The Neighbor Knew Why I Moaned Every Morning

For years, morning had been my favorite time of day. Not because of the coffee or the light slanting in through the blinds, but because of what happened before Marcos left for work. Before showering, before looking for his keys, he would always come up behind me, slide his hands beneath the sheet, and start exploring me slowly. He knew where to touch me. The problem was that he also knew when to stop.

The ritual lasted exactly as long as he did. He fondled my tits, pinched my nipples until they were hard, lowered his hand until he found my pussy soaked, spread my legs, and licked my clitoris slowly, with his flat tongue, until I started to tremble. Then he would sit up, push his cock into me with that slowness of his that drove me crazy, fuck me calmly for a few minutes that always felt too short, and finish with a shudder, coming inside me after two or three dry thrusts and a kiss on the forehead. Then came the shower, then the coffee, then the slam of the front door.

I would stay in bed with my pussy throbbing, his semen running down my thighs, and my need intact.

At first I waited for him to come back from the bathroom. Then I learned that Marcos was impeccably punctual with schedules and considerably more lax about his wife's orgasms. It wasn't malice or conscious neglect. It was simply that it had never occurred to him that things could continue without him. He came and, for him, the show was over, even if I was left on the edge, my body begging for ten more minutes of cock while he was already soaping up his hair.

So I found a solution.

It took me several weeks to decide to buy it. The first time I used it, it seemed clumsy, almost ridiculous. The second time, I began to understand why so many women talked about them as if they were a minor but fundamental discovery. From then on, every morning followed the same order: Marcos left me half-finished, with his cum filling my pussy and the panties from the night before lying on the floor; I listened to the apartment door close, waited for the sound of the elevator descending, the slam of the entrance door, the noise of the car driving away, and then opened the drawer of the bedside table.

It was my moment. My secret. My private compensation in the silence of the empty apartment, where I could make as much noise as I wanted without calculating how uncomfortable it made him. I would slide two fingers inside myself to feel the mixture of his semen and my own wetness, bring my fingers to my mouth to suck them, and only then turn on the vibrator and press it against my swollen clitoris, arching my back and screaming what I hadn't dared to scream with him on top of me.

Or so I thought.

***

It was a Wednesday at the end of October when everything changed. Marcos had been especially attentive that morning, which meant I reached that point where the body no longer asks—it demands. He had licked my pussy more eagerly than usual, fucked me in two positions before coming inside me, and left me with my thighs trembling and my tits marked by his fingers. I heard him leave, waited for the usual sounds, and opened the drawer. The vibrator was buzzing between my fingers, and I already had my nightgown pulled up to my neck, one hand spreading my pussy lips to receive the tip of the toy, when the unmistakable sound of two animals fighting came from the hallway outside.

I had a cat. She wasn't young or troublesome, but that sound was enough to send me flying out without thinking. I yanked my nightgown down, crossed the hall, and flung open the door.

It wasn't my cat. The fight was between two dogs I'd never seen before, and when they saw me appear, they ran down the stairs. By the time I processed that information, the door had made the sharp click of the automatic lock.

I stood frozen on the landing.

I was wearing a very thin white cotton nightgown that, in the stairwell light, turned out to be far more transparent than I had ever imagined. I wasn't wearing panties. I had no keys. I had the vibrator in my right hand, still wet from its first pass over my pussy.

From the floor above came the smell of men's cologne and then, with all the calm in the world, the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

***

Adrián had lived on the fourth floor for just over a year. We'd crossed paths in the elevator enough times to know each other's names and what shifts we worked. He was one of those neighbors you appreciate in the abstract because he never made noise or caused trouble, and whom you barely remembered in any concrete sense.

Now he was standing in front of me on the landing, wearing a jacket and holding his keys, looking at me with an expression that took a second to settle into the right position.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” I replied.

I didn't move the hand holding the vibrator. I don't know why. I suppose moving it would have meant acknowledging that it existed.

He lowered his gaze for a moment and raised it again. The stairwell light was doing exactly what I had feared to my nightgown. His eyes paused for an instant on my breasts, then dropped to the dark shadow of my pubic hair showing through the fabric, and finally returned to my face.

“It's a little chilly,” he said, without any particular emphasis.

I looked down. My nipples were pressing against the thin cotton as if the fabric didn't exist, two hard, pink points perfectly outlined. I raised my arms to cover myself, and the vibrator hung between us at face level, still glistening with my wetness.

Adrián smiled. It wasn't a mocking smile. It was the sort that appears before someone decides whether it's a good idea.

“I think I just solved a mystery,” he said.

I looked at him without speaking.

“Every morning,” he continued, more slowly, “a few minutes after I hear the elevator going down, certain sounds start coming from your apartment. Moans, grunts, and then some screams that make me instantly hard. I'd wondered many times what the fuck you were doing down there.” He paused, his eyes on the vibrator, which still smelled like me from half a meter away. “Now it all makes sense.”

I felt the heat rise from my neck to my ears. I also felt—and this surprised me more than the embarrassment—a specific, inconvenient throb between my legs, a very clear tug from my pussy wanting to continue where I'd left off. My body had been in a very particular state for half an hour, and this conversation was doing nothing to calm it. Quite the opposite: I could feel wetness running down the inside of my thigh.

“What a shame,” I said, because it was what one was supposed to say. “It must bother you quite a bit.”

“Bother me?” He shook his head. “Quite the opposite. The truth is, almost every morning I stay there listening with my cock in my hand. I jerk off thinking about you. Some days I come almost at the same time you do.”

The silence afterward was the heavy kind.

“I got locked out,” I said at last. “The door closed behind me.”

He looked at the door, then at me.

“I have a ladder. Tell me where I can get in and we'll sort it out in five minutes.”

***

He brought up the ladder, leaned it against the building's facade, and climbed up to the bathroom window, which I always left unlatched. He got inside, opened the door for me from within, and handed me back my keys with the same calmness with which he might have returned them on any day of any year when nothing had happened in between.

“Thank you,” I said. “Really. You saved my morning.”

“Don't mention it.”

He didn't move toward the door. I didn't move farther inside the apartment either. The nightgown was still what it was: a very thin piece of fabric with very little use as a secret. Adrián didn't pretend not to look, but neither did he look in a way that felt uncomfortable. It was more like someone standing in front of something that interested him and seeing no reason to hide it. I saw the bulge in the crotch of his pants, clearly outlined, and I didn't look away.

“You said you found it stimulating,” I said. I don't really know where the words came from.

“Yes,” he replied, without taking his eyes off me.

“What would you do to make up for the favor?”

Adrián watched me for two or three seconds.

“That depends on what you're willing to offer me,” he said.

I bit my lip. My body had been in that state for far too long.

“I want you to watch me,” I said. “I want you to see what you were hearing every morning. I want you to watch me come with the vibrator while you look.”

***

I took him into the living room. I placed a chair in front of the large sofa, sat him down, and pulled the nightgown over my head with the same composure I would have used to take it off before getting into the shower. I felt his gaze travel over me from my shoulders to my pussy with a slowness my body registered immediately: my nipples grew even harder, and I felt my clitoris throbbing between my swollen lips.

I sat on the sofa. I bent my knees and spread my legs all the way, shamelessly, offering him a full view of my wet pussy, already a little red from rubbing myself earlier. I began slowly, as I always did: first with my fingers, following the map I already knew, two fingers sliding in and out of my pussy so he could see how shiny they were when they emerged; then the vibrator pressed against the outside, barely brushing my clitoris, building the pressure gradually. I didn't close my eyes. I kept them on him.

“Look at me properly,” I told him. “Look at how I do it when I'm alone.”

I ran my wet fingers over my nipples, one and then the other, leaving them glistening with my own moisture. Then I brought my fingers to my mouth and sucked them, without stopping looking at him. He swallowed; I saw his throat move.

Adrián didn't say anything. He only watched. His elbows were on his knees and his hands were clasped together. Every so often he bit his lower lip. I liked that more than I expected: the focused silence, the unhurried attention, without cheap-movie commentary. Just him watching, completely still, his cock already showing against the fabric of his pants as if it couldn't fit inside them.

“Take it out,” I told him. “I want to see it while I come.”

He undid his belt without taking his eyes off me, lowered his pants to his knees, and pulled out his cock, hard and thick, with a shiny drop already beading at the tip. He gripped it in his right hand and began moving it slowly, at the same rhythm I passed the vibrator over my clitoris.

Watching him jerk off while he watched me spread my pussy open with two fingers was what finally made me explode inside. I pushed the vibrator inside and twisted the base to raise the power. My thighs began to tremble. When I started moving with a faster rhythm, I leaned my back against the sofa and let the moans come out on their own, without calculating or moderating them—the moans he'd been hearing through the ceiling for months.

“That's it,” I heard him say, his voice hoarse. “Keep going. Just as I imagined.”

What I didn't expect was his hand on my knee.

He didn't warn me. He didn't ask. He rose from the chair, came over to the sofa, placed his hand on my knee, and left it there, still, without pressing, like someone setting something down on a surface to see whether it would stay. And that minimal contact, the warmth of a palm that demanded nothing but was there, shook me more than anything else that morning.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. He still had his cock in his other hand, hard and pointing at me.

“Can I?” he asked. Just that.

I took a moment. Then I nodded.

***

What followed wasn't rushed. Adrián took his time. He knelt on the floor between my spread legs and started with the insides of my thighs, moving slowly upward with his mouth until he reached my pussy. When he finally placed his tongue on my clitoris, I arched off the sofa as if I'd been shocked. He licked me all over, from top to bottom, unhurriedly, learning what my body wanted without my having to explain anything. He pushed his tongue as deep inside my pussy as he could, then went back up to my clitoris, sucking it with his lips while he slid two fingers inside me and began moving them in a come-hither motion against the exact spot Marcos had never found.

“Fuck, yes,” I gasped, grabbing his hair. “There, don't stop.”

I almost came from that alone. I felt the orgasm coming and tugged his hair upward, pulling him away, because I didn't want to finish yet.

“Now fuck me,” I told him. “Put it in me now.”

He stood up, finished taking off his pants and underwear, and placed my legs over his shoulders. When he finally pushed his cock into me, he did it calmly, measuring every inch, never taking his eyes off mine. I felt it making its way inside, felt my pussy adjust to its thickness, felt it reach the deepest point and stay there for a moment before he began to move.

“You're soaked,” he murmured. “You've been like this for months, haven't you?”

“Shut up and fuck me,” I replied.

He began to pump slowly, then faster, his hands squeezing my tits and twisting my nipples just enough to draw a scream from me. He pulled his cock out, shining with my wetness, and told me to get on all fours on the sofa. I obeyed without thinking, bracing myself on my elbows and arching my back to lift my ass for him. He thrust his cock into me again in one full stroke and grabbed my hips, beginning to fuck me from behind with a rhythm that made his thighs slap against my buttocks with a wet, clean sound.

“Like that, harder,” I begged, biting the cushion. “Split my pussy open.”

He slapped one cheek, then the other, and kept pumping. With one hand he grabbed my hair at the nape of my neck and pulled backward, forcing me to arch my neck. With the other, he found my clitoris and began rubbing it with two fingers in time with his thrusts.

Then he wanted me on top. I lay over him, my knees on either side of his hips, and slowly impaled myself on his cock because I wanted to set the pace. His hands rested on my hips—not pushing, only accompanying the movement. The difference with Marcos wasn't in his size or technique; it was in his attention. Adrián paid attention to every small change in my breathing, every muscular tension, and adjusted without making me ask. It was like being read aloud.

I moved faster, then slower, then faster again, lowering and rising on his cock while he sucked my nipples one after the other. I braced my hands on his shoulders and concentrated on the heat that had been building since seven in the morning, on the hours of unresolved tension, on that pressure that had been demanding release for far too long. He followed my rhythm without trying to take it for himself.

When I felt him nearing the end, without my saying anything, he reached toward the sofa, picked up the vibrator, and turned it on again. He pressed it exactly where I would have placed it, grinding it against my clitoris while I continued riding his cock. The combined effect came like a tide, without warning, and the orgasm was the kind that leaves the body completely still for a few seconds, as if the system needed to reboot before it could keep functioning. I felt my pussy clamp down around his cock in waves, squeezing him so hard that I heard him grunt through his teeth.

“I'm going to come,” he panted. “Where?”

“Not inside,” I managed to say. “On my tits.”

I got up just in time, bent down, and grabbed his cock, finishing him with two or three quick strokes. He came in thick, white spurts that landed between my breasts and ran down my stomach. I ran my thumb over the tip to collect the last drop and brought it to my mouth without taking my eyes off him.

We stayed still for a moment, with only the sound of our breathing returning to normal.

***

Afterward I wiped myself with the nightgown, put it on even though it was stained, settled back on the sofa, and watched him straighten his clothes.

“Thanks for the ladder,” I said.

He laughed. A quiet laugh, nothing exaggerated.

“I thought about asking you for a video,” he said. “But this was a better idea.”

“Close the door when you leave.”

He did.

I stayed on the sofa for a long while, staring at the ceiling, with his semen still drying between my tits and my pussy throbbing from finally emptying itself completely. Listening to the silence of the apartment. Outside, on the street, the day continued on with total indifference. Marcos would be in his office. I was here, my body finally at peace after months of half-finished mornings.

That night, when Marcos came home, he asked me how my day had gone. I told him it had gone well. That I'd done a few things around the house, that I'd gone out for a moment to get some air. Nothing interesting.

I wasn't lying entirely. In many ways, it had been a completely ordinary day.

Except that the neighbor upstairs was no longer a stranger. And now, when Marcos closed the door in the mornings, I knew that a few yards above my head there was someone awake, his cock in his hand, listening. Someone who no longer needed to imagine what was happening.

Now the moans are still for me. But they're for him too.