«My Nasty Futanari Neighbor» by Veronica Sloan

Abby hates her punk neighbor.
She hates her piercings and her tattoos and her short blue hair. She hates the way she walks and the freewheeling way she lives her life. Most of all, she hates the way she smiles at her in the halls. It's like Leticia knows what
Abby's thinking, like she can feel what Abby feels every time she brings home a new girlfriend. Abby's certainly not jealous of the sexy, smirking, blue-haired
weirdo… Abby wishes she could just ignore her nasty futa neighbor.
Unfortunately, she's still the best lay Abby's ever had!


This erotic tale is 12,000
words and for readers 18 and up.


~~~~~
Excerpt ~~~~~


It was insufferable that
Leticia knew when I was horny. She didn't always comment, not aloud, but she teased me even so. It was like she had a sixth sense for my arousal. When she
smelled it on me, when we passed each other in the hall, she'd casually turn
her head and offer what she called her best “lesbo smirk.” I usually
scowled back at her and said nothing (though my cheeks burned like two guilty
roses).


The most recent indignity
occurred while I was getting my mail. I looked up and she was opening her own
mailbox, not even looking at me but with that stupid smirk on her little lips.
They were soft and pink, too cute for the cruel eyes that glinted beneath her faded blue hair. “How's it going?” she asked, in a tone that knew
exactly how it was going.


I hated her. I put out no vibes at all, not intentionally, not like at the end of a good date or drunk at a bar and feeling sassy. On those rare occasions I flirted, I smiled, I touched
the man I wanted to take me home. That afternoon, as I shuffled swiftly through
my spam, nothing in my demeanor said I wanted human contact. What I wanted to do was scream in her face.


How did she always know?
After a long day at the office dealing with idiot customers and my idiot bosses
and trying not to suffocate in my cubicle, the desire to just be pushed into my pillows and taken to oblivion was overwhelming. Maybe it was the junk mail,
maybe it was the inherent loneliness of my building's grungy postal corner, but
something about twisting my key in the metal box brought my horniness to the
fore.


It was gross. After an exhausting, awful, thankless day, the last thing I felt was sexy. But Leticia
knew I wanted it.


“I'm fine,” I
snapped at her.


She never snapped back. She just shrugged and went back to reading her mail. But the smirk remained.
“This would all be so easy,” her eyes said, “if you'd just admit
the truth.”


Sometimes she left her door
open when I returned to my apartment–as a signal to my nervous libido that
relief was on call. From inside I'd hear her awful punk music or the clang of pots and pans and know her stupid smirk was just out of sight. Usually I hurried up the stairs to my apartment. But then there were days when she didn't
play games. She'd wait in the doorway leaning against the threshold like an imperious cat, arms crossed, eyes too big for her mouth, mouth too soft to ignore. Those were the days I ended up inside her apartment. Those were the days Leticia had her way with me.


I hated her. The kisses were soft at first but soon came
the teeth. She'd bite my lip and make me moan to the ceiling, above which
resided my own barren apartment. How many girls had I heard her seduce while
trying to cook or sleep or read in peace? And so I wondered, not for the first
time, was I angry because I was just like them or because I was just like her?