Phoebe Listening

Phoebe stirs to sounds drifting from the apartment next door. It's 2 am and this is life in the city where our stories and flavours mingle...and these are particularly spicy neighbours. Her keen senses detect sex in progress. Her hungry puss detects it, almost preternaturally.

She sighs and glances over in the dark where the form of her lover is snoring heavily beside her. He sleeps like a rock and doesn't hear anything. She rolls over, trying to tune out the sound. But she is jealous because her love-making has become predictable. He indicates, she agrees. She assumes the position, some kisses. He fondles enough to gain entry and grinds against her. She grants some encouraging moans and it's all over in about 10 minutes, sometimes less. He's more like the inert stone in the soup mix.

So what kind of flavour is she? Awake at 2 am seems like the perfect time for this metaphorical distraction but her stirred-awake sex demands that she map the choreography next door. Sex wins over metaphor.

Only sounds guide her to the interplay of lovers who may be separated from her by a space of inches. She's seen them often enough to paint a picture. They are at least in their 30s, both attractive and athletic. She likes the woman's smooth brown complexion, large brown eyes and thick mane of hair that never looks disheveled even after she's come in from jogging.

He is fairer skinned but also Latino with brown eyes. Phoebe likes the angular cut of his jaw, the way his hair curls and is becoming lightly salted with grey. There is something about his hips and the small of his back, oh, she remembers and feels herself blushing. His ass is goddamn work of art - round and high cheeked like a woman. The fullness of it gives accent to his fluid hips and makes his waist look small and shapely.

Phoebe is shocked to realize that she has been drawn to studying the movement of it unconsciously. She can now acknowledge following him in silence off the elevator, and watching behind his back, undressing him with her eyes to imagine the buttocks, to watch them clench as he moves. She has wanted to see him dancing. God, she thinks. I barely know his name and I could draw his ass from memory. She smiles sheepishly and figures, no harm done. I am appreciating a thing of beauty; it is like a work of art.

She gets curious then, instead of trying to ignore them she wonders what are they doing? As she hones her sense of hearing, there is a sudden series of thumps, and Phoebe tenses. What has happened? Did they fall off the bed? She imagines the tangle of bedsheets around their feet and on the floor. His concerned expression. Is she hurt? Then Phoebe hears the woman laugh, it is deep and in her throat, no -- she's not hurt. She's thrown her head back in laughter. Phoebe's own brow softens and she realizes she'd been holding her breath. She sighs, and automatically smooths her hands down her thighs. It's all right.

In her mind's eye, she imagines the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, how his concern turns to amusement. It breaks over his face like a wave and then his slick cock wants back into the cave of her and he moves to recover the territory he lost during the fall. Murmurs from both of them. She wonders how they are moving now. Does the woman draw her hands through his curls? If she is on her back, has she braced her leg against the doorframe? Though Phoebe's never been in their apartment, she pictures the layout as being the same.

She looks at her own closet door frame and imagines the woman's bare and shapely leg emerging in contrast from the tangle of white sheets to find a toehold for her pleasure. From under the cover, Pheobe lifts her alabaster leg into the air above her bed stretching like a gazelle. Though vastly different from her Latin sister next door, she admires her own leg and flatters herself leaving it there as if she imagines trading places with the woman next door. She opens herself like a pink flower to the night air.

Phoebe hears nothing for a few moments, she can't tell anything that is happening and she strains to hear more. Oh, then she hears it. Her building moans, nothing from him. Phoebe's imagination gropes in the darkness and absence of sound to identify what he is doing. The woman is definitely vocal. She flips through her catalogue of moves and then she has it. He must be buried up to the eyes in her dark bush. Does she have a bush? No, probably not. Probably it's Brazilian waxed and hairless as a young girl.

Phoebe can't help herself and her hand finally slips under the sheet to probe her wetness. But she is imagining him, his tongue gliding around and in her. She bites her lip to stifle a moan but she doubts it would be noticed. In the darkness, the only sounds she can verify are the sounds of the woman next door experiencing a shuddering orgasm. Phoebe's toes curl involuntarily and her chest tightens as she stares up at the ceiling. Oh, that must have been good. As if she can ride it, Phoebe's hand quickens inside herself grinding her palm against her clit rapidly while her other hand sequesters a breast, but it is his hand at the same time as his tongue with the x-ray vision, she flips back and forth between being his consort and watching them both as a voyeur. Both positions excite her as she feels herself rising to climax.

He must be coming up for air; the woman must be smiling at him. Their liquid brown eyes are intense with emotion and something beyond gratitude but oh but he's not finished yet. She can hear the wet fleshy slapping of intense fucking while he brings himself to climax inside her. Did he turn her over? Is it her ass that he is thrusting against? Are they still on a heap in the floor? Phoebe cannot possibly know, but she knows the sound of pleasure and the air is thick with it. Fuck yes. She hears him gasp, imagines his body spasm and quiver. But it is simultaneous with hers and she arches up, bucking on the bed and pushing against the closet frame.

Well, she thinks with a faint smile on her lips. Now we can all finally get some rest. And cinnamon, she decides. The flavor she adds to the mix is cinnamon.

Meanwhile, in the apartment two doors down, another building resident is awake. Woken by the same sex scene, he is imagining Phoebe and the Latino woman in a threesome with him. Phoebe never seems to notice that he is often there, slavishly holding the door open for her when she comes home at night. In his mind, she is wearing a red slip dress with a dangerously low cut and she is standing over him. He catches the smell of her, and wonders what it would be like to tap that woman with legs like a gazelle who reminds him of a warm spice. His hand moves under the sheet.