This story is written in a style I've devised called portmanteau. A portmanteau is a collection of three independent short stories told inside one overall story. All the characters in the three stories exist in the same universe and, at times, cross into the other stories. Some parts of the story are written out of order to heighten the drama.
If you came here for a story, we've got three good ones. If you came here for erotica, the sex in these stories goes to 11.
Each narrative does its best to world-build before getting intimate to give context to the passion. Trust me, if you're looking for it to get hot, it will get scorching.
I've posted this series under
erotic couplings
because the category covers the overall gist of the three adventures. However, each story within the episode is unique and could sometimes be categorized as something else.
Whatever your "thing" is about erotica, the Portmanteau Series will undoubtedly cover it. It is my bold claim you will find the sex in my stories some of the most intense, I believe, in all of Literotica.
Please note this story features intense sex filled with kink, intensity, and vivid descriptions of the sounds and smells of sex. It feels real because most of it is. This is the third rail hot.
And just so there are no surprises for those of you who object to certain thing (because these stories are full of surprises), here are some tags:
anal, cheating, Jewish, tall, anilingus, cunnilingus, blow jobs, food play, kinky, swallowing, cream pie, snowball, mature, thick cock, queef, voyeur, mature, romantic, hairy pussy, armpits, underarms, fetish, cheating
PORTMANTEAU: NO SLEEP TIL BROOKLYN
Wild Thing:
The daughter of a Brooklyn Mafia Godfather plays a risky game of seduction with her upstairs neighbor while her boyfriend sleeps off his bender two floors down.
Every Breath You Take:
A tall fit woman seduces a young chef in his own Brooklyn apartment, tempting him with sex acts he's only seen in porn. But who is she really, and what does she want?
The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face
: A devout middle-aged orthodox Jewish woman seeks refuge from her abusive husband in the arms of a far more experienced non-Jewish younger neighbor, unleashing passions and aspirations she never knew possible.
The elevator was out again—for the fourth time this month—so it would have to be the stairs again. When Sophia was younger, she always took the stairs. But now that she was pushing eighty-five, the elevator was a friend to lean on.
Holding two grocery bags, she looked up the stairs and began the climb to the top floor of the high stoop four-story Brooklyn walk-up brownstone at 143 North 6th Street, known as The Beacon.
The small apartment building had four floors, with one apartment on each floor. All the apartments had the same floor plan - two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Despite the building being old, the apartments were very nice, and the neighborhood was great.
On the first floor, she could hear the loudmouth girl and her motorhead boyfriend arguing. What a pair!
It would be nice if they would move,
she thought to herself.
At the second-floor landing, she noticed the apartment door was slightly ajar. Inside, she noticed Aharon but not his wife, Rella. She didn't know the man well but knew he was unpleasant. When Aharon noticed Sophia passing by, he slammed the door shut. She felt terrible for Rella. She was quiet and pleasant, but her husband was another neighbor Sophia could do without.
Sophia heard footsteps coming down from the third floor in a hurry.
Anthony Albano, who lived on the third floor, flew down the stairs late, as always. The handsome but chaotic young man was always in a rush, but when he saw Sophia, he stopped.
"Mrs. Katz, please let me help you with those bags," he insisted.
"You're late, Anthony. I can see from your rushing around that you're late. Leave me to my bags. I'm fine."
"I am late. But the cannolis will have to wait until I get you home. How was the market today?"
"Crowded and rude, but they had some filet on sale, which is a treat. I'm making a Béarnaise sauce, and I thought I might-"
"-Béarnaise sauce is so difficult," Anthony interrupted.
"One mistake, and you've made scrambled eggs."
As a chef at one of Brooklyn's only Michelin Star restaurants, Anthony knew something about cooking.
He got her to the door of her top-floor apartment; she keyed open the door and walked to the kitchen, where he put the bags on the counter.
The old two-bedroom apartment was spacious, and Sophia was the only person living there. The walls, which were floor-to-ceiling wine shelves, made the apartment unique. Aside from a couch, a coffee table, and a TV set, the room was entirely covered in shelves full of wine.
The rich smell of wine permeated Anthony's nose as he looked around. His ability to smell intricate details was handy as a chef, and he was always given tasks that required a smell test.
Inside Sophia's apartment, the smell of wine, primarily reds, was pleasant but almost overpowering.
As a chef, he always marveled at her collection. She claimed to know little about wine and attributed the collection to something her late husband, Rolf, had amassed over the years. It was to be their retirement funds.
Rolf died a few years before Anthony moved into the building.
Since meeting Sophia, Anthony had gone out of his way to look after the elderly woman, helping her when he could. She was the grandmother he never had. She saw him as the perfect gentleman and worried about him as a parent might. They were the perfect match.
She would often thank him for his efforts with a bottle of wine. However, when Anthony began to notice that the wine bottles she gifted were frequently worth more than $1,000, he could not accept them. Later that night, there would be a knock on the door; Anthony would open it, and that $1,000 bottle was waiting for him.
"Sophia, I can't let you just pan-fry that filet. It would be a crime, and I don't think you understand how hard a Béarnaise is. I'm home early tonight. Let me cook them for you, or better yet, let's grill them on the roof."
Anthony knew that's what she wanted. She was lonely and liked the company for dinner, but she knew he could not turn down a cooking challenge.
"I'll bring the wine," she replied.
"Please, nothing worth a small fortune."
"You can't take it with you, so please let me enjoy it with company."
"Fine, you do the wine. I've got to run. I'll see you this evening."
Sophia smiled. Anthony was her guardian angel, and she cared for him like the child she never had.
As Anthony headed down the stairs, he laughed at himself. Once again, Sophia had tricked him into cooking her dinner, but the payoff would be an expensive bottle of wine and the company of the only genuinely kind person he knew in New York.
As Anthony passed the door to the first-floor apartment, he was startled by the sound of something hitting the door from the inside. Concerned, he paused, wondering what to do, but then he heard Rosalie, the apartment tenant, let out a long moan from the other side of the door, followed by rhythmic creaking.
Anthony quickly realized she was not in distress but quite the opposite. It wasn't yet 10 AM, and she was getting fucked against the door, most likely by her big boyfriend, who always parked his car in the red zone in front of the building.
The door muffled Rosalie's voice, but he could hear her barking commands at whoever was riding her. Anthony was tempted as any man might to stay and listen, but he was late and let himself out the front door to find Rella, his second-floor neighbor, sitting on the stoop.
Rella was an Orthodox Jewish wife in her early 40s. She was attractive but always dressed modestly and wore a head covering. She did little to complement her many beautiful features.
Although she was shy, she always brightened when she saw Anthony.
"Mrs. Rothenberg, good morning!"
"Anthony, hello. Please, call me Rella. You make me sound sold old with the Mrs. Rothenberg."
"Of course."
Rella was sitting on the stoop listening to Rosalie's fuck session, which was audible through the partially open window and open curtains.
"I hope Rosalie doesn't keep you and your husband up at night with her...her noises," Anthony whispered.
"She can be loud, but I applaud her passion. But when she has daytime sex, I come out here to make sure any children don't hear it. I sing songs from the Torah to drown her out."
As if on cue, Rosalie shouted, "Oh fuck, baby, fuck it so hard."
"I hope you can sing loud," Anthony said with a smile as he walked away.
Two kids came by heading to the park, and Rella began singing Ana Bekoa'h loudly, which did its job. The children moved on rather than hear songs from the Sabbath on a Tuesday morning.
Across the street, a casually dressed man walked up the steps of 144 North 6
th
Street, holding two Starbucks cups. He glanced across the street at Rella singing her songs of the Talmud and watched Anthony walk away. The man entered his building called the Normandy Arms.
Surveillance duty in Brooklyn had perks. There were great restaurants nearby that had curbside service. The apartment the FBI had rented was nice, with parking in the back.
Two of the four apartments in the apartment building they were surveilling had attractive women living in the units who rarely bothered to lower their window shades. Since the FBI had tinkered with the old building's heating system, all the residents tended to keep their windows open, which made watching them all the easier.
FBI Agent Marty Gordon entered the third-floor unit to find his partner, Barry Rooney, watching out the window with high-powered binoculars. Four video cameras on tripods focused on each floor's front bedroom window.
"What did I miss?" Marty asked as he checked the to-go boxes to see which was his.
"The third-floor guy is heading out to his job. On the fourth floor, she's examining and checking some wine bottles."
"Can you see the labels? Good stuff?"
"No, not with these binoculars. On the second floor, he's hyped up again. He's been on the phone for an hour, getting agitated. The wife is sitting on the stoop singing or shouting."
"She's singing; I just heard her as I walked in. Some Hebrew song. Ground floor?"
"Fucking again. Well, at the very least, she is fucking him."
