Florence On Florence – An Erotic Story

Late that Saturday evening, Harold hauled the last box through the door of his new apartment.

He swiped sweat off his forehead and stretched his back after carrying the boxes to the twelfth floor, albeit with the aid of an elevator.

He had jammed all his belongings into the one-bedroom apartment on Florence Avenue, all to escape his last roommate. He had moved to this place, because the guy had been a terror for Harold. Life now would be quiet. It would be calm. It would be safe. Harold would know everyone who entered the place, instead of finding strangers passed out on the couch in the living room.

That same night, the first night, he had a nightmare. His roommate was knocking on the front door, pounding the wall, rapping the window, opening and closing the refrigerator door, slamming the kitchen cabinets. Even though Harold shouted at him, he would not stop.

Harold sat up, gasping for deep breaths. Trying to right his mind, he, at first, feared the move to the new apartment was the actual dream and he was still holed up with his roommate. Yet, he found he was in his new place, alone, quiet. The place was empty. Thankfully, the knocking and hitting was the dream. Harold hated that his flagrant roommate had attached himself and would not let go, no matter how far away he went.

He checked through the apartment, concerned about the noises he heard in his dream.

Then he heard a knock.

“What the…” He knew no one was there, but the knocking worried him.

Harold paced through the place and trailed the bang, until it led to his bedroom closet.

The knock happened three times on an exposed vertical pipe.

A day later, the maintenance man stood in the closet, slowly plopping a heavy pipe wrench on the palm of his hand, as he mulled over the situation. 

“The pipe doesn’t need tightening. It could be the contraction and expansion due to the water in the metal pipe. Or it could be the water pressure going through it. I don’t know. All I do know is this is an eighty-year-old building, and it’s got its quirks.”

“There’s nothing you can do?”

“Nothing more for now, except hope the pipe doesn’t break.”

“If you can’t do anything, I want my security deposit so I can move out. This’ll drive me insane.”

The maintenance man’s forehead scrunched, and he began to nibble on his lip as a thought had come to mind. He turned to Harold.

“This is apartment 12B, right?”

“Yes.” Harold slurred his answer, concerned about the scruffy man’s sudden realization.

“The last tenants here—a married couple who moved out recently—they said knocking twice on the pipe stopped the problem for a while. Simply knocking. Said it worked, they couldn’t explain how or why. I can’t either. So, try knocking. That’s about as good as I can do for you.”

“Knock twice to get three knocks to stop? Sounds screwy.” He twisted his finger at his temple.

“Don’t I know it! But these old buildings have their own ways of living that no one can explain—not even the smartest building manager.”

He tossed the well-worn wrench onto his shoulder, with a clank of the metal.

“It’s these buildings, they give us ghost stories. If I could buy this place, I would redo it as a haunted house, scaring everyone with all the secrets I’ve heard but can’t explain.”

The maintenance man rapped his knuckles twice on the metal pipe. “That should do it.”

Harold crossed his arms and frowned. A skeptic.

“I’ll give it a month, hear me? If it doesn’t stop, I’ll need to be released from my rental agreement—security deposit in full.”

The maintenance man shrugged. “Need to take that to the front desk. I repair. I don’t do that contract mumbo-jumbo.”

Over the next few days, Harold heard no knocking on the pipe. The apartment was quiet. He found himself resting without being infuriated by his roommate or any other oddity. His jaw had relaxed, and his face had eased into a smile. He hadn’t been grinding his teeth from anger and stress either.

But one night, he was stretched out from end to end on his bed, watching television, when he again heard that knocking. He closed his eyes and exhaled to shoo away his frustration. 

“Accept it,” he urged himself. “This is the building’s personality.”

A series of three knocks. Followed by a pause. Then more knocks. And a pause. The pattern continued.

Finally, Harold jumped out of bed.

“I can’t take it!”

He grabbed an aluminum baseball bat in his room, and, gritting his teeth, he rammed the handle hard against the ceiling three times. The echoing twang of the bat was a relief for him. Small cracks spread out from the rounded dent the size of the head of the bat. A few chips of dried paint fell into his hair and onto the floor around him. He knew the few bangs would not solve the pipe problem or make the old building adjust to his — this newcomer — way of life. He simply released his exasperation on the apartment.

His chest heaving from the blows to the ceiling, he lay down and put a pillow over his head. For a few minutes, he didn’t hear the knocking on the pipe. Instead, he heard a knock on his front door.

Concerned, he slid on his gym shorts and a T-shirt.

Through the peephole, he saw a lovely woman. Tall and lithe. Her blond hair in long waves covered the tall collar of the long executive overcoat.

He unlocked the door and opened it.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“It’s been how long since you last knocked,” she said.

She confidently slid sideways between him and the doorframe into the apartment.

This unknown woman’s emerald eyes pierced him, and a scent of lavender lured him toward her.

Steadying his mind, he asked, “You sure you’re at the right apartment? This is—”

“—12B.” She turned suddenly. Her long executive overcoat rose, exposing her knees. “Yes, I know exactly where I am.”

She paused her stride through the apartment. She stared back at him. 

“I don’t think you do. I moved in just recently. Harold’s my name.”

She ignored his comments.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for months now,” she said. “I keep getting two knocks on the pipe. Tonight, you gave in.”

Harold scratched the back of his head. A few pieces of the crusty ceiling fell out. Then he stopped abruptly.

“Wait.” He pointed up his finger, having figured out the situation. “Ah, yes, I see what’s going on. A married couple moved out recently. Yeah, they’re the ones you’re looking for. I apologize for the mix-up. It’s been a long night. I need to …” He walked to the door to offer her a polite exit.

She ignored his suggestion. “I have wanted this. And you—denying me for this long—made me all the more crazy.”

Harold let go of the door handle. “This, what ‘this’?”

“‘This…” She pointed at herself and then at him. She stepped close to him. “You and me, me and you.”

“We’ve never met. Who are you?”

She stopped him, putting her finger on his lips. “Please. You ask too many questions. You and I know each other, and you have been telling me no for too long. Until tonight.”

She stepped back from him. Then, in each hand, she held the end of a belt that wrapped around the waist of the coat.

She pulled the ends of the belt and the coat opened. She was naked.

Harold stepped back. “Oh my… Holy! You’re…”

She took a long step towards him and gave him a hard kiss. As the lovely woman pressed herself against him, Harold didn’t reject her. He wrapped his arms around her. The pair kissed, smothering each other.

Her hands moved first and without concern for any possible awkwardness.

Harold would not give up on this. It would be her fault when she realized he was the wrong guy.

 He slid his hands over her right breast, cupping and lifting the weight. He then moved along the contours of her sides and hips, veering behind her.

He stopped when her hand dipped into his shorts. Her cold hand tightened his already stiff cock. She began to jerk it up and down despite the tight space.

Harold pulled back from her lips to take in the pleasure of her feminine hand attending him. He exhaled.

“This is what I’ve wanted,” she hissed.

“Yes,” he said. “Anytime, I don’t care.”

Before he could explore her further and offer recompense for her goodness, she knelt.

He gritted his teeth in the tension. His jaw tightened.

She grabbed the elastic bands of his shorts and yanked them to his ankles. She bent his length until it pointed between her eyes. She then moved it down the bridge of her nose, to the point, and then to her lips. She moved the head right and left as if putting on lipstick.

Harold grabbed her head and simply shoved his cock into her mouth.

She then began her furious blowjob. She knew what she was doing and how to do it well.

The goodness deep inside of him welled. He pulled her head close to him while thrusting his dick forward. She gagged and closed her eyes. She pulled back, but Harold would not allow himself to leave her mouth, even for a moment.

She opened her mouth wider and took his jabs.

Her face turned red from the face-fuck. Her eyes bulged. Saliva drained from the corners of her mouth and drooled over her chin in long, gooey strains.

He took his cock from her mouth. His hand jerked the length three times, and he spewed clumps of creamy cum all over her face. The initial shots hit her eyes and tangled in her blond hair. The last few fell into her puffy, reddened lips.

She wiped her face and flung the sludge onto the floor, dabbing the last bits with the overcoat. Harold, who had collapsed onto the couch, was about to offer her a tissue when she stood. She cinched the coat.

“Knock again, please,” she said simply.

“Wait, what’s your name? You never told me.”

“Florence.” And she closed the door behind her.

The next morning, he asked the maintenance man about a Florence who lived above his apartment—12B.

“That’s the other thing the married couple said that I never understood. A woman in an overcoat would beg to come in. They never did let her in but made a few complaints. Maybe that’s why they left.”

“This lady, Florence, lives above me. She came down when I hit the ceiling. Who is she?”

“I told you, if I could buy this place, it’d turn it into a haunted house. Lots of strange things happen here. I can’t explain them.”