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You're Gettin' Me All Riled

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It’s two in the morning, and your neighbor won’t turn off his stereo system. 

He’s got one of those floorstanding speakers, and it’s pressed right up against the wall that partitions his apartment and yours. The guitar riffs in “Nothin’ But a Good Time” shake your walls, and your alarm clock vibrates so aggressively that it eventually plunges onto the carpet. There’s loud chattering and drunken laughter coming from behind the wall, and you hear a woman mumbling, “C’mon, no more. I’m going to be sick. I can’t hold my liquor” so clearly, you suspect she must be leaning her whole body right against that paper-thin wall. 

Your neighbor—his name is Bill, or Stuart, or something like that—is twenty-two years old, fresh out of college and determined to kill you. One night, a week or two ago, you padded barefoot down the hall, rapping your knuckles against Bill-Stuart-something’s apartment door. You must’ve knocked for five minutes straight because that music was so damn loud, no one could hear you. Eventually, though, the door swung open, and behind it was your inebriated neighbor and his greasy mullet. He wore a white blazer and, underneath that, a baby blue tank top.

(You know when you can tell what sort of car someone drives just by looking at them? Bill-Stuart-something most definitely drives an obnoxiously yellow camaro; you’d bet your life on it.)

He greeted you with an offhand “Hey, babe. Can I help you, or are you just here for free booze?” 

Sporting nothing but a nightshirt, you shivered in the middle of the hallway, informing your neighbor that it was, in fact, midnight, and you couldn’t very well fall asleep when George Michael’s voice was making your walls quake. He apologized in such a way that you figured he wasn’t really listening to you, and he promised to turn the music down before shutting the door in your face. Only, when you crawled back into bed and rested your head against the pillows, the music seemed even louder than before. 

It’s been like this for days. Around ten at night, the music begins to blare, and it doesn’t stop until four in the morning. You’ve got purplish bags hanging underneath your eyes like great, big bruises, and you’re utterly exhausted. If you had the energy to put your fist through Bill-Stuart-something’s front door, you absolutely would. 

Gathering a comforter and two pillows into your arms, you lumber toward the living room and collapse on your couch. The music’s still loud, and you can still hear those damn guitar riffs clear as day, but it’s not deafening, and you figure this is the best you’re going to get. Your eyelids begin to droop, and, though you’ll most likely wake with an aching back, you allow yourself to sink down into the sofa cushions, your body feeling lighter and lighter as you slip off to sleep.

Slipping, and slipping, and slipping… 


Until you hear some noisy asshole banging on your apartment door, that is. 


“Open up, you sonofabitch ,” the man bawls, and you wonder if he’s popped a blood vessel yet. “I get in there, ‘m gonna knock your fuckin’ teeth on the floor!”

He’s louder than a freight train, pounding his balled up fists against the wood like he’s prepared to split your door down the middle with his bare hands. You scramble to push the covers off your body, rising to your feet and staggering toward the front door.

Why even bother checking the peephole? you think to yourself, wrapping the blanket around your waist like a sort of makeshift skirt. He’s going to bust the hinges before I even get the chance.

“Won’t turn those fuckin’ lights off, I’ll turn ‘em off for you,” the man continues spewing incoherant threats, pummeling your door the whole time. “I’ll turn your lights off, dipshit. How’s that sound? Want me to knock your fuckin’ lights out?”

Turning the knob ever so slightly, you crack the door open and poke your head out, whispering, “Can I help you?” as if there’s any need to be quiet after all that commotion.

The man standing before you is like no other man you’ve ever seen, and you’re not quite sure if that’s a good or bad thing. He is, to say the very least, big . Standing at about six-foot-two or six-foot-three, he towers above you, casting a shadow the size of a grizzly on the wall behind him. Come to mention it, even his facial features are big; he’s got this large, jutting nose that has the potential to poke your eye out, and you can’t tell if his lips are naturally that swollen or if he got socked in the mouth recently. Though his figure is hidden underneath oversized clothing, you can tell he’s broad-shouldered and well-muscled, too. 

He’s sporting a gunmetal grey suit jacket and matching trousers, and, underneath all that, a sleek, black dress shirt pokes out. A funky-looking, scalloped necktie hangs down from his collar, and he’s got these polished, black oxfords on his feet that are so shiny, you figure you could bend down and see your own reflection in them if you wanted to. 

His suit jacket seems about two sizes too large, but that’s the style nowadays, isn’t it? Slim men purchase these padded, XXL blazers to make themselves seem bigger. Only, this particular man doesn’t need to seem bigger; he’s massive as it is. 

Without a word, he presses his big palm against the door and shoves, pushing past you and welcoming himself into your apartment. Wrapping the comforter tighter around your waist, you consider tip-toeing toward your wall phone and contacting the police, prepared to inform them that some lunatic has just forced his way into your apartment. Before you can entertain the thought, however, he speaks.

“Thought you was a man,” he grumbles absentmindedly, peering around the room like he’s on the hunt for something in particular. “What’s with the fuckin’ lights, honey? What’s with the music?”

He’s got this thick Jersey accent that leaves you speechless for a moment or two, standing in the doorway with a dumb look on your face. 

You manage a reply: “What lights?”

“What li—the fuckin’ LEDs you been flashin’ at my window the past six weeks. Those lights,” he scoffs as though he’s offended by your response. “ ‘What lights?’ you say. Shit… Can’t even hear myself think, music’s so fuckin’ loud.”

He talks a mile a minute, stalking around your small apartment with squared shoulders and a clenched jaw, and you can hardly keep up with anything he’s saying. With a voice like that, you figure this man was born to be an auctioneer or something. He’s unbelievably loud, and, God, does he speak fast; it’s giving you a headache.

“I have… absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” you confess, rubbing your tired eyes. “Come to mention it, I don’t even know who you are, and… y’know, it’s two in the morning, and—”

“Name’s Pale… and I know what time it is, honey. I got a watch, don’t I?” he spits, raising his forearm so that you can admire the gold watch clasped around his wrist. “Two-oh-seven—that’s what the little hands are tellin’ me, but I got some little girl across the street flashing her lights in my fuckin’ windows.” 

Before you can respond, Pale paces toward the small set of factory windows in your living room, jabbing his finger at the glass, determined to explain his predicament. “See, over there? Twentieth floor? Three windows from the left?”

Approaching the window, you keep your distance from the man. Your apartment is on the eighteenth floor. Compared to one of those Park Avenue penthouses, that’s nothing, but it still seems awfully high from where you’re standing. Right across the street, there’s a fine apartment building; it’s one of those elaborate residential buildings that has sixty or seventy floors. 

You nod. 

“That’s me,” he informs you. “Nice place, huh? Can’t see the inside, but it’s one o’ them places you can tell’s nice just from the outside, you know? ‘S like the fuckin’ Chrystler Building. Problem is: I can’t get no sleep ‘cause someone keeps flashing her red-blue-green-purple-pink lights at me. Whaddya call ‘em—strobe lights? I close my eyes for five seconds, and, shit , suddenly I got a big fuckin’ Christmas tree parked outside my window. Try sleepin’ through that. 

“So, I count the floors, I count the windows, and then I’m off, ready to break some jerkoff’s jaw. I’m thinkin’, Jesus, does nobody got respect for their neighbors anymore? I’m so mad, I couldn’t even see straight. Still can’t remember if I took the elevator or the fuckin’ stairs.”

Your eyes scale the building across the street. Counting up twenty floors, you try to imagine this maniac tossing and turning in bed before shrugging on a full suit just to stomp across the street and give you a piece of  his mind. He’s not the penthouse type, but, judging by his attire, he’s not ground-floor material either, so the twentieth floor seems about right.

Striding toward your sofa, he continues: “Look, honey, I’m bein’ as nice as I possibly can. I got work in three hours, you know. There’s a certain etiquette, and— Shit! Would you turn that fuckin’ music down already? Feel like I’m goin’ deaf over here, all this noise.” 

Pale collapses on the couch, sinking down into the cushions like it’s a California king, spreading his legs wide and rubbing the calloused pads of his thumbs against his temples. He looks like he’s about to go into cardiac arrest.

“Well, you must’ve miscounted your windows, Pale , because you’ve got the wrong apartment. I haven’t got any strobe lights,” you explain, following after him, “and that’s not my music. My neighbor won’t turn off his speakers; believe me, I’ve asked. I guarantee he’s the one you’re looking for, not me.” 

You’re standing directly in front of him now, slotting yourself between his spread thighs, fixing him with a get-off-my-goddamn-couch sort of look. 

“Fuck,” Pale huffs. “He big? Bigger than me?”

“No,” you respond immediately, wondering if Pale is at all aware of his overwhelming largeness. “Not bigger than you. Not in the slightest.”

“Good.” He sniffs, flaring his nostrils and pinching the bridge of his nose like a cokehead might. “Gonna beat his face in.”

“I really wouldn’t,” you advise him. “He’s pretty well-off, and he seems like the type to press charges.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m pretty well-off, too, y’know,” he retorts, “and I got connections. I’d like to see him try and put me behind bars.”

“If you say so.”

Despite his threats to rearrange Bill-Stuart-something’s face, Pale seems pretty content lounging on your sofa, and he makes no move to get up. In fact, he digs the toe of one shoe into the heel of the other, kicking off his oxfords and sighing like a man who’s just returned home after a long day of work. Then, he sheds his suit jacket, prying it off his back and folding it in his lap; he handles the jacket like it’s worth a million bucks, taking great care not to accidentally pleat or wrinkle it before setting it off to the side. 

He notices you giving him a funny look, and his eyebrows knit together. 

“What’s with the face?” he asks, frowning. “Relax. ‘M not taking my clothes off just for the fun of it, little girl. It’s hot in here, is all. Feel like I’m on fire.” 

After that, he undoes that funky-looking tie of his, tugging on it until the cloth unravels around his neck like a scarf. The first few buttons of his silky, black dress shirt are unfastened already, and you catch a glimpse of a gold chain disappearing beneath its neckline. 

Undressed to his liking, he settles back onto the couch cushions, giving you a once-over. Without warning, he pinches the material of the blanket you’ve got wrapped around your waist between two fingers, giving it a good, long look. 

“You been wearin’ this the whole time?” he asks, and you begin to wonder if he ever once looked at you the entire time he was ranting and raving. “Got anything on underneath, or is that it?”

You swallow, watching those thick fingers of his skim over the fabric. “I wasn’t expecting anyone” is your only reply.

In the blink of an eye, Pale’s whole demeanor changes. Any and all signs of anger are gone, replaced with something else, with some other sentiment. He talks so much, you suspect his mind must be clogged with all that dialogue, because he doesn’t seem to have room for more than one emotion at a time; the man’s either one thing, or he’s something else. 

He hums, and his eyes roam up and down your body, taking every part of you into account. Letting go of the blanket, he leans back, clasping his hands behind his head before fixing you with a suggestive look. 

“Bet you ain’t got much sleep either, huh?” he asks like he’s building up to something. “Music’s too loud, right? Too much noise?”

You nod enthusiastically, eager to complain. “It gives me headaches! I asked the guy—I can’t seem to remember his name, but… I asked him if he’d please turn the music down, and he said, ‘Sure thing, baby.’ Then, of course, he turns it up. You can’t have a mullet like that and be a decent guy, I guess.”

“Mmhm, right. You got no sleep, I got no sleep…” he trails off, shamelessly eyeing the blanket that’s keeping you modest. “Figure we could wear each other out, y’know? Nothin’ puts you to sleep faster than feelin’ fucked.”


There’s silence. 


You blink. “You’re joking.”

He gives you this determined sort of look, like he’s negotiating or something, like he’s got terms and conditions; it’s the most frustrating thing you’ve ever seen. What sort of man barges into a stranger’s apartment at two in the morning, screams in her face, kicks off his shoes, and asks her to put out?

And what sort of woman, you ask yourself, get turned on by it?

“Nuh-uh. Dead serious,” he replies with a big, toothy smile, using his finger to draw an X over the left side of his chest like he’s crossing his heart. “What’s the harm? No use trying to sleep with all this noise. And, Jesus , it’s too fuckin’ hot in here anyway; you always sleep in ninety degree heat? Bet you’re burnin’ up underneath that blanket, huh? Might feel good to take it all off.”

There’s a long, long pause, and, for a few moments, all that can be heard is the sound of Pale’s watch ticking away on his wrist. He gives you a minute or two to mull over his words, picking at the material of his slacks like there’s something wrong with them, like there’s a single thread out of place and he absolutely needs to pluck it. To make matters even worse, he’s splaying his legs real wide, manspreading on your couch like he owns it, and the fabric of his slacks is stretched to its limit, clinging tightly to his big thighs. 

Oh, God, you think to yourself. I’m too fucking easy.  

You loosen your hold on the blanket the slightest bit, and Pale perks up, running his tongue over his teeth impatiently. He props his elbow up on the arm of the sofa, resting his cheek on his fist like he’s watching some engaging television program. 

There you go, honey,” he whispers, urging you on. “Knew you would.”

You unwrap the blanket like it’s a performance, and Pale murmurs praise the whole time, mentioning what a good fuckin’ girl you are every few seconds. The comforter drops, pooling around your feet, and Pale lets out a small noise of approval. You stand between his splayed legs, eager and barelegged, donning nothing but underwear and a nightshirt which falls just above your knees. 

“Look at you, puttin’ on a show. You been itching to get out of those clothes, I can tell. Been waitin’ to strip for me since I walked through the fuckin’ door,” he coos in a condescending sort of tone. “Had my own little whore livin’ right across the street this whole time, didn’t even know it.”

Tugging the hem of your nightshirt up a few inches, he slips a hand underneath and squeezes your thigh. He’s got these rough, calloused fingers that leave your skin feeling abused, and you notice purplish bruises blooming around his knuckles. You figure he must’ve gotten into a bar fight or something these past couple days because his hands are awfully shredded up. Come to think of it, he seems like the type to swing at some poor drunk for stepping on those shiny shoes of his. 

He’s squeezing and pawing at your thighs, and you can’t help but notice how remarkably warm his palms are. They’re hotter than a damn stovetop, and you’re almost certain that his handprint will be branded on your inner thigh once he’s finished.

Pale feels you up for a decent amount of time before wrenching the nightshirt over your head himself. Balling up the fabric in his fists, he tosses it aside. Your eyes flicker back and forth between the rumpled scrap of fabric on the carpet that he just peeled off your body and the neatly folded suit jacket resting on the arm of the sofa.

“What happened to those pristine folding skills of yours?” you tease.

He’s hardly listening to you. 

Eyeing your bare chest like he’s about to drop down on one knee and propose to it, he reaches up and brushes the pads of his thumbs over your nipples, back and forth, back and forth. His touch is featherlight, and you push your chest out for him, letting him grope and pinch your tits however he pleases.

“Huh? What, that thing ? What’s it worth, fifty cents?” he says dismissively, staring at your chest the whole time, refusing to spare the garment a single glance. “No, too big for you. Tits like these, you deserve somethin’ that fits better, somethin’ prettier. You flash a guy with tits like these, he’s morally obligated to buy you whatever the fuck you want, you know? Feel like I gotta go buy out a whole fuckin’ department store now just ‘cause you’re lettin’ me touch ‘em.”

He keeps on brushing the pads of his thumbs over your nipples until you’re squirming for him, panting and gripping his wrists.

Pale leans forward a bit, pressing quick, open-mouthed kisses to your chest, and you swallow real hard. You wonder if he can feel your heart beating out of your ribcage, if he can feel it thumping every time he nuzzles his face in between your tits and plants more sloppy kisses there. Peering down at him with wide, pleading eyes, you whine, hoping he’ll keep giving you more, and more, and more until you can’t take it any longer and your heart explodes or something. 

“Don’t gimme that look. Jesus! Got my dick hard enough already. Don’t need the big, pretty eyes and the fuckin’ pout,” he huffs, pulling away to admire the wet mess he’s made of your tits, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Trying his damnedest not to stretch them out too much, Pale reaches down and adjusts his slacks. His cock is swelling up in those nice, grey pants of his, and the fabric is getting all bunched up. You figure it must be pretty uncomfortable because he keeps grimacing and mumbling complaints under his breath. 

“Alright, c’mon, dollface. On your knees,” he grunts, pulling at his slacks. “Can’t play with your tits all night long; I got shit to do, you know. Got work.” 

There’s a lumpy throw pillow wedged between his back and the couch, and, as soon as he manages to yank it out from behind him, he tosses it onto the ground. It lands right between those polished size-thirteens on his feet.

Without another word, you sink to the floor, placing your hands on his big, sturdy thighs to steady yourself. Only, the second you plant your knees on the pillow, the first few notes of that one song by The Police—you know, the one that goes: “Every breath you take, every something something something, I’ll be watching you”—ring out from nextdoor. It’s the song they play in teen movies when the protagonist gets to slow-dance with his dream girl at prom, and knowing you’re about to suck some stranger’s dick on your beat-up couch at two in the morning makes it all the more funny.

“It’s like we’re boyfriend and girlfriend or something,” you joke, giving him a sweet smile from in between his legs. “It’s romantic.

Pale huffs out a laugh, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and guiding your hand up toward his crotch. He presses your palm against his bulge and shifts his hips back and forth, back and forth, sighing and gritting his teeth. 

“Mmhm. Romantic ,” he repeats in a strained sort of voice, still rubbing against you. “You know, ‘s gonna be real romantic when you wrap those lips around my cock, honey. Real romantic. Makes me wanna go get you a fuckin’ bouquet just thinkin’ ‘bout it. Maybe a box of chocolates, too, if you watch the teeth.”

That slow song keeps playing, and Pale keeps calling you these obscene pet names you’ve only ever heard on the Playboy Channel, and you keep rubbing, and rubbing, and rubbing. You palm him until he’s sick of it, until he swats your hand away and lazily gestures to his belt. 

C’mon , c’mon,” he urges, sounding frantic. “Blow me.”

In a matter of seconds, you’re fumbling with his belt buckle. Your unsteady fingers try their hardest to unlatch it, but, in the meantime, you rest your chin on his knee, nuzzling your cheek against his strong thighs. The man radiates warmth like nothing else. Snuggling between his legs feels an awful lot like snuggling closer to a bonfire. 

After a minute or two, you manage to unfasten his belt, and the buckle clinks as it slumps down against his thigh. Too impatient to watch you screw with his zipper for five minutes straight, he unzips his slacks himself, tugging the zipper down right in front of your face. It makes that quick, high-pitched “ zzzzzzzzip ” noise, and you grow dizzy watching his big, clunky fingers work. 

Underneath the grey pants, he’s sporting a nice pair of black briefs that look like they’re about ready to burst at the seams. The man is so hard, it almost seems painful.

“Aw, shit! Look at that,” Pale hisses, gesturing to his own bulge. “See that? ‘S what happens when you work all fuckin’ day and you got no mouth to fuck when you come home. I work seventeen hours some days, and who do I got to jerk me off when I’m done? No one. My own fuckin’ fist, that’s who… Only time I ever miss my wife’s when I walk through that door and my balls are aching. Think that’s the only time she ever pretended to like me; you know, greetin’ me at the door, tellin’ me how much she missed me, lyin’ through her fuckin’ teeth, all that shit. Who the fuck cares?”

He talks so fast, it’s unreal; listening to Pale speak makes you want to take a deep breath for him. 

“All I done is play with your tits a little, and my dick feels like it’s gonna fuckin’ fall off. That ain’t right,” he complains some more, bitching about this and that. “Never been this hard in my fuckin’ life. Forget what I said about the flowers, and the chocolate, and all that shit. You suck me off right now, I’ll buy you a fuckin’ car. Diamond earrings, too. Somethin' like that. Whatever you want.”


He grunts in discomfort, clawing at his own briefs. 

Tugging the waistband down a few inches, he grips his cock and whines, “Fuckin’ look at that. So much blood rushin’ to my dick, feel like I’m gonna pass the fuck ou—”

His cock snaps up against his hip, and, instead of finishing his sentence, he makes a strangled sort of noise. It twitches against that nice, black dress shirt of his, resting against his abdomen, and you give it a good, long look.

Like every other part of the man, it’s big and sort of angry-looking. It bobs against his belly like it’s too heavy to stand up on its own, like its size is weighing it down or something. And, God, the head is so red and desperate for touch, it almost looks bruised. It’s got these long, thick veins crawling up the sides, and you wonder what they’ll feel like against your lips when you’re taking him into your throat. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Pale’s hands spring up to take hold of his cock. You figure the first stroke must feel like heaven because the man lets out this obscene, guttural noise. He pumps up and down, up and down, stroking himself right in front of your face. Grunting in frustration, he reaches up and spits into the palm of his hand before fucking his fist some more. 

The tip is so, so red, and you feel somewhat guilty for making him wait so long, prepared to do your best to make it up to the man. Leaning forward the slightest bit, you plant a quick, chaste kiss onto the head of his cock, brushing your lips back and forth over the slit. He jerks, jumping out of his damn skin, and you hear the smallest of whimpers slip from his mouth.

Clearing his throat, Pale fixes you with an unamused look.

“Real cute,” he huffs, trying to regain his composure. “You get on your knees just to watch, or what? Feels like I’m doin’ all the hard work here.” 

You watch him pump his cock for a couple more seconds, admiring how the man works his fist up and down. Once you’ve had your fill, you tug his briefs down another inch or two, maneuvering the waistband so that it cradles his balls nicely. Ducking your head down a bit, you nuzzle your face in between his thighs and press equally sweet kisses to both his balls, doing your best to pay them each the same amount of attention. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ ,” Pale hisses, sucking down a great, big breath of air. “You tryin’ to kill me, you slut? Gotta give a man some type o’ warning before you start playin’ with his balls like that. That’ll get you kneed in the mouth some places.”

 You figure, based on his reaction, he’s not the kind of man who enjoys that sort of thing. Leaning back, you murmur a soft “Sorry” and offer an apologetic smile. Only, the second he notices you shying away from him, he throws a fit. Mumbling something about “finishing what you started,” the man grabs a fistful of your hair and jerks you toward him, trying his hardest to steer your “pretty fuckin’ lips” near his sack again. 

You make a face at him. “Huh? I thought you said—”

“Said it’d get you a busted lip some places , honey. Not here,” he interrupts, shushing you softly as he guides your head down. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Suck my balls. Promise I won’t knee you in the mouth; cross my heart.”

Giving the man a nice, big grin, you dip your head between his thighs again, and he murmurs encouragement the whole time, stroking your hair. Cupping his sack, you press some more hot kisses there, trying your best to be gentle. He squirms, watching you kiss, and lick, and nuzzle against it with a look of disbelief on his face. 

“Ain’t had this in awhile. I’m fuckin’ dyin’ over here,” he admits breathlessly, rambling on and on as you mouth at his balls. “My wife never did that; y’know, the cutesie, little kisses, and the fuckin’ kitten licks, and all that shit. My dick, sure, but not this… Ain’t had this in a long time.”

That new wave, synth-pop bullshit your neighbor listens to—you know, Duran Duran, and Soft Cell, and that one song about a waitress working in a cocktail bar—seeps through the walls, but somehow, someway, Pale manages to be even louder than the music. He keeps talking, and talking, and talking as he fucks his own fist, voicing any thought that pops into his head. Some Prince song starts playing real loud from nextdoor, but you can’t even make out the lyrics because Pale keeps drowning them out, making sure you hear each and every word that comes out of his mouth. 

It’s nothing of import, of course; the man just likes to talk. 

“Where’d you learn how to treat a man like this, huh? There some fuckin’ heaven on Earth I don’t know about where men get their balls sucked on the first date, or is that just you? You from Vegas? Hollywood, or somethin’?” he asks in between a couple deep groans. “Wherever it is, I’m packin’ my shit an’ buying a one-way ticket. Swear to Christ.”

He doesn’t let you get a word in otherwise, but you don’t mind. You’ve got a full mouth anyway.

Pale’s balls hang heavy and red between his thighs, gleaming with spit, and you lick them some more, wanting to impress him, wanting to make him feel good. His thighs twitch beneath your palms, and, without any sort of warning, he wrenches you back by the hair, spluttering the words “Fuck, fuck, fffuck … gimme a minute.” The man holds his breath for a couple seconds, shutting his eyes tight and clenching his jaw hard enough to chip some teeth. After a minute or two, he exhales slowly through his nose and grinds his teeth some more, chest heaving.

Shit, honey. Almost made me…” he trails off, wiping a few droplets of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Never had that before.”

“Never?” you ask, resting your chin on his kneecap.

Stifling a smug smile, you watch him try to get a hold of himself. You’ve never made a man finish too soon before, and knowing that Pale almost came all over those nice, expensive pants of his because of you fills you with a sick sense of pride. 

“Nuh-uh, never. Got me feelin’ like a fuckin’ teenager over here,” he admits, trying to catch his breath in between sentences. “I got stamina, you know? I got lots of stamina. Took me an hour to fuck my wife some days; I got fuckin’ sick of it, sick of listenin’ to her whining. Had to fake it just to shut her up sometimes. Ever hear of that? A man fakin’ it just to get his old lady the fuck off his dick? That ain’t right.”

He clicks his tongue like he’s irritated and pats his pants pockets, searching for something in particular. Grumbling to himself, the man turns his pockets inside out, tossing his wallet and keys right on the floor. When nothing comes up, he tries digging in his shirt pocket instead. 

“Where the fuck’s my…” he mutters under his breath, feeling around with those thick fingers of his. “Coulda sworn I— ah . Got it.”

A second later, his fingers emerge from his shirt pocket, and a small glass vial emerges with them. It’s filled halfway with tiny clumps of white powder.

Pale unscrews the plastic cap, and you give him a funny look, peering up at the man in disbelief.

“What’d I say about makin’ those faces?” Pale tsks, pinching your cheek playfully. “Relax. Little bit of blow keeps my cock hard for hours.”

Without another word, he tips the vial onto his wrist, and an itty-bitty mound of powder piles up on his skin. He buries that big beak of his in the pile and snorts it right up, pinching the bridge of his nose and wincing.

“Yeah, but won’t it…” you pause, watching the man lick up the remaining morsels of coke still stuck to his wrist. “Won’t it be hard to sleep if you’re hopped up on that stuff? What happened to wearing each other out ?”

He sniffs, flares his nostrils, blinks a bunch of times, and then tucks the glass vial back in his shirt pocket. 

“I been thinking: I’m all worked up, and I still gotta beat some sense into that fuck nextdoor,” he says, sounding very rational all of a sudden. “I figure sleep’s off the table for me tonight anyway, sweetheart. Don’t mean I can’t still fuck you blind.” 

“But you’ve got work. You said so,” you remind him. “Won’t you be tired?”

“Naw, I'm used to it. I go two, three days without sleepin’ sometimes, you know. Coke’s good for that.” He waves his hand dismissively and shakes his head, peering down at you through pupils as big as planets. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, honey. Worry ‘bout fitting my cock in your mouth.”

Despite the coke, he seems real tired. His eyes look awfully puffy, and he’s got these dark, purplish bags hanging underneath them. After working for seventeen hours straight, you figure he must be running on empty right about now.

“Big, ain’t it? Too big for that sweet fuckin’ mouth o’ yours,” he tries tempting you, beckoning you closer with a lazy wave of his hand. “You think it’ll fit down your throat? Huh? You ask me, I say no chance.”

No chance? ” you repeat, pretending to be offended. “You don’t have any faith in me? You’re going to feel pretty dumb when I take it all the way down. I’m skilled like that.”

“Well, shit , aren’t you ambitious?” He tries his hardest to stifle a smile but those goofy-looking teeth of his peek out from behind his lips anyway, big and crooked. “Yeah, you got a real sense of humor. ‘ All the way down, ’ you’re sayin’. Sure, little girl… Case you haven’t noticed, I’m bigger ‘n most; it’s not some five-incher you can pretend to choke on and call it a day. I’m thinkin’ you’ll get it halfway down. If you try real hard, three-fourths.”

Determined to prove him wrong, you give the man one of those sweet smiles you’ve been dishing out all night long before scooching closer and taking the head of his cock in your mouth. This time, Pale’s more in control of himself; he inhales through his nose and squeezes his eyes shut like one of those recovering rageaholics who has to count to ten when someone cuts them off. 

Fuck! That’s it,” he says through gritted teeth, pressing his palm against the back of your head. “Go easy, dollface. Inch by inch, y’know? Don’t hurt yourself.”

Bobbing your head up and down in his lap, you do as he says, taking him inch by inch. You try your hardest not to choke, but it’s too big and Pale’s too impatient. He keeps bucking his hips and pressing against the back of your head, eager to bury himself down your hot throat. 

To make matters even worse, the bastard notices you struggling to fit his cock in your mouth, and he grins, seeming pretty satisfied with himself. 

“How’s it goin’ down there, honey? You take it all the way down yet? Huh?” he asks in a mocking tone, watching you splutter and drool all over him. “Almost there? Halfway, maybe?”

You’re too busy to answer, but he doesn’t mind. Ever so considerate, Pale reaches down to gather a handful of your hair in his fist, and he uses his grip to shake your head from side to side, answering the question for you. 

No? I said, didn’t I?” he asks haughtily, smothering another one of those crooked grins. “Said it’d be a tight fit. You hear me say that?”

He keeps your hair tucked inside his fist, helping you bob your head with a few lazy tugs. Every time you manage to swallow down another inch, the man showers you with praise, cooing, “There you go,” or “Take it, honey,” or “You got a real talent for this, you know that?” It makes your face heat up, makes you want to take more, makes you want to impress him.

“Aww, Jesus . You’re gettin’ me all riled here; I can’t fuckin’ sit still no more,” he pants, trying his hardest not to buck his hips and stuff those last few inches down your throat. “How ‘bout I take over, huh? I needa fuck somethin’. Just relax your throat for me, and I’ll do all the work.”

Aiming to please, you hum out a garbled “M’kay” around his cock and let your jaw go slack. Pale murmurs some more praise, grabbing at the sides of your face to keep your head still, and you lean into his touch. He presses his hot palms against your cheeks, against your ears, to hold you in place, and your eyes flutter shut. The man’s skin is so warm, his touches make you sleepy. 

For a minute or two, he manages to be gentle. He rocks his hips slowly, testing the waters, gradually working your throat open. It doesn’t last too long, though; he’s too impatient, too rough, too needy . You figure Pale isn’t the sweet-caresses-on-a-bed-of-roses sort of guy, but that’s alright. He’s got a big dick, and he promised to fuck the shit out of you, so you let him use your mouth however he wants.

Pretty soon, he’s picking up the pace, fucking your throat hard and fast. You take it as best you can, keeping your mouth wide open for him, drooling all over his cock. He reaches down to wipe some spit from the corner of your mouth with the pad of his thumb, so tender, so sweet, before pressing against the back of your head and urging you to take more, more, more. It’s hot, quick, and messy, and the man keeps grunting out broken sentences, promising to visit you every night to make sure your mouth stays well-fucked.

The first time he makes you gag, you panic and push against his kneecaps, pulling off and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. It’s not that big of a deal, but to you, it feels like a big deal; you don’t want him to think you’re inexperienced, don’t want him to walk away from this night thinking, Yeah, that bitch across the street gives bad head.

“Shit, sorry. I… didn’t mean to,” you stammer, huffing out a nervous laugh, trying to catch your breath. “I just want to impress you.”

He makes a face at you. Waving his hand dismissively, the man scoffs as though you’ve insulted his character or something.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t apologize to me, little girl,” Pale says coolly, shutting you up. “Go ahead and gag on it. Shows me you care.”

He playfully pinches your nose and mumbles something like “C’mon, open up.” Taking a big, deep breath, you press an apologetic kiss to the tip of his cock before wrapping your lips around it again. 

“What, you think I’m mean or somethin’? Think I’m gonna get mad at you for bein’ noisy?” he asks, slowly massaging the head on your tongue, dragging it back and forth. “Naw, I’m nice. Come across the street sometime, I’ll let you choke on my cock whenever you want. Most beautiful thing I ever heard. Music to my fuckin’ ears.”

He picks up the pace, using your mouth some more. Puffing out quick breaths, he gives a few sloppy, shallow thrusts into the back of your throat, panting and grunting the whole time.


Pale is certainly a sight to see when he’s about to cum. 


It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself; he’s got his hands all over you, and they don’t stay in one place for very long. He’s pressing against the back of your head, and then he’s reaching down to grope your tits, and then he’s gripping the couch cushions for dear life, and then he’s pulling on your hair just because he can. The man needs something to hold onto, needs to talk himself through it.

“You wanna impress me?” he asks, out of breath. “That’s sweet, honey. That’s real sweet. But I’m already fuckin’ impressed… Look at you, takin’ my cock like that. See, that’s impressive.”

He talks, and talks, and talks until he can’t anymore, until his breath catches in his throat and all that manages to slip past his lips is a long, loud groan. He mouths the words “Oh, fuck ” before pushing your head down, pinning your mouth to his cock, making sure he’s buried deep in your throat. He gives his last few jerky thrusts, and then he’s cumming, filling your mouth up, encouraging you to swallow it all down.

Some slips out and drips down your chin, but Pale gathers it up with the pad of his thumb and pushes it back between your lips “where it belongs.” He’s breathing hard, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon or something. You come up for air, and he makes a noise of approval as soon as he sees your red, puffy lips. He swipes some spit off your chin and smears it onto your cheek, making a mess of you.

“Fuckin’ angel face,” he says under his breath, dragging your bottom lip down with the pad of his thumb, admiring how shiny and used they look. “You got a mouth like heaven, you know that? An’ a pretty face to match.”

You’ve got spit smeared all over your face, your lips are nice and swollen, and your hair is a wreck, but he looks at you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. He runs a hand through his hair and gestures to his lap, signaling to you to get off your knees.

“Alright, c’mere,” he says, patting his thigh. “Your turn.”

You stagger to your feet, taking a second to shimmy out of your panties, tugging them down to your ankles and kicking them off. Ever the gentleman, Pale whistles long and low, eyes fixed on the space between your legs

“Pretty face, pretty tits, pretty cunt … You really lived across the street this whole time, huh?” he murmurs, clicking his tongue and shaking his head like he’s upset with himself. “I coulda passed you on the street—Ain’t that fucked? I coulda walked right by you, not knowing what a slut you are, not knowing how pretty this cunt is. That’s fucked. That’s just tragic.”

He slips a hand between your legs and brushes his bruised knuckles over your slit—only once, but it’s enough to make you jerk, enough to make you grab at his wrists and squeak. 

“Makes me sick, remembering all the times I jerked off into a fuckin’ tissue ‘cause I was worried about fuckin’ up my clothes, fuckin’ up my furnature. You were right here this whole time, waitin’ for someone to come fill you up, weren’t you? Waitin’ for me to come fill you up?” He presses that big, warm palm of his up against your cunt, cupping it just because he can. “Poor fuckin’ thing. Probably couldn't sleep ‘cause you felt so fuckin’ empty all the time, huh? Just needed to bounce on a nice, big cock.”

You nod frantically, agreeing with everything he says, gripping his wrist tightly with both hands as he rambles on and on. You can’t think, can’t process his words when he’s rubbing against you like that, so you just nod, whimper out a pitched “ Mmhm ,” and rock your hips.

“So empty,” you repeat, melting like butter every time he sinks his fingers inside of you and fucks you with them, mouth moving on its own. “Need a nice, big— ah … nice, big cock.”

He shushes you, slips his fingers out of you, and declares, in that deep, rich tone of his, “I’m gonna take real good care of you. Gonna show you how fuckin’ sorry I am for walkin’ past you on the street, for letting you fall asleep unfucked all those nights. Gonna make it up to you.”

The second he draws his hand away, you scramble to sit on his lap, straddling his strong thighs and pawing at his chest, balling up the silky fabric of his black shirt in your fists. Shifting back and forth in his lap, you hump against him and babble incoherently, tears of desperation in your eyes. You feel his soft cock stirring against the undersides of your thighs already, feel it twitching and poking against you, demanding your attention.

Pale glances down at his slacks and sucks his teeth, eyeing the wet spots your cunt leaves behind whenever you rub against him. Under different circumstances, you figure he might get mad, might beat the shit out of anyone who fucks up a perfectly good pair of pants like these. Instead, he feigns disappointment and shakes his head at you. 

Jesus, little girl. Look what you did… That’s fuckin’ virgin wool. Costs an arm and a leg, you know that? Almost three hundred bucks,” he tsks, squeezing your thighs. “Fuckin’ soaking through my pants, that wet, little cunt.”

You sob out a quick, empty apology as you knead his chest, undoing his shirt buttons with fumbling fingers. Whining and whimpering like a bitch in heat, you keep humping against his three-hundred-dollar slacks despite your I’m-sorrys. Fat, needy tears spill over, rolling down your face, and Pale wipes them away with his knuckles, pouting his lip and pinching your cheek.

“Aw, shit… Can’t even be mad at you. Poor fuckin’ thing.” He shushes you and rests a hand on your hip, lazily dragging you back and forth in his lap. “You cryin’ ‘cause of me? Huh? You want my dick that bad? Wanna bounce on it, show me what a skilled, little whore you are?”

“Uh- huh .” You nod desperately and bury your face in the crook of his neck, smacking a few wet kisses onto his skin. “Wanna bounce on your cock… Please , can I?”

You mouth at the shiny, gold chain dangling from Pale’s neck as he reaches between the two of you and strokes himself impatiently. The head of his cock nudges itself between your thighs, and you whine, gripping his shoulders. You feel delirious, feel like you might die if he doesn’t fill you up in the next five seconds. 

“That’s a good fuckin’ girl,” Pale coos, watching you suck on his chain with an amused sort of smile. “You do whatever the fuck you want. Knock yourself out.”

He presses into you slowly, resting those big, warm palms of his on either side of your waist, and you cling to his chest for dear life. Mouthing and nipping at your ear, he mumbles all sorts of praise, encouraging you to sink down onto it, to take every inch, to fill yourself up. 

Shit! There you go,” he breathes out, watching you squirm on his cock, watching you skewer yourself on it. “Nice and slow.”

It’s painful, going so slow and being so patient. If it were up to you, you’d have every inch stuffed inside you by now, but you do as he says and take your time, splitting yourself open on his cock. Your throat is familiar with the man’s size, but your cunt isn’t; Pale has to bob his hips to work you open, to fit himself inside of you. 

“Never had a pussy this tight,” he grunts out, squeezing his eyes shut as you take another inch. “Feel like I’m breaking in a new pair of shoes or somethin’, y’know? Not the cheap shit you find at Foot Locker for ten bucks. I’m talkin’, like, those animal-skin shoes you special-order; cost, like, two hundred bucks sometimes… That’s you.”

You don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, but you nod anyway and moan the words “Yeah, that’s me, Pale” as you sink down onto him. He lets you toy with his gold chain some more, lets you suck on it until your mouth tastes like metal. 

After a minute or two, you manage to take all of him, every last inch.

You press your sweaty forehead against his, giving yourself a moment to adjust, a moment to breathe, before you start shifting up and down. It feels so good, being filled up over and over again like that. You’re both panting and groaning, sharing breaths as you bounce in his lap slowly. 

Pale throws an arm over the back of the couch and tips his head back, huffing out a sigh of content as he guides you up and down. “Haven’t got laid since— shit, when was it? Couple months ago… Coulda made it with plenty of chicks, but I didn’t have that kinda time. I bust my ass, you know?”

“Mmhm,” you hum, dragging one of his hands up to your lips, kissing and sucking on the man’s fingertips. “So busy.”

He shakes his head in a “What am I gonna do with you?” sort of way and slips two fingers past your lips, pumping them in and out, fucking your mouth all over again. You gag on them purposely, trying your hardest to impress him, to please him. 

“That’s right, doll. I’m a bona fide working man, ain’t I? On call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You could say I’m busy,” he agrees, watching you eagerly choke on his thick fingers. “Lots of waitresses make eyes at me; I don’t make ‘em back. Always got shit to do, fires to put out. Some nights, I don’t even got enough time to jerk my-fuckin’- self off, let alone worry about satisfyin’ someone else. Ain’t that fucked?” 

He slips his fingers out of your mouth and reaches between the two of you to brush them against your clit, stroking softly. You mewl and cant your hips toward him. 

“I’m… I’m right across the street, Pale,” you remind him in a needy tone of voice, sinking down on his cock for the hundredth time. “I’ll help you unwind whenever you want.”

He huffs out a laugh and flashes his crooked teeth at you.

“Bet you would, huh? Bet you’d wait for me every night, sittin’ on the couch, wrapped up in your blanket, nice and snug. I come poundin’ on the door at midnight, you spread your legs, and we help each other unwind… That’s a nice thought. No, really, that’s a pretty fuckin’ picture.” He tucks your hair behind your ear and rolls your clit with the pad of his thumb, admiring all of the oh-my-Gods and please-please-pleases you squeak out. “That’s trouble, though. Make me late for work every morning, this tight cunt.”

Everything the man says makes you dizzy. 

He glances down at the watch strapped to his wrist and mutters something unpleasant under his breath. 

“Shit… You really are gonna make me late, you know that?” He taps the face of his watch with his fingertip, sneering down at it and clicking his tongue. “Gonna call in, tell ‘em I can’t make it today. Too busy takin’ care of some poor slut across the street. Let ‘em listen to all those little noises you’re making, let ‘em hear how fuckin’ wet you are; they’ll understand.” 

Your head is swimming, and his skin is so hot, you swear you can see steam rising off his chest. He’s got sweat dripping down his forehead, and his pupils look like enormous, black saucers. There’s a great, big pressure building up in your belly, and you let your head droop onto the man’s shoulder, trying your best to smother your moans and whimpers. 

It’s overstimulating, all of it. You feel like you’re falling apart at the seams, coming undone in his lap.

“What, you gonna come? Already?” Pale asks, pinching your chin between two fingers, jostling you around a bit. “You gonna come on my cock, honey? Huh? Talk to me.”

Yes, I’m gonna—oh, God,” you breathe out, gripping the collar of his shirt in desperation, bouncing up and down on his cock even faster. “Tell me I’m good, Pale… Please .”

The man sucks red marks onto your jaw and circles your clit with the pad of his thumb over and over again, mumbling all sorts of things in your ear. He says something about getting you on your hands and knees next time he sees you, says something about “splitting this hot, little cunt open in front of that jerkoff nextdoor,” and you moan into the crook of his neck.

“Gonna break that fucker’s face in twenty-three different places. How’s that sound?” he promises, and you figure this must be how a man like Pale sweet-talks. “Playin’ his fuckin’ Beach Boys, and his Wham, and all that shit… Can’t stand assholes like that. You got a sweet thing livin’ right next door, waiting for someone to come fill up her soft, little pussy, and you go and play that fuckin’ garbage all night long instead. Probably thinks he’s hot shit or somethin’. What a fuckin’ moron.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and mold your lips into the shape of an “O,” making all sorts of breathy noises as he guides you up and down with one hand planted on your waist. 

“Bet you knocked on his door an’ asked him to turn his shit music down, all polite, didn’t you? What’d you say, huh? You say ‘Pretty please’ and flash those fuckin’ doll eyes at him?” He gestures to the nightshirt he stripped off of your body and tossed onto the floor a little while ago. “Probably wore that thing, nearly gave the son of a bitch a heart attack. What’s it made of, that thing? Tissue paper? Shit … You walk up to my door in somethin’ like that, showin’ off those nice legs, I’m not lettin’ you leave, you know?”

All it takes is a couple more strokes of his thumb, and then you’re convulsing in his lap, burying your face in his broad chest and moaning his name. Pale holds you tight, wrapping an arm around you, watching you twitch and buck your hips with the slightest of smiles on his face. He rubs your back with a warm palm, groaning every time you clench around him, and you melt. 

There you go,” he coos, pressing his forehead against yours, watching your face screw up in pleasure. “Feels good, don’t it? Coming on a man’s cock?” 

Dipping your head back down, you rest your cheek on his shoulder, completely spent, and he brushes his lips over your hairline, murmuring something that sounds like “Good fuckin’ girl.” Your heart is pounding; you feel your pulse in every inch of your body, thumping all over. Blissed out of your mind, you hum out the words “Thank you” and snuggle against him, going boneless and pliant in his arms. 

He gives you a minute.


Pale waits until you relax, until your thighs stop shaking, until you manage to get your heart rate under control. He waits until you’re practically drooling on his bicep, mumbling something about how big his muscles are, sleepy and sated. Then, he starts shifting his hips, trying his best to be gentle as he finishes himself off.

You feel him moving underneath you, feel him bucking his hips and stuffing you full over and over again, and you sit nice and still in his lap, letting the man do whatever he wants. For a couple minutes, it’s just that. Pale presses you flush against his chest and thrusts up into you, grunting and sighing, and you nuzzle against his neck, jerking up and down a bit as he uses your body. It’s comfortable; you figure you could fall asleep like this if you wanted to.

Without any sort of warning, he wraps those strong, sturdy arms of his tightly around your waist and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. He sets you back down on the couch cushions so that you’re laying longways, resting your head on the arm of the sofa before crawling on top of you and cramming himself between your thighs. 

“Easier like this,” he explains, tossing one of your legs over his shoulder. 

He picks up the pace, fucking you into the couch cushions, alternating between squeezing your throat and playing with your tits. You feel like you’re in seventh heaven, lying there on the couch with a big man wedged in between your legs. 


When Pale finally cums, he makes a big production of it.

He buries every inch of his cock inside of you and grips the arm of the couch hard enough to bust it, forgetting to breathe for a good fifteen seconds. Some men get themselves through it by thrusting wildly and groaning real loud, but Pale’s the sort of man who has to stop everything he’s doing, shutting his eyes tight and holding his breath until his face goes red. It’s fascinating, watching him come undone like that. 

He stays still for a while, spilling his cum deep inside of you, filling you up like he promised he would. You figure he’s going to pull out as soon as he’s finished, and you brace yourself for it, but he keeps your legs pried open and bobs his hips a little. 

“Are you going to fuck me again?” you ask playfully, peering up at him with half-lidded eyes and a sweet, sleepy smile. “I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“Nuh huh, I got work, remember?” he says, trying to catch his breath. “Gotta make sure my cum stays inside you, make sure it doesn’t drip all over the cushions when I pull out, you know? Hate when that shit happens. What a fuckin’ waste.”

He gives a couple more shallow thrusts, pushing his cum deep inside of you before pulling out completely. Busy man that he is, he stands up and immediately redresses himself for work, tucking his soft cock back in his slacks and zipping them up, doing up the buttons on his silky, black shirt as quick as possible. Despite him being in a rush, you catch him glancing between your legs a few times, keeping an eye on your cunt, making sure none of his cum slips out. 

“You need someone to wear you out tomorrow night, you let me know,” he tells you, slipping those shiny shoes of his back onto his big feet. “I get off at midnight. Could use a mouth like that to unwind.” 

He doesn’t bother shrugging his suit jacket back on; he drapes it over his bent arm like a waiter carrying around a table napkin as he fumbles with his belt buckle. The man rushes toward your door and nearly walks right out, nearly leaves without a goodbye.

“Pale?” you call out.

He swivels back around, glancing around, wondering if he forgot something. “Huh?”

“What about those diamond earrings you promised me?” you joke, screwing with him.

He just looks at you for a couple seconds, eyeing you with a blank expression on his face before huffing out a laugh. 

“I’ll send ‘em in the mail,” he counters. 

He’s already got one foot out the door when he hears you call out to him again. 


“You can just give them to me tomorrow night,” you retort. “Y’know, when I get tired and need a big, strong man to take care of me again.”


He glances over his shoulder at you, trying his best to smother a grin.

“You’re cute, you know that?” is all he says, followed by a soft “Sleep tight, honey.”

The door shuts behind him with a little click, and you stare at it intently, wondering if that loud, six-foot-something man was just a figment of your imagination, wondering if the past hour actually happened or if you just dreamed it up. 

You feel so giddy, so lightheaded, like a girl who’s just been kissed for the very first time. The clock ticks by, and you rise to your feet, slipping your nightshire back over your head and peering down at the floor with a big, stupid smile stuck on your face. You feel like dancing around your living room for a good ten or fifteen minutes, and that’s exactly what you do. Right in front of those big factory windows lining your walls, you jump, and spin, and laugh to yourself until you go dizzy. 

Whatever energy Pale forgot to fuck out of you is gone by the time you’re done hopping and pirouetting around your living room. You collapse on the couch with a grunt, tugging your blanket up to your chin and falling asleep the second your head hits the pillow. 




The very next morning, you step out of your apartment building, wrapped up in a wool coat, nice and snug. There’s slush and shit covering the sidewalks, the sky is as grey as cigarette ash, and the faces of the people walking past you are stained with deep frowns. Still, you glance up, craning your neck and eyeing the enormous apartment building across the street, counting up twenty floors with a smile on your face. 

On the curb, there’s a cardboard box containing an awfully expensive stereo system. There are a few discs and records lying at the bottom, underneath the speakers, and, upon looking closer, you recognize some of the cover art—the Police, the Beach Boys, and Wham, to name a few. 

On the side of the box, three words are scrawled haphazardly, like they were written in a hurry: