The Bossy Bitch in 3401

The Bossy Bitch in 3401

 

An Erotic Humiliation

 

 

 

Millie Dynamite

 

© Copyright 2017 by Millie Dynamite

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic sexual nature. This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously — any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, actual events, or locales, are entirely coincidental.

 

The Bossy Bitch in 3401

 

Across the road, over yonder, in the apartment building, a mere two blocks into the Expanse, lives a man. Let’s call him Frank. Franks, a lonely man, a loser, afraid of change, having locked himself into a comfortable routine. Frank hates his schedule altered, for he finds change unnerving. But change is coming, change is inevitable, and Franky boy will have to ride the changes like a man on a bucking horse. But, then again, Frank isn’t much of a man.

 

When the mysterious leather-clad woman moves in across the breezeway, well, change happens, shit happens. Franky’s in for a revolutionary, life-altering, mind-bending encounter with the Bossy Bitch.

 

“I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Dorothy Gail, from The Wizard of Oz

 

Often, life isn’t all bright and cheery. We fall into patterns, develop a comfort with the shape of things, dare nothing, and gain nothing. At times, our complacency’s roots are grounded in an event. Frank’s hum-drum existence started when his high school sweetheart left him for another, more exciting person. So, Frank settled into a monotonous routine. Fearing for his heart, he risked nothing, expected nothing, and his prospects evaporated. Having no expectations, Frank was never disappointed. He also never experienced the overwhelming joy of experiencing something entirely different.

 

For Frank, living life with his hand as his only lover was utterly comfortable. After all, his hand didn’t have headaches, mood swings, or other lovers.

 

In his work, he was perfectly adequate. So very suitable for the task he performed. As if being ideal for data entry wasn’t bad enough, he realized no promotion would ever be offered, and he would never hear a hint of advancement. This pleased him, for a promotion would bring about responsibility with further opportunities.

 

In truth, those burdens would weigh him down. He might not live up to others’ expectations, or worse, they would promote him until his insufficiencies exposed him as a fraud. There was enough money for him. He didn’t need a new car or a bigger apartment—why risk anything when you could lose everything?

 

He made no attempt to have a love life. Women leave you, stomping on your heart. He didn’t need his heart warmed by another woman only to have rip ripping his soul out later. The risk just wasn’t worth the reward. He had his hand and the internet—life was tolerable. His life wasn’t glamorous or electrifying. He lived an ordered existence. If he could find a woman who delights in his shortcomings, who would be satisfied with his inadequacies, she would be a lady worth meeting. He understood no such woman existed.

 

Frank didn’t like change. His neighbors, a gay couple with a small child, had lived across the breezeway for over two years. He enjoyed watching them through the peephole or the slits in the blinds. He loved to see them play with the kid. So when the gay couple left, he worried about what kind of people would move into the apartment.

 

The apartment stood vacant for two weeks. The complex painted the domicile and replaced the carpets and appliances. Spying on the workers as they hauled away the old dishwasher and stove and installed the new ones, Frank wondered if management only replaced things when they had new tenants. He had lived here for five years. No one changed anything for him. Then again, he didn’t want anything replaced or altered. He was comfortable with the stains on the carpet. He enjoyed the sound of grinding when the dishwasher cleaned his dishes.

 

On Saturday at the end of the second week, a young woman—a few years younger than him, say twenty-two or twenty-three—looked at the apartment. She seemed like a biker bitch to him. That wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all. He didn’t need freaks in his life, not a freaky lady living across the breezeway.

 

The following Monday, sitting in the break room at work downing coffee, Frank told his friend Dave about his distress over the changes, how he had a perception of dread gnawing away at him.

 

“I think—not positive, but pretty sure—they rented the place to his tough chick,” Frank said.

 

“What do you mean?” Dave asked as he joined Frank at the tiny break table.

 

“She’s muscled up, wears leather — ya’know, chaps and a jacket,” Frank told him.

 

“When you say muscled, like a bodybuilder?”

 

“No, she’s just super fit, rippled belly, tight everywhere. Like maybe she’s a fitness instructor,” Frank explained. “She had the attitude, too, the better than you attitude. You could see her arrogance in the way this girl strutted around. Her jacket was flung over her shoulder, and she held the coat with her index finger. So, I think, I mean, well, she looks—well, like, um, she’s a dyke.”

That was a preview of The Bossy Bitch in 3401. To read the rest purchase the book.

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