I Got Naked at the Window So They Could Watch

That afternoon I had a date. Not with a flesh-and-blood man, but with Damián, my weekly lover, the one who lived hundreds of miles away and whom I knew only through a screen. We had spent months like that, shut away in that game of cameras and whispers, and yet I had learned to desire him more than anyone I had ever had close by. His voice made me wet, his orders made me tremble, and every time he asked me to spread my legs in front of the camera, I did it without thinking twice.

With my husband away on business, the house was all mine. I had three entire days to myself, with no schedules or explanations, and I had decided to make the most of every one of them. I had dabbed perfume behind my ears and on my chest, dimmed the lights, and turned on the camera with that mixture of nerves and eagerness I knew by heart. But as soon as his face appeared on the screen, he frowned.

“There’s a lot of noise,” he said. “What is that?”

I turned my head toward the window. He was right. At the house opposite, a crew of builders had been working all week. There were seven of them, all young, and at that hour they were hammering, carrying sacks, and shouting to one another under the sun, their T-shirts soaked through and their arms gleaming with sweat.

“The builders,” I explained. “They’re renovating the neighbors’ house. They’ve been there for days.”

I expected him to ask me to shut everything and lower the blinds. Instead, I saw something change in his eyes. A slow smile spread across his mouth.

“What if you put on that dress I like so much?” he said. “The tightest one. With the smallest underwear you have underneath. And dance for me. I want to watch you move like a whore.”

My heart sped up, and I felt a wet tug between my legs. I knew where he wanted to take this—or thought I did—and that suspicion alone had already set my skin and my cunt alight.

“Whatever you want,” I replied.

***

I put on some music, something slow and heavy, and began to move in front of the camera. The dress was black and clung to every curve, so short it barely covered me. Beneath it, a tiny lace set that left nothing to the imagination: the thong slipped between the lips of my cunt, and the bra barely contained my already-hard nipples. Damián watched me in silence, and I danced for him, sliding my hands over my body, squeezing my tits, letting the dress ride up inch by inch.

Every movement was for him. I lowered the dress straps a little, pulled them back up, played with the fabric as if I had all the time in the world. I ran my tongue over my lips while staring straight into the camera, put a finger in my mouth, and sucked it slowly, imagining it was his cock. I knew that on the other side of the screen he was holding his breath and had probably already taken it out. The thought of keeping him focused on every inch of my skin, his cock in his hand because of me, was what made me continue.

I took it off slowly, turning my back to him, looking over my shoulder, sticking out my ass. When I was left in lingerie alone, his voice came out hoarse through the speakers.

“Now open the window,” he said. “Just as you are.”

I froze. My head was reeling. I couldn’t imagine opening that window, not with the builders right across from me, not in my underwear, not in broad afternoon light. I felt my mouth go dry.

I can’t. They’ll see me. They’ll see all of me.

And yet that was exactly what made my legs tremble and wetness run down the inside of my thigh. The thought of pleasing him, of obeying him, outweighed my shame. I walked to the window with my pulse in my throat and opened it wide.

The hot air struck my bare skin. The noise from the street rushed in all at once: hammer blows, a distant radio, the men’s voices. For a second, nothing happened. I stayed there, offered up to the afternoon, feeling my heart pound against my ribs and my nipples harden further beneath the lace. Then one of them looked up.

He froze. He elbowed the man beside him. Within seconds, all seven had abandoned their tools and were staring toward my window. They whistled. They shouted something I didn’t quite understand and didn’t care about either. I remained there, standing, nearly naked, letting those strangers look at me.

“They’re watching you,” Damián said from the screen, and I could hear how much he was enjoying it. “Do you feel it? Now take everything off. Show those bastards your tits and your cunt.”

I did. I reached behind my back, undid the clasp, and let my bra fall. My tits were bare, my nipples hard as stones, and a collective roar rose from the scaffolding. I hooked my thumbs into my thong and lowered it slowly, swaying my hips, until the lace slid down my thighs and fell around my ankles. I stood completely naked in front of the open window, my shaved cunt gleaming with wetness, exposed to the afternoon. The whistles from across the way grew louder. One shouted, “You’re fucking delicious!” and another openly grabbed his crotch. A wave of heat traveled from the nape of my neck to my feet. Never in my life had I felt like that: exposed, watched, desired by several pairs of eyes at once, like a bitch in heat placed there for their enjoyment.

“Now go to the bed,” he ordered. “Lie down where they can see you. Touch yourself. Spread your legs and put your fingers all the way inside.”

***

I dragged the bed a few inches, just enough to be in the window’s line of sight. I let myself fall onto the sheets with my legs spread toward the outside, toward them, and began to caress myself without taking my eyes off the builders crowding onto the scaffolding opposite. I ran my hands over my tits, pinched my nipples until they hurt, and slowly moved down my belly to my cunt. I was soaked. When I opened my lips with two fingers, I felt the wetness escape, and from there I could sense the hungry gazes fixed on the pinkness of my open flesh.

“Moan,” Damián told me. “I want them to hear you. Let them know what you’re doing to them. Tell them to touch themselves, whore.”

And I moaned. It wasn’t hard to fake, because I wasn’t faking. I slipped in one finger first, then two, pushing them deep, feeling my cunt swallow them with a wet squelch. My thumb rested right over my clitoris, and I began to rub it in circles, mouth open, head thrown back, my tits bouncing with every thrust of my own hand. Every moan that escaped me seemed to drive the men opposite wild. Some had gone down to the sidewalk for a better view. Others stayed above, motionless, their eyes fixed on me. One had unbuttoned his pants without the slightest hesitation and was stroking his cock while looking directly at me. When I saw him, a sharper moan escaped me, and I plunged my fingers in faster.

I felt the sun enter through the window and fall across my body, as if it too were watching me. I had never been so aware of my own skin: of the heat coursing through it, of the way it rose under so many stares, of the juice running between my ass cheeks until it soaked the sheet. I didn’t know those men. I didn’t know their names, and they didn’t know mine, and that was precisely why I felt so free. To them I was just a stranger at a window, a whore without a history who offered herself without asking anything in return, an open cunt and a pair of tits swaying for seven cocks swelling inside their work clothes.

Damián didn’t stop talking to me. He told me what he could see, described how they were watching me, repeated over and over what I was doing. He asked me to put in three fingers, to fuck myself with my hand, to lick my fingers soaked in my own juices. And I obeyed. I brought my fingers to my mouth and sucked them clean, tasting myself, staring straight at the builders so they could see me swallow my own juices. One crossed himself. Another let out a nervous laugh and squeezed his bulge. Between his words and the eyes of those seven young men nailed to my body, I could think of only one thing.

Not yet. I don’t want to come so quickly. Make it last.

I felt like a professional of desire, a whore made solely to be watched. The sheets grew damp beneath me as I continued without pause, offering myself to the window as if that were my only reason for existing that afternoon. I changed position: I got on all fours with my back to the street, my ass pointing directly at the window, and reached between my legs from behind so they could see everything opening up, cunt and asshole at once. A chorus of howls reached me from the scaffolding.

“Look at yourself,” he said. “Look how they can’t take their eyes off you. They’re all about to come in their pants because of you.”

And it was true. None of them moved, or if they did, it was to pull out their cocks. One of them had his hands braced on the scaffolding railing, his knuckles white from gripping so hard. Another had taken off his cap, as if he needed to see me more clearly, and with his other hand he was stroking his cock without the slightest shame. A third climbed up a step to get a better look at my ass and open cunt. I was the center of all those gazes, all those jerk-offs, and that certainty pushed me closer to the edge with every second. I turned over again, lay on my back with my legs spread wide toward the window, and punished my clitoris with one finger while two fingers from my other hand fucked my cunt at a savage pace.

Damián could hear it in my voice, in the way my words broke apart between moans. He asked me to hold on, not to come yet, to give them a little more. And I listened to him, delaying the moment, prolonging that delicious tension of knowing I was being watched, until I felt I could no longer contain myself and my cunt began to clench in premature spasms.

***

“Stop,” Damián suddenly said.

I stopped, panting, my fingers shining with juices, my whole body vibrating and my cunt throbbing angrily at being left halfway there.

“Stand up like that, naked, and close the window. Slowly. Let them watch you until the very last moment. Show them your tits properly before you draw the curtain.”

I stood up. I walked to the window, feeling all those eyes follow me, clinging to the sway of my tits and the gleam of my soaked cunt. I stood still for a moment, took one tit in each hand, and pinched my nipples for them, drawing their final whistle. Then I closed it slowly, letting the curtain fall like a curtain over the show. On the other side, whistles and a muffled shout could still be heard—probably from the one who was coming—as I was left alone with the screen again.

“Now point the camera at yourself,” he said. “I want to see everything. I want you to come for me. I want to see your cunt dripping.”

I adjusted the angle, lay down again, and this time I didn’t hold back. I put my fingers inside me again, three this time, sinking them in to the knuckles, fucking myself without restraint, with the image of those seven men still burned into my mind. With my other hand I punished my clitoris in fast, relentless circles until it felt like it was burning. I heard Damián grunt on the other side and knew he was stroking himself while watching me. I asked him to come with me, to cover my face even if it was only from the screen. The memory of being watched that way, of having become for a few minutes nothing but flesh for seven unknown cocks, was more powerful than any caress.

The orgasm reached me like a wave that wouldn’t end. My cunt clenched hard around my fingers, I arched over the bed, and felt a hot jet escape me, soaking the sheet and my thighs. I twisted, screaming with pleasure, mouth open, not caring whether half the neighborhood could hear me. And when I thought it was ending, another came, and then another, one after the other, chained together, until I could no longer tell where one ended and the next began. Knowing I had done that, that I had exposed myself shamelessly to please him, that I had made seven men jerk off just by opening a window, lit me up to a point I didn’t remember ever reaching before.

When at last I lay still, trembling, my breathing ragged, my fingers and thighs gleaming with juices, Damián was still there, watching me from the screen with that same smile, his cock still in his hand, smeared with his own come.

“You’re incredible,” he said softly. “And one hell of a whore.”

I didn’t answer. There was no need. I stayed lying there, naked, my cunt still throbbing and my legs spread, listening in the distance to the noise of the construction work starting up again as if nothing had happened.

***

That was one of the last encounters we had. A few days later my husband returned from his trip, and between the routine, his schedules, and his demands, I let time pass. The camera went dark, the afternoons filled with other things, and Damián faded into some corner of my memory.

But even now, whenever I pass an open window and feel the hot afternoon air, I return to that moment. To the whistles, the seven pairs of eyes, the cocks gripped across the street, the voice ordering me from a screen to spread my legs wider. And I understand that, no matter how much time passes, some desires never fully close. They simply wait behind the curtain for someone to open the window again.