The Favor I Did for My Neighbor in the Rain

I’ve lived alone on the fifth floor since Esteban died. It was a stupid accident on the highway, a truck that didn’t brake in time, and from one day to the next I was left in a flat far too big for one person. That was four winters ago now. The building is old, one of those with an interior courtyard and a groaning elevator, and I had gotten used to greeting the neighbors with a nod and little else. Distance protected me. Or so I thought.

That afternoon it was pouring, one of those downpours that turn the streets into rivers. I came back soaked from the supermarket, the bags heavy in my arms, and as I crossed the entrance hall I found a man standing in front of the elevator. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark skin and a T-shirt plastered to his body by the rain. His hair was shiny with water and he had an awkward expression, like someone who wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there.

—Are you looking for someone? —I asked, setting the bags down on the floor of the lobby.

—Excuse me, ma’am —he replied in a soft accent, from somewhere far from here—. We’ve rented apartment seven, but the landlord isn’t here with the keys and I’m locked out. And with this rain…

He shrugged and smiled, almost apologizing for existing. That shy smile was the first thing that undid me. I figured he couldn’t be more than thirty; I was a few years older, enough that looking at him made me feel a little embarrassed.

—Seven is right above my place —I said, without thinking too much—. We’re going to be neighbors. You’re not going to stand here shivering who knows how long. Come up and wait in my flat; I’ve got water boiling.

—I don’t want to be a bother.

—You’re not a bother. Grab a bag, go on.

We went up in the creaking elevator, and suddenly that same little box felt tiny. It smelled like rain and something else, warm skin, and I stared at the button panel as if it were the most interesting thing in the world so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

***

Once inside, I handed him a big towel from the cupboard.

—You’re drenched. Dry off or you’ll catch pneumonia.

I rummaged in the back of the closet, where I still kept Esteban’s clothes I had never found the courage to throw away. I took out a T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

—Put these on while yours dry. They were my husband’s. He doesn’t need them anymore.

I said it more sharply than I meant to, and he noticed, because he lowered his gaze and murmured a “thank you” before going into the bathroom. I stayed in the living room with my heart doing strange things. He’s just a wet boy, María. A neighborly favor. Nothing more.

But when he came out, my mouth went dry. Esteban’s T-shirt, which had hung loose on him, clung to this man’s chest and arms like a second skin. He was rubbing his hair with the towel and, as he did, the fabric rode up and showed a strip of taut, hard stomach, marked by that line of dark hair that ran down and disappeared into the waistband. The old jeans outlined everything on him, and there were things it was impossible not to notice: the heavy bulge hanging toward his left thigh, obscene beneath the worn fabric.

—Better? —I asked, pretending to straighten magazines that were already neatly stacked.

—Much better. You’re very kind —he said, sitting on the edge of the sofa—. My name’s Amir, by the way.

—María. And stop talking to me like that, you make me feel like your grandmother.

He laughed, and the laugh lit up his whole face. To fill the silence I asked him silly things: where he was from, how long he’d been in the city, what he did for a living. He told me he worked on a construction site on the outskirts, that he shared the flat with four other friends, all young, all far from home.

—Five of you in a two-bedroom apartment? —I laughed.

—We’re like brothers. We make do.

—And the cleaning? Because five men alone in a house… —I left the sentence hanging, and he raised an eyebrow.

—We haven’t really thought that through yet, honestly.

***

I don’t know what pushed me to say what I said. Maybe the four years of an empty bed, or the way he looked at me, or simply that I was tired of being invisible.

—I could lend a hand, if you want. Until you find someone. First a deep clean… and then just maintenance.

The words came out on their own, loaded with a double meaning I hadn’t even expected from myself. My cheeks burned. Amir stopped drying his hair and looked at me straight on, with those dark eyes that seemed to read inside me.

—A deep clean —he repeated slowly, savoring each word—. And what exactly would that include?

The air between us turned thick. I took one step toward him, then another, until I was standing in front of him. I reached out and rested my hand on his chest. His skin was burning beneath the fabric, and under my palm I felt the rapid beating of his heart. I wasn’t the only one affected.

—Whatever’s needed —I murmured.

Amir covered my hand with his, big and warm, and guided it downward, over his taut stomach, to the bulge straining his jeans. I left it there, pressing, measuring the thickness of that hard cock pushing against my palm, and my breath caught.

—Then let’s start —he said in a low, hoarse voice.

I kissed him. I’d gone four years without kissing anyone and suddenly I was doing it with a hunger that frightened me, biting his lip, sliding my tongue all the way in, gripping the back of his neck so he wouldn’t get away from me. He answered with the same urgency, and his hands were already everywhere: under my blouse, squeezing my tits over my bra, ripping a gasp from me when he pinched my nipples between two fingers.

He tore my blouse off without patience, and the bra flew after it. He stared at my tits, heavy, with the nipples already hard, and lowered his mouth onto them. He sucked hard, almost angrily, tugging with his teeth, and I dug my nails into his shoulders while wetness soaked my panties. He moved down my stomach, kneeling on the rug, and ripped my skirt and panties off in one pull. He spread my legs without asking and buried his face in my cunt.

—Fuck —I gasped, because no one had licked me like that in years.

His tongue was wide, thick, and swept the whole slit from top to bottom before focusing on my clit. He sucked, licked, slid two fingers inside and curved them, searching for that spot even Esteban had taken ages to find. Amir found it in two minutes. I came over his mouth with a cry that must have been heard all over the building, pushing my hips against his face, and he kept licking slowly until I stopped shaking.

I knelt on the rug in front of him, still breathing hard, and pulled down his jeans and underwear all at once. His cock sprang free, hard, long, the tip already shiny with precum, a thick vein running along the underside. I swallowed. I wrapped my fingers around it —I couldn’t quite fit them all the way around— and took it into my mouth. First just the tip, savoring that salty taste, sucking the head like it was a piece of candy. Then I went lower, little by little, until I felt it hit the back of my throat. I heard him suck in air between his teeth, a low growl, and knowing I was making him lose control turned me on even more.

I pulled off with a wet pop, licked him underneath, from the base to the head, and took his balls into my mouth one by one while I stroked him with my hand. I took him again and started sucking him properly, with rhythm, hand and mouth working together, letting strings of saliva drip down my chin and onto my tits. Amir grabbed my hair, made a ponytail with his fist, and started setting the rhythm himself, fucking my mouth slowly but deeply. I gagged a couple of times, but I didn’t pull away. I wanted to feel everything.

—Come here —he said after a while, tugging me up—. I don’t want to come yet.

He laid me on my back on the sofa, parted my legs with a shove and positioned himself between them. He slid the head of his cock up and down my soaked cunt, rubbing it over my clit until I begged him to put it in. And then he drove in with one thrust, all the way to the balls, and I let out a long moan, almost a wail, for all the time that had built up. He filled me completely. I felt every inch of that cock stretching me, hitting places I’d forgotten even existed.

He started fucking me slowly, deeply, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in to the hilt. I hooked my legs around his waist and dug my heels into his ass so he’d never come out. He watched my face to see the effect he was having on me, and the effect was devastating. He sped up. The thrusts turned dry, brutal, the sofa creaking beneath us, the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of my cunt blending with my moans.

—Come —he whispered in my ear, biting my lobe—. Come on my cock.

And I came, holding onto his shoulders, squeezing him with the walls of my cunt while he kept pounding into me without mercy. He didn’t stop. He turned me over, set me on my knees on the sofa with my face against the backrest and my ass in the air, and put it into me from behind again. With one hand he held my hip, with the other he slapped my ass each time he drove in. He tore a second orgasm from me that left me shaking, forehead pressed to the backrest and mouth open, drooling without dignity.

—Where do you want me to come? —I managed to get out.

—You tell me.

—Inside. Come inside.

He grabbed my hips with both hands and drove the last thrusts into me, faster and faster, until he buried himself to the hilt with a deep groan I felt vibrating in his chest against my back. I felt him pulse inside me, unloading shot after shot, filling me until it started dripping down my thighs. When he finally pulled out, he collapsed over me and we stayed there, both of us trembling, semen dripping between my legs.

We lay still, sweaty, tangled in the gray afternoon light. Outside the window, the downpour was still falling.

—Welcome to the building —I told him, and we both burst out laughing.

***

I thought that was the end of it. A stolen afternoon, a secret I’d keep for sad days. But the next day, when the landlord finally showed up with the keys, the other four arrived too.

I saw them come in through the courtyard carrying boxes and suitcases, laughing among themselves, and Amir introduced me from a distance with a gesture. In the afternoon they knocked on my door. It was them: Karim, the quietest; Yusuf, who never stopped joking; Tarek, with a short beard and an unblinking gaze; and Sami, the youngest of them all. Amir came behind them, wearing a smile that said everything.

—He told us about your cleaning offer —Yusuf said, biting back a grin—. It would be very useful to us.

I knew at once that Amir had told them. And I knew, from the way all five of them looked at me, that the word “cleaning” meant exactly the same thing to them as it did to me. I should have felt ashamed. Instead, I felt a familiar heat rise inside me, wetness blooming again between my legs just thinking about what was coming.

—Come in —I said, stepping aside.

***

What came after has no decent name. They shut the door and all came up to me at once, like a calm pack that already knew what it wanted. Tarek was the first: he grabbed my waist, turned me around and kissed me with his mouth open, biting my lips, while another man’s hands —I think it was Karim— lifted my skirt from behind and ripped off my panties. Sami undid my blouse with clumsy fingers, and Yusuf knelt on the floor and sucked my nipples one after the other, tugging with his teeth until I screamed.

They laid me out on the living room rug. All five pulled their cocks out at once, and I stared at it, unable to close my mouth: five hard cocks, each different —some thick, some longer, all hard for me— waiting their turn. Tarek positioned himself between my legs and shoved into me without preamble, all the way in, with a dry thrust that ripped a gasp from me. Karim knelt beside my face and brought his cock to my mouth. I opened without thinking and started sucking him while Tarek fucked me, my head turning from side to side, my left hand stroking Sami and my right one Yusuf.

They took turns without giving me time to breathe. When Tarek pulled out, Amir went in. When Karim freed my mouth, Yusuf took its place. They lifted me astride Sami, who lay on his back, and while I rode his cock another one pressed up behind me and slid a finger into me, then two, slowly stretching my ass with saliva. When Tarek’s cock went in from behind while Sami filled me from the front, I stopped thinking. I came screaming, double-penetrated, and they kept going without stopping. Karim held my hair and fucked my mouth to the back of my throat, and I swallowed, sucked, moaned, let the semen of the first one to come —it was Yusuf, on my face, on my tits— run down my skin while the others kept thrusting.

They all came, one after another. One inside, another in my mouth —I swallowed without thinking—, another on my tits, another in my ass, another on my back. When they were done and stepped away, panting, I was sprawled on the rug soaked in semen, legs spread, unable to move, smiling like an idiot. I lost count of how many times I came. It must have been six, seven, I don’t know anymore.

The “maintenance” became a habit. One afternoon a week I’d go up to seven, or they’d come down to five. Sometimes all five came, sometimes only two or three, depending on their shifts at the site. I learned to recognize their footsteps on the stairs, to know who was knocking by the way they hit the door. I also learned what each one liked: Amir liked to have me suck him while looking him in the eyes, Tarek liked fucking me from behind while pulling my hair, Karim liked me to sit on top of him and dig my nails in, Yusuf liked to talk dirty in my ear, Sami liked to come in my mouth and watch me swallow it all. The whole building must have heard us, but no one ever said a word, and I stopped caring.

I never asked them for anything in return, and they never treated me like a favor. They brought me fruit from the market, fixed the faucet that had been dripping for months, invited me to eat dishes from their home country. And when the lights went out, they made me feel desired in a way I had thought was lost forever.

Two years have passed. Three of them still live in seven; the other two moved away, but they still show up from time to time. I’m no longer the widow on the fifth floor who avoids people’s eyes in the courtyard. I still live alone, yes, but I don’t feel lonely for a single day. My neighbors cleaned everything up for me: the dust, the silence, and above all, the urge to keep hiding.