Luka On The Second Floor

The pilot thumped the plane down like he had a grudge against the runway. I rubbed my hands down my face, skin clammy and blighted with stubble, eyes dry. I sat, while around me people got up to stand and queue. Once the aisles had cleared I grabbed my backpack from the overhead compartment and walked towards the exit.

The stewardess was a tall, leggy blonde. Judging by her eyebrows, she would be blonde all over, and she had the most perfect breasts – not too large, very shapely, almost buoyant. Her pale pink lips were fixed in the rigor mortis grin of a trolley dolly, yet for once it was mirrored in the eyes - her dark brown eyes. Out of habit, I smiled back, the lopsided one I use whenever I come across an attractive girl.

"I hope you enjoyed your flight," she said as I exited. I would have replied, but I was shocked at how bright it was. My watch read 02:03, but outside the sun was near its zenith. "Jesus, I'm so fucking tired I forgot about the time difference."

I didn't realise I'd spoken aloud until I noticed the stewardess frowning. Guess the f word was seriously out of line for this woman. She didn't say anything and I went down the stairs and into the terminal. The suitcases were going around the carousel and eventually mine appeared. I was asleep on my feet by this point, blinking too often and walking with uneven steps.

When the taxi dropped me at my flat, I hefted my bags up the stairs, dropped them in the hall and drank a glass of water. In the flat above me someone walked back and forth in heels upon a wooden floor. I kicked my shoes off and sprawled, fully clothed, across my bed and slept for what felt like three days.

I woke up and looked at the clock, which read 3am. Looked like my sleep would be disturbed for the next few days. I went through to my living room and loaded six CDs into my hi-fi. Radiohead's OK Computer, the new R.E.M. album, Snow Patrol, a Smiths album and a couple of classical ones. I plugged in my wireless headphones, checked the volume wasn't insanely high – I'd had an unpleasant experience when I accidentally jogged the dial with an elbow and nearly blew out my eardrums. I set the hi-fi to random and lay on the couch.

The hours passed slowly, myself the only person, it seemed, awake in the world, except for the occasional delivery driver dashing some package through the night-time streets. Around 5 I went online. One hundred and fifty e-mails filtered into my inbox. I couldn't face them, so I exited Outlook and instead played Yahoo pool.

I chatted, mainly with Americans, some of whom flirted with me. When I set up my Yahoo account I had gone for the screen name NicOleander. Unfortunately, most people assumed my name was Nicole Ander, instead of Nic(k) Oleander, and I got plenty of guys coming onto me, thinking I was some hot French girl. I don't know why, but for some people it seems the name Nicole can only belong to some nubile, nymphomaniac, nymphette.

The local supermarket opened at 8, but I waited until half-past before going. Again, I felt like I was in a zombie film – only I walked the aisles, the staff eyeing me suspiciously. I bought sausage, bacon and frozen hash browns, eggs and bread and oil. I bought coffee, too, planning to stay awake until late that night and hopefully re-establish some sort of sleep pattern before I had to go back to work. I still had a week, so there was no urgency, but the disconnection I felt was depressing and heavy and the soonest I got back to usual operating procedure, the better.

Walking back from the supermarket the world was beginning to wake. I was juggling my bags from hand to hand, frisking my pockets for keys as I arrived at the stairwell to my flat. I stood at the glass-fronted door, found the keys and then jumped back in shock. "Holy fuck." The girl standing checking her mail smiled at me, exposing white teeth that belonged in a toothpaste commercial. She pulled the door open for me and said, "Guess I gave you a bit of a shock."

"Yeah," I replied, "I've been away and I'm jet-lagged. So I'm still sort of pulling myself out of sleep and everywhere seems so deserted it's like a George Romero film."

She laughed and bobbed her head, her long brown hair swaying around her shoulder.

"Anyway, I look up and see you, and it's like I'm Robinson Crusoe and I've discovered Girl Friday."

This just seemed to baffle her, and I guessed my new neighbour wasn't a big literature fan.

"I'm Carrie Hutchens."

"Nick Oleander."

We said our goodbyes and I went up to my flat, sitting my bags on the counter and heating a tablespoon of oil in my large frying pan. I broke two eggs and whisked them, then sliced some bread into quarters as I cooked the sausages. I added the bacon to the pan and dipped the bread into the eggs. I kept the bacon and sausage warm under the grill as I cooked the French toast and hash browns. I sat at the table and slowly ate the meal, wondering how I could spend the day.

I woke up and looked at the clock – 10:30. I'd slept for an hour. Then I realised that the room was dark, lit only by the baleful orange streetlight outside my window. I went through to my living room, but there was nothing on the television and I didn't feel like watching a DVD or listening to music. I sat and read, listening to people walking on the street below my window. Arguments and flirting, couples fighting and lovers kissing. My book was bad, so I turned off the light and stood leaning against my window frame, watching life pass by.

That's when I heard it. A low moaning at first, then that beloved pant, that gasped noise I so like to hear as I lay my head or my cock between some girl's pale thighs, "Oh." It was stretched out and throaty, high and sweetly voiced. This sound became louder and louder, and increased in frequency as a counter-point joined it – a regular fast thumping that shook a few loose flakes of paint off my ceiling and onto the floor.

There was a small vent set into a recessed corner of the sitting room, leading to a conduit that travelled vertically between all the flats in the block. I assumed this was what was conveying the sound of my neighbour's love-making to my ears, so I moved closer to it, and opened the slats. The sounds became clearer and I was able to discern the less erotic noise of a man grunting his pleasure. Judging by the clarity, their bed must be right next to the vent.

I had been in Fiji for nearly three months, and the only sex I had had was a few one-night stands and an on again, off again relationship with the waitress at my "local" bar. My cock pressed thickly against my trousers and I quickly unzipped my fly, letting it spill out. As I listened to them, I stroked it.

"Oh, your pussy… is so… tight." The man sounded young. He had an undistinguished English accent. The girl, what was her name, Carrie said nothing, just kept moaning. For me, the inevitable happened when I began to hear the sloppy smack of the man's flesh against the girl's wet cunt. My come sprayed one wall – thank god for wipe-clean paint – and I leant against another until the trembling in my legs receded. The man came shortly after me. I could hear them talking to each other, to me it seemed like they whispered into my ear.

"I love a bald pussy," he said, and I imagined him lying next to her, his hand dallying between her legs.

Picturing the beautiful young girl like that was almost enough to get me hard again. But there are one or two areas in which we humans, or at least us men, are little more than animals. When we are pursuing orgasm, we'll do anything for it, but once we're done, we move onto our next lust. Usually the next desire we must satisfy is for food. Now that I had come, standing intruding on these lovers' private moment made me feel as if I was some forty-five year old balding loser in a Mac. I closed the slats on the vent, and left them to their pillow talk.

Once again, my sleep was disturbed, and I ended up coming back from the supermarket at around 9am, having been awake for roughly eleven hours. And again, I ran into Carrie.

This time as we chatted I found myself, no matter what she said, hearing those throaty moans of last night. I looked at her and tried to imagine what her shaved pussy actually looked like. I have a fairly large penis, and it was about half-hard. I worried that she noticed it. When we parted, I barely got to my flat before tugging my cock out and jerking myself to a magnificent orgasm. It was one of those rare ones, where every slow stroke of my hand is like a little orgasm in itself, where I find myself, unusually for masturbation, trying to last as long as I possibly can. Naturally, afterwards I fell quickly asleep.

I woke to the sound of knocking. I did a quick check, making sure I was roughly presentable – nothing hanging out or smeared on me – then opened the door to see Carrie in cream jeans and a cashmere sweater. It lay across her extravagant breasts like a possessive hand and I had to struggle not to stare.

"Hi Nick. I was wondering if you'd like some dinner. I'm making spaghetti and I always make too much."

"Doesn't everyone? I'd love to. I'll be up in about ten minutes?"

She said that was fine – the dinner would be at least half an hour – so I quickly showered and dressed.

Carrie had poured two glasses of red wine, and we sat in the kitchen chatting as she cooked. Somehow, despite the simplicity of the meal, she became overwhelmed, so I helped her. I grabbed the spoon and stirred the sauce as she wiped up the water that had bubbled out of the spaghetti pan. The pan was about to boil over again, and spill onto her hand, so I quickly grabbed it and lifted it off the ring.

She thanked me, and as she moved past, I thought she brushed her breast against my arm. But then I remembered the passionate performance of last night and dismissed it as just a lurid fantasy. We ate and talked.

Carrie had moved into my building about a month after I had left for Fiji. She was a student, like myself, but doing medicine instead of language studies. She was 20, two years younger than myself, and came from Manchester. Her last boyfriend had treated her badly and she was now single, she told me. That wasn't what last night had sounded like.

We had finished two bottles now, and we were both a little tipsy. In my defence, my sleep regime was so bizarre that any amount was probably too much, and Carrie was quite a small girl – about five foot five. When I felt myself beginning to stare at those beautiful breasts, wondering how they would feel underneath that sweater, when I wondered what those big, red lips would taste like, I knew it was time to leave.

"I should go."

She came to my chair, and I thought she was going to help me to my feet. Instead, she knelt in front of me and said, "Stay." Her hands rested on my knees and she kissed me, slowly and gently, just her lips pressed delicately against mine with an even pressure.

She broke the kiss and looked at me, trying to judge the effect she had had on me. I looked into those pale green eyes and knew I wouldn't be going downstairs just yet.

I kissed her this time, and her tongue slipped into my mouth. We traded back and forth this way, teasing and exploring. In her mouth the tastes of the wine and the tomatoes mingled with the taste of her.

My left hand went to her right breast and carefully stroked it through the fabric. The breast felt weighty beneath my hand, and the cashmere was exquisite. I gradually circled around that ripe curve until I found her nipple, pressing hard against the cup of her bra. I moved my right hand down and caressed her other nipple and she moaned. Deprived of the echoing quality the vent had given it, her moan was intoxicating, a beautiful and perfect expression of pure pleasure.

This time my lips left hers, and I lifted the sweater over her head. She was wearing a big black bra, more designed for practical than erotic purpose, and she shrugged.

"It's hard finding good lingerie with these breasts."

I didn't reply, just kissed her again as my hands fumbled for the clasp. I soon discovered the bra opened at the front, and in no time I had thrown it to the floor.

Her hands were at my trousers now, and we both stood. We unbuttoned each other's trousers simultaneously and I saw that, while her bra might be plain, her panties were flimsy and artful. They were mainly translucent black, but around where that slit would be, the fabric became opaque, that haven obscured by cunning lace work. As to myself, I wore plain white boxers, against which my cock jutted luridly.

Her hand went to it, and circled the head through the cotton. I moaned this time, and pushed her back against the kitchen table. She lay flat on it, and I bent over her, kissing her neck. I moved down, flicking my tongue over her jugular notch and leaving a thin trail of saliva over her right breast. Her hands kneaded the small of my back, pressing me on with urgency matched by the low gasps she was emitting.

Her skin tasted of mandarins and pomegranates. Her smell was intoxicating and I sucked desperately on her already hard nipple. As I did, I let my hands wander over her thighs, hinting but never reaching her pussy. I kept the teasing up as I flicked my tongue over her other nipple.

"You've got me so wet," she breathed.

Her hand reached between my legs and tugged down my boxers. She gasped as she saw my full size and began to stroke me. Reluctantly, though, I moved back, abandoning her nipples for other regions of her body.

As she lay on the kitchen table, her head leant against the wall, big red lips smiling in anticipation, her legs dangling over the side, I came towards her and began kissing her taut belly.

Gradually, glacially, I moved towards her cunt, still covered by the hazy fabric. I wrapped both hands in her waistband, my fingers grazing the smooth flesh underneath. I looked up at her, her button nose a sun rising between the hills of her breasts. One perfect white front tooth was biting her plumply scarlet lower lip and her eyes met mine. I tugged down her panties.

Surprisingly, though shaved, her cunt wasn't completely bald. She had left a thin line of hair on either side of her labial lips and my tongue plunged eagerly into it. I lapped slowly along her lips and then faster and deeper as her moans cascaded into the air about my head. As my tongue flicked her clit, her hands gripped the sides of the table and she began bucking her hips into my face. The whole table shook as I tongued her and I worried it would snap. It held, though, as Carrie came screaming, almost deafening me and squeezing her thighs tight against my head.

I hadn't meant to bring her to orgasm – had intended only to get her so wet I could fuck her without hurting her – to call my penis fairly large is an understatement: it's huge and many women I've been with have been unable to accommodate it. But I was drunk on the scent and taste of her and had been carried away..

I gave Carrie a few moments to recover from her orgasm, then set my tongue back to work. I let my fingers join it – they slowly and carefully caressed her pussy. She stopped me.

"I could let you do that all night, but it's your turn now. I want that big cock inside me."

"Are you sure you'll manage?" I asked.

She smiled and bounced off the table. She took my hand and pulled me over towards the window. She stood looking out, and anyone looking back would have seen a girl with dark hair hanging just below her shoulders, huge breasts standing proud with darkly hard nipples jutting, and perhaps the barest wisp of pussy would be visible. I stood next to her and the exhibitionism sent adrenaline flooding through my cock.

She braced herself against the work surface, her elbows standing out from her body and her knuckles white. She looked back at me over her shoulder and I thought my heart would burst with desire for her.

She spread her legs and reared forwards so that her pussy lips were wide and welcoming.

"Take me from behind," she said. "Gently at first, until I get used to that monster."

I pushed the head of my cock slowly against her yielding cunt. She moaned softly, and I moved closer. I let my fingers feel there first, but she was so wet that there would be no need for artificial lubricants. Gradually, Carrie gasping all the way, I forced myself in until she engulfed my whole length. We stood together, for perhaps a minute, enjoying the sensation. "Mmmm… you feel so good inside me," she said. Just as carefully I eased my cock out until only the head was bathing in her boiling juices.

I reached up under her elbows and began to knead her ripe breasts, gently pinching her nipples and letting my palms massage her flesh. I was thrusting back into her, and it was easier this time. After a few repetitions of my careful entry she was used to me, and I was able to assume a more rapid rhythm. As we fucked, faster and faster and harder and harder, I never stopped caressing her breasts. She turned her head and stuck out her tongue. I swallowed it into my mouth and we kissed as desperately as we fucked.

She was writhing now and moans escaped directly from her mouth into mine. As she neared orgasm again, her small, round butt thumped and humped against my crotch until frantically she came and collapsed forwards onto the sink. I held her, my cock still hard inside her, and kissed her neck until she nodded. This time, we came together and lay on the floor, hugging each other and kissing.

Carrie asked me if I wanted to stay the night, but said she was catching an early train for a visit home tomorrow and anyway doubted she could handle my cock again yet. I told her that I wouldn't be able to sleep and we agreed to meet again when she returned.

She walked me to the door and we kissed long and hard. I made to go but she told me to wait. I stood for a few seconds before she was back. She kissed me again and thrust something into my pocket, then closed and locked the door. I checked.

It was her panties, dark and soaked darker by her juices. I breathed them in deep, inhaling a scent more intoxicating than any narcotic and shouted thank you. She giggled.

The next day, I gave up trying to get my sleep pattern back to normal and just figured it would gradually equalise. I masturbated frequently with Carrie's panties wrapped around my cock. Then I heard moans coming from the vent.

I went and I listened to the girl fucking the man. I sat feeling stupid and used and cheap and knowing that I was a fucking idiot to forget that the night before she and I had sex she was lying next to this guy. I put a bunch of CDs on random then smashed my remote against a wall when "Everybody Hurts" started playing.

The next night Carrie knocked on my door and told me she was here to inspect the structural qualities of my kitchen table.

"Fuck you," I told her.

"What?"

"You heard me. And more pertinently I heard you. Last night, fucking that guy when you said you were at your parents."

Carrie laughed. I remember thinking, funny, I didn't think she was that cruel.

"You idiot," she said. "That's Luka, my flatmate."

This time I was the one to ask "what" and she took me upstairs and introduced me to the girl she shared her flat with. Luka was a stereotypical Swedish girl and seemed pleased that her friend, Carrie, had found someone.

"I hear you're extremely… what's the English?… well hung."

Carrie blushed and I laughed. I took Carrie downstairs and apologised to her for my suspicions. She wasn't too angry and, perhaps, Luka heard the two of us making up.

Carrie slept in my flat that night as I padded about in my headphones. The next night we talked about it.

"So you're trying to get back to British time?"

"Yes," I replied, "I've got to stay up until about 1ish then sleep until morning. That should get me back to routine."