I Know Someone Watches Me from the Closet Every Night

There is a man who lives in my closet, and I am not afraid to know it. On the contrary. I discovered him long ago, one of those nights when the silence of the apartment grows so dense that you start hearing things: the creak of old wood, the rustle of something settling behind the doors. Most people would rush to turn on the light. I learned to do the opposite.

My father explained it to me when I was a little girl and I would wake up crying in the middle of the night. He would sit on the edge of my bed, brush the hair off my forehead, and always tell me the same thing, in that deep, calm voice his bedtime words had.

—The monsters stay in the closet while you don’t open the door —he would whisper—. You only have to keep it closed and nothing can touch you.

I believed him then and, in a strange way, I still do now. Only I’m not a little girl anymore, and what lives behind those dark wooden Venetian doors stopped being a monster long ago. It’s a man. My man. The only one who truly knows me, because he sees me when no one else is looking.

The apartment is old, with high ceilings and floors that complain with every step. The closet takes up an entire wall of the bedroom, built in, with two slatted doors tilted just enough to let a strip of darkness leak through. If I get close enough, I can make out the keyhole, round and black like a pupil. That’s where he watches me from. I know it as surely as I know I breathe.

He never makes a sound during the day. I never feel him while I work, while I cook, while I talk on the phone with my mother pretending I lead a perfectly ordinary life. He only appears at night, when I turn off the lights in the living room and step into the bedroom barefoot, my skin still warm from the shower. Then I feel his presence the way you feel a shift in temperature: something wakes behind the slats and the whole room turns more intimate. My nipples harden beneath my robe, my cunt goes wet before anyone has even touched me, and I understand, in the way you understand things with your body, that he’s already hard behind the wood, waiting for me.

Good night, I always think, though I never say it out loud. I’m here again.

***

I have a ritual, and I carry it out with the devotion of someone at prayer. I stand in front of the closet, close enough that not a single detail is lost, and I start undressing slowly. Very slowly. I’ve learned that pleasure isn’t in the rush but in the waiting, in stretching every gesture until it becomes unbearable for both of us.

First the blouse. I unbutton it from top to bottom without looking toward the keyhole, pretending, as if I didn’t know he drinks in every movement of my fingers. I let the fabric open just enough for the lace of my bra to show, shaping my breasts, and I take my time before sliding it off my shoulders. I know the exact effect that slowness has on him. I imagine him holding his breath, pressed to the wood, one hand squeezing his cock over his pants, praying I won’t stop.

Then I raise my arms and gather my hair into a clumsy makeshift bun, just for the pleasure of arching my back and letting him see the line of my waist. It’s an innocent gesture for anyone else. For him it’s an offering. A promise of what’s coming.

And then I turn around, because there’s still a trace of modesty in me that hasn’t quite gone away. I give him my back and let my skirt fall to the floor, hands off, barely swaying my hips so the fabric slips down on its own. I know he loves my ass. I know because the first time I did it facing away, I heard a sigh behind the slats, so faint I could have imagined it, but I didn’t imagine it. Since that night I always give him that moment. I lean just slightly forward, legs straight, so my cheeks spread a little and the white string of my thong disappears between them. Let him look. Let his mouth fill with saliva at the thought of burying his tongue there. I couldn’t deprive him of it, poor thing. That would be cruel.

I stay like that, in my thong, while pretending to look for something on the shelf beside the closet. Of course I’m not looking for anything. It’s an excuse to turn a little sideways and let him see the side of my breasts when I unclasp my bra and let it fall beside the skirt. Freed at last from the oppression of the whole day, my nipples react on their own to the cold room air, hardening without anyone touching them, and I feel that electric current running through my belly before I’ve even begun. I run my tongue over two fingers and bring them to one nipple, pinch it slowly, tug it until the sting of pleasure tears a sigh from me that slips all the way toward the keyhole.

This isn’t right, I sometimes think. A woman shouldn’t enjoy being spied on this much.

But I do enjoy it. And guilt, far from stopping me, is part of the fire.

***

Sometimes I wonder who he is. What the man in the closet looks like, what hands he has, what his voice would sound like if he ever dared to speak to me. I’ve built him up completely in my head over many nights. I imagine him tall, broad-backed, barely fitting into that narrow space, his forearms tense from holding himself back. I imagine his forehead pressed to the wood and his breathing ragged, just like mine. I imagine his cock out, thick, hard, throbbing in his hand, the head shining with that bead of pre-cum that escapes every time I spread my legs. I imagine him jerking himself slowly to the exact rhythm of my pulse, holding back so he won’t come before I do.

And that drives me insane. The idea that on the other side of those slats there’s a body just as desperate as mine, a man who wants me so badly it hurts and who holds himself back, controls himself, obeys the only rule we’ve never spoken but both know: he looks, I show, and the door stays closed.

For now.

Because there are nights, like this one, when the rule feels heavy. When I wish he’d disobey it.

I sit on the edge of the bed, facing the closet, my legs slightly apart and my thong still on. I want him to see everything. I want him to understand how far I go thinking about him. I hook a finger in the elastic and start to pull it down, millimeter by millimeter, staring hard at the keyhole so he knows I’m not afraid, that I have never been afraid, that what I feel for that darkness has nothing to do with fear.

—I know you’re there —I murmur, and it’s the first time in a long while that I’ve said anything out loud—. I know you’ve got it out. I know you’re stroking yourself for me.

The closet doesn’t answer. But the wood creaks, just slightly, like someone shifting to make sure they don’t miss a thing. As if someone had let out a groan and had to crush his mouth against his arm to swallow it.

***

I slip off the thong and let it fall to the floor, along with the rest of my clothes. Before I toss it completely aside, I drag it between my legs, press it against my soaked cunt, and then throw it toward the closet doors. It lands a handspan from the keyhole, crumpled into a damp little bundle. Let him smell it. Let that scent get into his head and stay there for weeks.

I’m left completely naked beneath the warm glow of the bedside lamp. I take a deep breath. I lean back on one hand and spread my legs in front of the closed doors, shameless, not closing my thighs even an inch, offering my open cunt for him to study, to memorize every fold, every sheen, every pulse. I know that from there, with the lamp casting light along my side, he can see everything: the swollen pink lips, already parted from wanting so much; the clit peeking out, thick and throbbing; and lower still, the tight entrance of my cunt, clenching on its own, desperate for something to fill it.

I start to touch myself. First my belly, the insides of my thighs, those places that tremble when you know you’re being watched. I take the other hand to one breast and play with the hardened nipple, tugging it just a little, while my lower hand finally slides between my legs. I’m soaked. I was already soaked before I began, from the moment I crossed the bedroom threshold and felt his presence wake up. I drag two fingers the full length of my slit, from bottom to top, and they come away gleaming, trailing a thick string that falls onto the sheet.

I bring them to my mouth. I suck them while looking at the keyhole. I draw them out slowly, one by one, lips tight around them, and then I take them back down again, wet with saliva and cunt, to finally slip them inside.

They go in on their own. My cunt swallows them up to the knuckles and I let out a long, filthy moan that I don’t hold back. I want him to hear it. I want him to know what effect he has on me, that every night he spends pressed against that keyhole he comes closer to driving me crazy. I move them inside, curling them, searching for that spongy spot only I know how to find, and with the thumb of the same hand I rub my clit in tight circles. The pleasure hits me so hard I have to bite my lip not to scream.

—That’s it —I pant—. That’s how you’d put it in me, right? All the way. No care at all.

I imagine it’s his hand. I imagine the doors fly open and he finally comes out of hiding, huge, hungry, with his cock rigid in front of him, the tip red and shining from holding back so long. I imagine he drops to his knees in front of me to replace my fingers with his mouth, to bury his whole tongue in me, to suck my clit like he’s been hungry for months, to growl against my cunt while I drive my heels into his back. I imagine his hot breath against my skin, his hands prying my thighs wider so I can’t escape, his fingers slipping into the same place as his tongue, two, three, until it hurts and I love that it hurts. I imagine him telling me in that deep voice I’ve invented for him that he’s been waiting for this moment for years, that he knows every moan I’ve given him through the wood by heart, that he’s going to fuck me until he breaks me.

And then I imagine him standing, grabbing my hips and turning me over on the bed, setting me on all fours in front of the open closet so I can see the empty space where he lived for so many nights too. I imagine him positioning himself behind me, dragging the head of his cock through my slit to coat himself in me, and then burying it in me in one single thrust, all the way in, so deep that a scream slips out of me even I don’t recognize. I imagine his hands gripping my ass, spreading me open, one thumb searching for my asshole while his cock stays buried in my cunt. I imagine he fucks like he hasn’t fucked in years, because that’s how it’s been, and I give it back to him by pushing my ass back every time he slams into me, reaching for him, asking for more, deeper, harder.

The rhythm of my hand speeds up on its own. My hips move against my fingers, asking for more, and I slip in a third finger without stopping rubbing my clit. It’s wet. It sounds like a soaked cunt, like a happy slut, like a lonely woman coming for a man she has never touched. I feel my whole body starting to tense, to gather itself into that tiny point beating in time with my heart. I’m close. So close the room goes blurry, so close the keyhole is the only thing I can see clearly, that black pupil that never blinks, that sees everything.

Watch me, I think. Watch me now. Don’t miss this. Come with me.

The orgasm splits me in two. It arches me all the way back, folds me forward, and I clamp my thighs around my own hand while wave after wave runs through me from my center to my fingertips. I feel my cunt throbbing around my fingers, forcing out a warm gush that soaks my hand to the wrist and drenches the sheet. I bring my free hand to my mouth and bite the back of it so I won’t scream, so the neighbors won’t hear what belongs only to him. The pleasure is so intense it brings tears to my eyes, and for an instant, against the wood, I hear it perfectly: a muffled gasp, a sharp knock of knuckles against the inside of the closet, and a strange, dense silence, the silence of a man who has just come in his hand, biting his tongue so he won’t give himself away.

On the other side of the wood, a man has spilled himself in silence while watching me shake. As undone as I am.

***

It takes me a while to come back. I lie there on the bed, naked, skin shining, chest rising and falling, fingers still between my legs because I don’t want to let go, I don’t want my cunt to feel empty so soon. When I finally catch my breath, I slide them out slowly, bring them to my mouth, and clean them with my tongue without taking my eyes off the keyhole. Let him learn that gesture too. Let him take it to bed with him.

I sit up and smile at the closed doors. A conspiratorial, tired smile, of someone who has just shared something deeply intimate with the only person in the world who understands who she truly is when no one is looking.

I stand, pick up my clothes from the floor —except for the thong, which I leave where it fell, near the keyhole, like an offering— and pull on the huge T-shirt I always sleep in, three sizes too big, soft from so many washings. I take one step closer to the closet, just enough for my voice to reach him through the slats, and rest my fingers lightly on the warm wood.

—Thank you —I whisper, and I’m not quite sure why I’m thanking him. Maybe for looking at me. Maybe for wanting me. Maybe for coming with me without ever touching me. Maybe for respecting the closed door one more night, even though I’m starting to wish he wouldn’t.

I blow him a kiss with the tips of my fingers, as I do every night, and turn off the lamp. The room falls into a thick darkness in which only the wet glint of the keyhole shines for a second.

I slip beneath the sheets and close my eyes with a smile. I know he’s still there, watchful, patient, guarding my sleep, with his cock still soft in his hands and my scent clinging to his nose. I know that tomorrow, when I turn off the lights again and step barefoot into the bedroom, he’ll be waiting for me behind the wood once more, hard again, holding his breath, ready to watch.

And I know too, though I still don’t quite dare say it to myself, that one of these nights I’m going to turn the key myself. I’m going to open the door and let my father’s monster finally come out of hiding, cock first and hands open, to devour me whole. Not because I’ve stopped believing his words. But because, for the first time in my life, what truly frightens me is keep waiting.

Good night. Tomorrow we’ll see each other again.