My New Neighbor Asked Me for Something I Never Imagined

Rodrigo had been living alone for three years on the eleventh floor of a glass-and-steel building in the center of the city. An architect of forty-one, methodical to the point of irritation, he had designed his life with the same precision with which he drew his plans: every object in its exact place, every hour with a purpose, every relationship with a defined outline. The apartment was his best project: clean lines, dark wood furniture, overhead light, and a silence he protected with the same determination another man might use to protect money.

Silence was, above all else, his favorite luxury.

For two years, the apartment next door had remained almost empty. The previous tenant, a Swiss executive who traveled twenty days a month, barely left a trace. But at the beginning of October, Rodrigo began to hear thuds against the shared wall. Footsteps. A chair being dragged. Sometimes, voices. The new neighbors had moved in one weekend he spent in Barcelona reviewing a project, and when he returned on Monday night, their lives were already installed less than a meter from his own.

He saw her for the first time the following Tuesday, in the elevator.

She was tall, with dark brown hair to her shoulders and green eyes that contrasted with her brown skin. She wore a white blouse that tightened over her breasts with every breath, and she was carrying a stroller with a few-month-old baby sleeping inside. Rodrigo greeted her with a nod. She gave him a brief smile, the kind that keeps too much hidden behind it.

—Valeria —she said, holding out her hand.

—Rodrigo.

The elevator opened on the ground floor and each went their own way. He thought about her over breakfast, more than made sense, and then forgot her in work.

***

That night, around eleven, Rodrigo was on the sofa with some plans spread across the coffee table when he heard the fight on the other side of the wall. Low voices at first, then sharper, then a door slam that made the hallway picture tremble. A man shouting insults. Then silence. And then, almost immediately, a cry that was not a baby’s.

Rodrigo didn’t move. It wasn’t his problem, and he wasn’t the kind of person who made other people’s problems his own.

But the crying continued. Dull, contained, like someone struggling against herself not to make noise. Twenty minutes passed like that. At eleven-thirty, someone knocked on his door.

He opened it with the pencil still in his hand. Valeria was in the hallway, eyes red, blouse wrinkled. She had a small cut on her lower lip, barely a thread of dried blood. Behind her, the stroller with the sleeping baby.

—I’m so sorry —she said—. I know perfectly well we hardly know each other.

—Come in —said Rodrigo, stepping aside.

She came in with the stroller, glanced at the apartment for a second with the eyes of someone comparing two worlds, and sat on the sofa where he had been working. Rodrigo closed the door and waited standing, saying nothing. Valeria rested her elbows on her knees and covered her face with her hands.

When she spoke, she did it slowly, without looking at him.

Marcos, her husband, had been without steady work for months. He gambled, drank, came home at hours that had no name. That night he had returned too drunk and with too much aggression built up, and when he raised his hand a second time in less than a month, Valeria pushed him out of the apartment and threw the bolt. She was afraid he would come back. She had no family in the city. She didn’t know anyone.

—You can stay here tonight —said Rodrigo. It wasn’t a question.

She nodded, and in that gesture there was a gratitude that needed no words. Rodrigo went to the hall closet to get blankets. When he came back, Valeria was still sitting in the same place, but now she had brought her hands to her chest. She pressed them with her fingers, an involuntary gesture, as if she were trying to ease something from the inside.

—Did he hurt you there? —he asked.

She shook her head.

—It’s something else. —She took time before continuing—. The baby is four months old. My body produces more milk than he drinks. —She paused, searching for the words—. I lost the breast pump during the move and I still haven’t bought another one. This afternoon I couldn’t... —She stopped. Her fingers kept pressing—. It hurts so much. I’ve been like this for hours and I don’t know what to do.

Rodrigo didn’t answer right away. He kept looking at her, the blankets still in his arms. The proper thing was to offer to go to a pharmacy, or look for one open at that hour, or simply not stick his hands where they didn’t belong. The proper thing was perfectly clear.

He sat down beside her.

—How long have you had that pain?

—Since noon —she murmured.

They looked at each other in silence. Rodrigo didn’t look away. Neither did Valeria.

—I can help you —he said, calmly. Without hurrying. Letting the sentence occupy the space it needed.

She didn’t ask how. Maybe she already knew. Maybe it was exactly what she had come to ask him without finding the words, and his sentence was the only answer that made sense.

—Yes? —Valeria whispered.

—If you want —said Rodrigo—. Only if you want. I’m going to suck your tits until I empty them, and then I’m going to fuck you until you forget your husband. Say it yourself.

She swallowed. Her green eyes darkened.

—Yes —she said, in a voice rougher than she intended—. I want it. Suck my tits. And everything else too.

***

Rodrigo turned off the ceiling light. Only the corner lamp remained on, casting a warm, low cone of light over the sofa. Valeria leaned back carefully, mindful of the baby sleeping in the stroller by the window. She unbuttoned her blouse with fingers that trembled slightly, not from cold. She took it off and folded it over the armrest, with that methodical gesture of someone who needs to keep some control over the situation. Then, with the same slowness, she brought her hands behind her back and unfastened her nursing bra. Her breasts fell heavy, swollen, and she let out a gasp at the sheer relief of the fabric no longer compressing them.

The breasts were enormous, taut, with blue veins marked beneath the pale skin. The nipples were dark, thick, swollen like ripe fruit, and were leaking on their own, before anyone touched them. A white thread slid down the curve of her left breast until it disappeared beneath the rib.

—Fuck —murmured Rodrigo, low-voiced—. You’re about to burst.

—I know. That’s why I’m asking you. Drink me.

—Tell me if at any point you want me to stop.

She closed her eyes and arched her back slightly, offering him her breast.

Rodrigo leaned in and caught the left nipple between his lips. He began gently, testing, learning the exact pressure. The milk came right away: warm, slightly sweet, with a density that surprised him. He felt Valeria exhale, a long sound that was half relief and half something darker beginning to rise through her belly.

He increased the pressure little by little, methodically, the same way he did everything. He closed his lips over the entire areola and sucked with a steady, deliberate rhythm, swallowing, starting again. He slid his tongue under the nipple and pressed it against his palate. Milk filled his mouth in hot spurts and he drank without rushing, swallowing between sucks. The breast gradually lost tension, and Valeria’s body, which had been rigid as wood since she came in the door, began to give. Her shoulders lowered. Her hands relaxed on the sofa. Then they tensed again, but for another reason.

—God —she murmured at some point—. What a relief. Keep going. Don’t stop.

He didn’t answer. He kept drinking, now more strongly, pulling the nipple back with his teeth gently closed over the soft flesh. Each tug produced a spurt of milk that he swallowed whole. Valeria opened her legs without realizing it, an unconscious movement he did notice.

Valeria’s hand found Rodrigo’s nape. She wasn’t guiding him: she simply needed to hold on to something, and he was what she had near. Her fingers tangled in his hair with a soft pressure that increased each time he sucked harder. When he switched to the right breast, which was fuller, tighter, more painful, she let out a sharper moan that she immediately muffled by covering her mouth with the back of her hand. The right nipple was even thicker, almost swollen to the point of pain, and when Rodrigo took it between his lips and began to suck with hunger, the first surge of milk filled his mouth all at once.

—Fuck, fuck —she whispered through her fingers—. Like that, like that, harder. Suck it all out of me.

Rodrigo noticed everything. The way her breathing had changed: no longer the broken rhythm of crying but something slower, deeper, heavier, more animal. The way her body had stopped resisting and started receiving. The way her hips lifted off the sofa every two sucks. There was a dynamic between them that had established itself without words, and it was the same one he knew well: someone surrendering control and someone taking it, and both comfortable in that place.

His right hand settled on her thigh.

Valeria didn’t move.

Rodrigo waited a second, without stopping sucking. Then he let his hand move slowly up the inside of her thigh, brushing the warm skin. She didn’t stop him. It kept going up until it reached the edge of her panties, and there it paused, waiting again. It was a game of deliberate pauses: he offered, she decided. She spread her legs fully, a gesture that said everything, and he felt with his fingertips the wetness already soaking the fabric.

—You’re soaking wet —he said, pulling his mouth off the nipple for a second, a thread of milk hanging from his lip.

—I’ve been like this since you asked me to say yes —she murmured—. Rodrigo, please, touch me.

—Tell me where.

—In the cunt. Touch my cunt. Put your fingers in me.

He moved the fabric aside and found her soaked, swollen, slippery. He ran two fingers along her slit, from top to bottom, and she let out a moan she had to bite back against her own wrist. Rodrigo leaned down over the breast again and kept drinking while he opened her with his fingers and rubbed her clit with his thumb, in slow, exact circles, measuring every response her body gave back to him.

—Oh my God, don’t stop, don’t stop —she panted.

He pushed his middle finger all the way in, to the knuckle. She swallowed it as if she had been waiting for it for hours. He added the index finger and began to move them slowly, curling them inward, searching for that spot that made her tighten her thighs around his hand. When he found it, Valeria arched fully and milk burst from both nipples, from the one he was sucking and from the one that had been left free, soaking his cheek and neck.

—You’re leaking milk everywhere —he growled against her breast.

—It’s yours, it’s yours, drink it all —she whispered, no longer caring about anything.

He caught the nipple that had been left free again, sucked until his mouth was full, swallowed, and didn’t stop moving his fingers for a single second. The other breast kept dripping onto the sofa. His fingers went in and out with a wet sound that joined the sound of sucking. The whole living room smelled of hot milk and a wet cunt.

Valeria yanked his hair upward.

—Wait. Wait. I want to see you. Take your clothes off. Now.

Rodrigo straightened. He pulled his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it, yanked down his pants and briefs in one motion. His cock sprang up hard, thick, a heavy drop beading at the tip. Valeria looked at it for a second, then licked her lower lip, just above the dried cut.

—Come here —she said, sitting on the edge of the sofa—. Put it in my mouth. I want you to taste your milk on my tongue.

He moved closer. She grabbed his cock with one hand, held it firm, and shoved it halfway into her mouth in a single thrust. Rodrigo let out a low groan. Valeria started sucking it hungrily, both hands on his hips, pulling him forward. She sucked long, taking the whole length up and down, pulling it out now and then to lick his balls and then swallowing it whole again. Her breasts bounced against his chest, still leaking, and drops of milk fell on his thighs and slid down his legs.

—Fuck, suck like that —he said, grabbing the back of her neck without squeezing—. I suck your tits and you suck my cock.

She let him go for a second, her mouth full of saliva.

—Come back. Come back to the tits. They still hurt. And fuck me while you drink them.

Rodrigo pushed her back onto the sofa carefully, without brusqueness, still mindful of the stroller. He stripped off her wet panties completely and threw them to the floor. He spread her legs and knelt between them. He leaned down, caught the left nipple again, and at the same time took his cock in his hand and ran it over her soaked slit, up and down, until the tip found the entrance on its own.

He pushed slowly. She took him centimeter by centimeter, stifling the moan against her own hand again.

—Oh, fuck, so big —she gasped—. Put it all in me, all the way.

He buried himself to the hilt in one continuous push. He stayed still for a second, cock driven in to the balls, sucking the nipple as if nothing else in the world mattered. Then he started moving. Slow thrusts at first, long, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in to the hilt. Each upward thrust matched a long pull on the nipple. Each withdrawal, a suck that drew out a stream of milk.

Valeria grabbed his head and pressed it to her breast.

—Don’t stop sucking. Don’t stop sucking and don’t stop fucking me.

He sped up. His cock went in and out with a sticky sound, and her thighs began to tremble. The milk kept coming, slower now from the left breast, still in spurts from the right each time he pressed it with his tongue against the palate. He slipped his free hand under her ass, lifted her a few centimeters to fuck her at a better angle, and began to thrust harder. The sofa creaked under them in a dull rhythm. The chain of sensations didn’t stop: breast sucked, milk swallowed, cock driven in to the bottom, clit rubbing against his bone with every thrust.

—Rodrigo, I’m going to come —she whispered, panting into his ear—. I’m going to come, fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop.

—Come —he murmured against her breast, his mouth full of milk—. Come on my cock. Milk me the way I’m milking you.

Valeria came silently, pressing her lips together and biting the back of her hand so as not to wake the baby. The orgasm was long, one of those that arrives in waves and doesn’t end all at once. Rodrigo felt her cunt clamp down around his cock, squeeze it, let it go, squeeze it again, and he kept thrusting slowly, holding her from inside and out, not pulling out until the contractions had completely ceased. He held her the whole time it took, with his mouth still latched to the nipple, swallowing the last threads of milk.

When she came back to herself, she looked at him glassy-eyed.

—Now you —she panted—. Pull out and come on my tits. On top of the milk. I want to see it.

Rodrigo pulled out of her with a wet sound. He climbed up the sofa until he was astride her ribs, with his cock right between the two soaked breasts. Valeria squeezed them together with both hands, joining them around his cock, and he started fucking them with short, quick thrusts. The milk kept wetting them, acting as lubricant, and his cock slid between them with an obscene sound. The tip reached her chin with each thrust, and she stuck out her tongue to lick it every time it appeared.

—Come now —she said in a hoarse voice—. On the tits, in the mouth, wherever you want. It’s yours.

Rodrigo clenched his teeth and felt the pull rise from his balls. He came in long, thick spurts that fell on Valeria’s neck, her chest, her chin, over the dark nipples that were still leaking milk. One last thread remained hanging from the tip and she leaned down and licked it all away, sucking the head while he finished emptying himself.

He collapsed to one side, breathing unevenly. She lay there, semen and milk mixed across her chest, looking at the ceiling and smiling for the first time all night.

***

Afterward, there was a silence completely different from the one at the beginning of the night.

Rodrigo sat up. Valeria took a few seconds to open her eyes, as if she were returning from somewhere very far away. She looked at her breasts: no more tension, no more pressure that had accompanied her for hours, now shining with mixed milk and semen. She ran two fingers over them, collected the fluids, and brought them to her mouth without taking her eyes off him. Then she looked him in the eye.

—I don’t know what to say —she said.

—You don’t have to say anything.

He brought her a damp towel from the kitchen and cleaned her slowly, breasts, neck, chin, with the same calm with which he had drunk from her before. Then he handed her the blouse and she put it on with measured movements, still without a bra. Rodrigo went back to the kitchen and brought her a tall glass of water. She took it with both hands and drank slowly, looking out the window, toward the city lights that never rested.

The baby made a soft sound and stirred in the stroller. Valeria stood up at once, pure instinct, and went to check on him. She settled him, adjusted the blanket. When she made sure he was still asleep, she returned to the sofa and sat down more calmly than before.

—Can I really stay tonight? —she asked.

—The back room has a double bed. You can take the stroller inside. —He paused—. And if they hurt again in the middle of the night, you know where my room is.

She laughed under her breath. It was a small laugh, but a real one.

—Tomorrow I’m calling my sister. And I’m looking for a lawyer.

—Good —said Rodrigo.

There was another silence, but this one was a different kind. Less cold. Less charged.

—Why did you do it? —she asked without lifting her eyes from the glass.

Rodrigo considered the honest answer. Because he wanted to. Because it was what she needed and also, without anyone asking him, what he wanted to give. Because for weeks he had been hearing her voice on the other side of the wall and had more than once imagined what she would sound like moaning. Because desire and care are not always things that travel separate paths.

—Because you needed it —he said at last—. Even if you didn’t know how to ask.

Valeria looked at him for a moment. Then a small, almost invisible smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. It was the first real smile of the whole night.

—Thank you —she said.

It wasn’t only for the pain that no longer existed. Rodrigo knew it, and said nothing in return. Some things work better without words, and that night had already had too many.