away—maybe across his ripped chest, down his back, places I'd never see but couldn't stop imagining tracing with my fingers, my tongue. He towered over me, easily six-foot-three or more, with shoulders broad from hours pumping iron at the gym. Not bulky like a bodybuilder, but solid, powerful, the type that made the air feel charged when he brushed past me in the narrow hall. I avoided him on purpose, ducking into my place if I heard his door, but those rare glimpses left me flustered, my pulse racing, a damp spot forming in my panties that I had to change before class. The moans hit a fever pitch next door, her voice breaking into sobs of pleasure. My traitorous mind wouldn't let it go, no matter how hard I tried to shove the thoughts away. It kept piecing together every little noise from next door, turning them into vivid pictures I didn't ask for but couldn't stop seeing. I fixed my eyes on the wall between our rooms, that flimsy barrier that might as well not exist with how thin it was. What the hell was going on in there? I built the scene in my head, detail by unwilling detail, my pulse picking up with every imagined stroke. Was he shoving her face-first into the wall, her cheek smashed against the cool plaster, her fingers scraping uselessly at the surface while he gripped her hips and slammed his c**k into her p***y from behind?