I Opened the Curtains and Knew He Was Watching

I buried this story for years. I accidentally shook it loose the other day while sorting through my old phone, and I was surprised that I could still feel something when I remembered it: not exactly regret, nor pride. Something closer to the feeling of having crossed a line you didn’t know existed until you were already on the other side.

Marcos and I had been together for almost three years. It wasn’t a bad relationship; it was just a relationship that suffocated me without my knowing how to explain it. I asked for some time apart. A month, maybe two, to breathe and think. Not a breakup, not someone else: simply space. He heard me and said no. With that calm of his that always infuriated me: either we carried on as we were, or it was over.

I told him it was over.

I hung up and sat there trembling with rage. Not because of the loss—that would come later—but because of his arrogance. As if my needs were a provocation. As if asking for space were the same as betraying him.

The following week was a silence enclosed by four walls. Every day without news from Marcos was another step in that rage, which didn’t fade but fermented. I lay awake turning over the same equation: his comfort or nothing. And I had dared to choose nothing.

When his message appeared on my screen, almost at midnight on the sixth day, I read it three times before replying.

—How are you? I haven’t heard anything from you. Tell me what’s going through your head.

I closed the phone. Opened it again. I wrote:

—Badly. But I don’t need you to do anything. Leave things as they are.

He replied within seconds.

—No. We need to talk. I need to see you.

—I have an appointment with the gynecologist tomorrow at nine —I replied—. If you want to meet, wait outside the clinic around ten.

—I’ll be there.

I closed the phone and stared at the ceiling. The rage was still there, but now it had a direction.

***

Rodrigo and I had an on-and-off history that I preferred not to analyze too closely. It had begun almost two years earlier, during a period when Marcos had traveled for work and I felt lonelier than I should have. It wasn’t a decision; it was a surrender. And after that first time, there were others, always accompanied by a guilt that was never quite strong enough to stop me.

But that night was different. Marcos and I had broken up. It wasn’t cheating, I told myself. It was something else.

I texted Rodrigo.

—What are you doing tomorrow morning?

—Nothing, Paula. Why?

—Come with me to the doctor. Then I have a surprise for you.

—What kind of surprise?

—The kind where you end up with your cock inside me all morning. Does that work for you?

It took him exactly three seconds to reply.

—It works for me.

I turned off the screen before I could regret it.

***

I looked at myself in the mirror before leaving. I chose carefully: the black Lycra leggings that clung to my hips like a second skin, the white blouse that emphasized my breasts, and over it the knitted jacket Marcos had given me the year before, the one with openwork panels that let the fabric underneath show through. The icing on the cake, I thought. Every garment, a deliberate choice. Underneath, a black thong that was already wet before I left the house, just from thinking about what I was going to do.

Rodrigo was waiting for me at the clinic entrance with his hands in his pockets. I looked at him and realized I’d forgotten him a little: he was taller than I remembered, with that posture of a man who doesn’t need to prove anything. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, and something shifted in my stomach. And lower down.

I went into the examination room and sat on the table without hearing anything the doctor was saying. My mind was out on the street, calculating angles, rehearsing the scene.

When I came out, Rodrigo approached and whispered in my ear:

—Your ex is there. Across the street.

I didn’t turn my head. I smiled at nothing.

—Don’t worry —I replied—. Let’s go to your place. And I want you to touch me while we walk.

I took his hand with a naturalness that surprised even me. We walked close together, as if we’d been doing it for years. I felt his arm wrap around my waist, slide down to settle on my hip with pressure that wasn’t accidental, squeezing my ass through the Lycra, his fingers sinking into the flesh. I didn’t stop. I leaned into him, laughed at something that wasn’t even funny, slipped my hand beneath his jacket and brushed his crotch. He was already hard. I squeezed him without trying to hide it. I didn’t look toward Marcos even once, but I could feel him. I felt his eyes on my back like a burn.

Every step was intentional. Every caress from Rodrigo, a message.

***

His apartment was on the second floor. With a direct view of the street.

I said nothing. I went in, crossed the living room, and headed straight for the bedroom. The curtains were drawn. I flung them open, wide apart. Morning light flooded the room.

—What are you doing? —Rodrigo asked from the doorway.

—Letting them see us —I replied without turning around—. Come here and fuck me.

I turned and kissed him. A hungry kiss, tongues tangling, biting his lower lip until I tore a moan from him. He took half a second to react, then answered with the same urgency, his hands removing my jacket, sliding over my waist, moving beneath the Lycra and grabbing my bare ass with both hands. In less than two minutes our clothes were on the floor. I was left in my bra and thong, feeling the coolness of the room against my heated skin.

I unfastened my bra myself and let it fall. Rodrigo held his breath. My tits, free and heavy, and he looked at them as if he were seeing them for the first time, even though he wasn’t. I arched my back slightly, an offering, and he needed no more. His hot mouth closed over one of my nipples while his hand held the other, squeezing and twisting it, making me curl my toes. He sucked hard, his teeth brushing it, tugging the nipple until it stretched, then releasing it, leaving it shiny with saliva.

A moan escaped my throat. That one wasn’t fake.

He kissed his way down my belly, knelt, and tore off my thong with one tug. The fabric ripped, and I didn’t even look at it. He spread my legs right there, standing, and buried his face between my thighs. His tongue found my clitoris immediately, with a precision that made me grab his hair so I wouldn’t fall. He sucked, licked in circles, plunged his tongue into my pussy, and came back up. I was soaked. I could hear myself wet against his mouth.

—Put it in me —I panted—. I can’t take it anymore.

He stood up and undressed while I watched. He had the body I remembered well: muscular without being exaggerated, with that line running down from his abdomen. And his cock, already fully hard, thick, eight inches that had made me hesitate before the first time and that now made my mouth water just looking at it.

—Suck me —he said in a hoarse voice.

I knelt. I took it in my hands, felt its heat, its weight, the thick vein running along the underside. I brought it slowly to my mouth, sliding it between my lips, feeling it grow even harder against my tongue. I sucked him calmly at first, licking the tip, playing with the crown with my tongue. Then more deeply, taking him down my throat until I felt him hit it, listening as his breathing broke apart. One hand at the base, the other caressing his balls, squeezing them gently. When I pulled him out, a strand of saliva hung between my lips and the tip. I put him all the way back in, closing my eyes, enjoying him.

—Fuck, Paula —he growled, grabbing my hair and setting the pace—. That’s it, don’t stop.

I sucked him for several long minutes, choking myself a couple of times on purpose, letting tears run down my cheeks while I kept moving my head. When I stood up, my chin was glistening, and he already had the condom in his hand.

He gently pushed me toward the bed and spread my legs. He entered with one direct thrust, all the way to the bottom, and the cry I let out was involuntary: a mixture of sharp pain and pleasure so immediate it left me breathless. I was so wet there was no resistance, but he was so thick I felt him stretching me every inch.

He began to move. Hard, fast, without any courtesies. My tits crushed against his chest, his body on top of mine, making me feel small and completely possessed. I hooked my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, my nails raking his back until they left red marks. I moaned without restraint, without lowering my volume; every thrust tore a gasp from the deepest part of me. I knew that if Marcos was still out on the street, he could hear me.

—Harder —I asked in his ear—. More. Break me.

He obeyed. He braced himself on his knees, grabbed my hips, and began hammering my pussy with a violence that made the bed creak. The sound of his pelvis slamming against my ass filled the room. Every blow ripped a grunt from him and a scream from me.

***

The bed was fine. But it was too private.

—Take me to the window —I said between gasps—. I want you to fuck me there. I want them to see me.

Rodrigo smiled in a way that churned my insides and lifted me as if I weighed nothing, without leaving me. My legs wrapped around his waist as he carried me to the glass, fucking me standing up, every step driving him deeper. He lowered me, turned me around, and positioned me with my back to him, facing outside. He pushed my back forward until my hands and tits were flattened against the cold glass. My nipples hardened instantly at the contact.

—Like this? —he murmured in my ear, running his cock along the crack of my ass, wetting it with what was dripping from my pussy.

—Like this. Put it in me now.

He entered me again from behind in one thrust, with even more force, if that was possible. From there I could see the street: cars passing, people walking by unaware, pigeons on the opposite curb. My tits brushed the glass with every blow, flattening and springing back, leaving patches of fog on the pane. The window trembled slightly. Rodrigo grabbed my hair, wound it around his fist, and pulled me backward, forcing me to arch. He fucked me with both hands: one in my hair, the other on my hip, burying himself to the balls with every thrust.

—Look outside —he growled in my ear—. Look at the street while I fuck you. Let them see you with your mouth open.

I obeyed. I looked without really seeing, my eyes glassy, my mouth open and moaning against the glass, leaving marks from my breath. I didn’t know whether Marcos was still downstairs with his eyes fixed on the second floor, but in that moment I wanted him to be with an intensity that frightened me. Let him look. Let him see the whore’s face I’m getting. Let his chest burn with rage.

I felt one of Rodrigo’s hands move down, encircle me, and find my clitoris. He began rubbing it in quick circles while continuing to thrust into me from behind. The first orgasm caught me by surprise. It shook my entire body, made me clamp my pussy around his cock, scream against the glass, and let my legs tremble until they nearly gave way. He held me by the hips and kept fucking me while I came apart.

The pleasure was real. But it was secondary. The main thing was something else.

***

Rodrigo took me back to the bed and laid me facedown.

—On all fours —he ordered.

I obeyed. I raised my hips, rested my face on the pillow, and offered him my ass. He entered from behind, even deeper, until his balls struck my clitoris. One hand rose and smacked my ass hard, leaving a burning mark on my skin.

—Again —I said.

Another came. And another. Each one was a release I hadn’t known I needed. My ass began to burn, red and marked with the shape of his hand. I felt dirty and free at the same time, two sensations that shouldn’t coexist and yet fit together perfectly.

—Tell me what you are —he growled, pulling my hair backward.

—Your whore —I panted without thinking—. I’m your whore this morning. Fuck me like a whore.

I pushed him down so he was lying on his back and climbed onto him. I lowered myself slowly, feeling him fill me inch by inch, until I had him completely inside me and felt the tip touching the bottom. I began to move. At first gently, rolling my hips, then faster, using my legs to lift myself and drop back down, hammering myself onto his cock. My tits bounced with every stroke, and he caught them in both hands, squeezing them, twisting my nipples until I screamed. I was the one deciding the pace. In that moment, I was the one in control.

I leaned forward, braced my hands on his chest, and began riding him differently, rubbing my clitoris against his pubic bone with every downward stroke, feeling myself climb again. The second orgasm reached me astride him, arched back, moaning with my mouth open, my thighs trembling. I collapsed onto his chest, panting, feeling him still hard inside me.

When I caught my breath, I slid off him. I removed the condom slowly, looking him in the eyes. I took him in my hand and brought him to my mouth again, this time without anyone asking me to. I did it slowly, savoring him, noticing the faint taste of latex mixed with my own fluids, one hand moving at the same rhythm as my lips. He moaned with his eyes closed, one hand tangled in my hair, letting me devour him.

—I’m going to come —he warned me in a muffled voice.

—Not yet —I told him, letting go—. You haven’t finished yet.

I put another condom on him, lay down on my side, and he settled behind me, spooning me. He lifted my top leg and entered me again with slow, deep movements, his hands clutching my tits, his warm breath on the nape of my neck. This time there were no screams, only long moans, the end of the storm. He bit my neck, licked my earlobe, whispered filthy things in my ear while slowly driving himself all the way into me, making me melt. I felt his body tense, his fingers dig into my breasts, that unmistakable spasm, and I knew he was finished. He came inside me with a long moan against my neck, trembling, squeezing me against him with both hands as if he never wanted to let me go.

That was when my phone vibrated on the nightstand.

The screen lit up with the name: Marcos.

An involuntary laugh shook my shoulders. I didn’t answer. I turned off the screen and lay still, my back against Rodrigo’s chest, his cock still inside me, listening to my breathing return to normal.

***

I dressed slowly. Every muscle ached from what had happened, and I didn’t mind. My pussy was swollen and burning, my ass marked, my sensitive nipples brushing against my blouse. My whole body reminded me of what I had just done, and I liked it.

—Come downstairs with me —I told Rodrigo.

We went out into the street, and there he was. Marcos. Standing on the opposite sidewalk, his arms crossed, wearing an expression I had never seen on him before: red eyes, clenched jaw, fists closed at his sides. It was the face of someone who had waited too long and knew exactly what he had been waiting for.

For a second, something resembling guilt pierced my chest.

I turned it off.

—Give me back my things —he said in a voice trembling with contained rage.

—Of course —I replied—. I have to go get them.

I went upstairs to get my bag. When I came back out, Rodrigo was waiting for me at the door. He took me by the waist and kissed me, long and open-mouthed, one hand on my back and the other moving down to grab my ass shamelessly, squeezing it in front of Marcos. A possessive kiss, calculated, perfect. I let myself be swept up in it. I knew exactly what was happening across the street.

I said goodbye to Rodrigo with a smile and walked away with Marcos.

We didn’t say anything for the first two blocks. He walked ahead, furious. I followed him, thinking about what I had just done and whether I regretted any of it. I didn’t regret spending the morning with Rodrigo, or letting him fuck me against the glass, or screaming that I was his whore. What I perhaps regretted was needing to do it to feel whole.

***

At my apartment, I took a box from the closet and began putting his things inside. His T-shirts. A book he had lent me and that I had never gotten around to reading. The mug he used when he stayed the night. The picture of the two of us at the beach that had been on the shelf for more than a year.

I handed everything to him without saying a word. He took it without looking at me.

—Goodbye, Marcos.

He looked up. For the last time, I saw the man I had known, but what his gaze returned was a stranger filled with resentment.

—Take care —he said, and closed the door with a slam that echoed throughout the apartment.

I was left alone in the silence. The revenge had worked according to plan. The taste was sweet and bitter at the same time, like those things you get exactly as you wanted them and then don’t quite know what to do with. I looked at myself in the entryway mirror and didn’t see a winner. I saw a woman who had destroyed something that, despite everything, had once been real.

That freedom, that night, felt like an empty room.