My Ex-Neighbor Waited for Me Until His First Time

Three months ago I moved out of the housing development where I’d lived for almost two years. I didn’t go far, just to another part of Mazatlán, but changing neighborhoods was enough to lose my routine with the neighbors. That’s why I was surprised when my former landlady called one night to tell me that a package had arrived in my name and that she’d been trying to track me down for days.

It was an order I’d already given up on. I’d called the courier company three times, written complaints on their website, demanded a refund. Now it turned out the box had spent more than a week at the guard booth of a development I no longer entered. We agreed I’d stop by for it the next day, before work.

That morning I showered slowly. I had guests at home—my parents had come for a week from up north—and I took the chance to get rid of the hair I’d been meaning to remove. A woman never knows. I’d gone weeks without getting fucked, first because of a cold, then because my old folks had arrived, and the abstinence was already starting to hurt. I’m the kind of woman who needs at least one good fucking a week to feel calm, and that morning I wasn’t expecting anything, but I still did the ritual: wax on the groin, smooth pussy, bare ass down to the last fuzz, scented cream between my thighs.

I put on a plain green bikini. My dad hates the ones that disappear up my ass, and since we were spending the afternoon at the beach with him and my mother, I went with something discreet. On top of that I threw on a loose sand-colored beach dress, the kind you take off by pulling on one single strap. I tied my hair in a half ponytail, rubbed cream on my legs and arms, and headed out to the car with the knit jacket tucked under my arm.

The development was twenty minutes away. When I got there, the guard explained that the package had been too big to leave at the booth and had ended up at my former landlady’s house. I got out of the car, opened the trunk, and walked to the door. My former landlady already had the box outside. I thanked her, exchanged five words of courtesy, and went back to the car with the box in my arms.

I was finishing putting it into the trunk when a shadow crossed the reflection in the glass.

“Hi, Cami.”

I turned slowly. There he was, standing two meters away, in gray athletic shorts and a white T-shirt. Mateo. The skinny little neighbor I’d watched grow up while I lived there. The kid I’d let into my house a couple of times when his ball rolled into the yard, the one who helped me carry the grocery bags inside, the one who looked at me without wanting to look at me when I crossed the garden in a bikini on my way to the pool.

He wasn’t skinny anymore. His shoulders were broader, his chest defined under the shirt, his jaw more sculpted. He still had, though, that good-boy face that used to melt my heart in another time. And something was outlined in his shorts, a resting bulge that already suggested size.

“Hey, kid,” I said, and I noticed how the nickname made him twist his mouth.

“Don’t call me kid anymore,” he said, laughing. “You left without saying goodbye.”

“I did say goodbye. It’s just that nobody was paying attention to the moving truck at eight in the morning on a Wednesday.”

“I was.”

I looked at him. He said it so naturally it almost sounded like a joke, but his eyes went serious for a second. I shut the trunk and leaned against the car.

“So what’s new?” I asked, just to fill the air.

“Same as always. Basketball, school, helping my mom. And being bored.”

“Bored of what?”

“Of not having neighbors like you anymore.”

I burst out laughing. He stayed serious.

“I’m serious, Cami. There aren’t any. Two guys moved into your house and spend all night playing video games, and a family with three kids moved into the apartment at the back. Nobody crosses the garden the way you used to.”

“Poor thing. You don’t have anyone to spy on.”

“I wasn’t spying on you.”

“Mateo,” I said, tilting my head. “I used to leave the windows open on purpose. I knew you passed by every day at five, after practice.”

His face flushed. He lowered his gaze for a second, then held it.

“You left them open on purpose?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“Because it turned me on to know someone was watching. Because sometimes I was on the couch with my hand inside my panties and I’d think about you watching me from the curb. I’d close my eyes and imagine you getting hard on the other side of the gate.”

He stopped breathing. I saw his throat move.

There was a silence. A car passed on the avenue. A dog barked three times and stopped.

“Is your mom home?” I asked.

“No. She left early. She won’t be back until the afternoon.”

“Your dad?”

“He’s traveling.”

I thought about it for three seconds. Three exact seconds. No more. I looked at the dashboard clock through the glass: eight thirty. I had an hour and a half before my first meeting. I had a beach dress that came off with one strap. I had just been waxed. I had a throbbing pussy that had been aching for two weeks. I had an eighteen-year-old boy who had watched me nearly naked for two years and who clearly still had a lot to learn.

“Put the box in the car,” I said.

He lifted it as if it weighed nothing and set it at the back of the trunk. I closed the driver’s-side door with the remote. I walked to the curb. He followed me.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“To your house. Twenty minutes. I want you to tell me something.”

***

The living room was dim. The curtains were drawn, a fan turning slowly on the ceiling, smelling of coffee and a floral perfume that had to be his mother’s. I sat on the sofa, crossed my legs, set my bag beside me.

“Sit across from me.”

He did. His hands rested on his knees. He looked at me like someone looking at a final exam they hadn’t studied for.

“Tell me. What have you done?”

“In what sense?”

“In this sense.”

“Ah.” He lowered his gaze. “Not much.”

“Tell me what.”

“Kisses.”

“How many girls?”

“Two.”

“Tongue?”

“With one, yes. The other was just a quick peck at a party.”

“Anything else?”

He shook his head.

“Touching?”

“Over clothes. Once. And she got scared. Or I got scared, I don’t know.”

“Has anyone sucked your cock? Have you eaten pussy?”

“No.”

“Have you fucked?”

“No.”

“Do you jerk off?”

He turned red all the way to his ears.

“Every day.”

“Thinking about what?”

“About you. Almost always about you.”

I stayed silent. I looked at him closely. His ears were red. A little sweat shone on his forehead. I ran my hand over his knee, slowly, without pressure, and saw his cock jump inside his shorts.

“And why are you telling me all this, Mateo?”

“Because you asked me.”

“No. You’re telling me because you wanted to tell me. I’ve been watching your face for twenty minutes and I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?”

“You’re thinking you’re eighteen, that your friends tell lies on Mondays at the court, that you never have anything to say, and that if you don’t ask me for something now, you never will.”

He nodded. He didn’t speak.

“Get up,” I told him.

He did. I stood too. We ended up fifteen centimeters apart. I took both his hands.

“I’m going to teach you everything. Okay? But we’re going step by step. If I tell you to stop, you stop. If I tell you to keep going, you keep going. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Put your hands here.” I took them to my waist, over the fabric of the dress. “Squeeze me a little. Like that. Now lower one. The other, no, leave it where it is. Lower. More. On the ass. Still. Squeeze. Again. Now soft circles. That’s it. Like that.”

I watched him, focused, almost serious. He worked like someone assembling furniture from instructions: checking each step twice, unhurried. It amused me. It did other things to me too: the bikini bottom was sticking to my pussy from how wet I already was.

“Now bring the other hand up to my back. Hold me against you.”

He did. He pressed our bodies together. I felt, against my hip, that the kid was carrying something. It wasn’t small. It was a hard length pushing the fabric of his shorts and pressing right above the bone. I raised an eyebrow.

“Well, well. You’d hidden this.”

He let out a nervous laugh. I ran my hand over the top of his shorts, grabbed his cock fully through the fabric, felt it pulse under my palm.

“Look at me,” I said. “I’m going to kiss you. Don’t push with your tongue. Just let mine do the work. Okay?”

“Yes.”

I kissed him slowly. I traced the tip of my tongue over his lower lip first. Then I went in. He stayed still for a second, as if he were listening to me with his mouth, and then he started answering. Clumsily, anxiously, but without fighting my rhythm. I cupped his face with one hand. Pulled him closer. Bit his lip, sucked his tongue, shoved mine all the way in until I heard him groan against my mouth.

When I pulled away, he was breathing hard.

“You’re doing fine,” I told him. “Take off your shirt.”

He did. His chest was marked from holding out on the court for so many afternoons. I ran my hand over his sternum, scratched one nipple with my nail until it hardened, followed the line of his stomach. I kissed him again, this time without instructions. I slid my hand down his belly, over the elastic of his shorts, and slipped my fingers underneath. I grabbed his cock against bare skin. It was hot, thick, the head already wet. I squeezed the base, ran my thumb over the glans, spread his own fluid all over the tip. He let out a rough moan from deep in his chest.

“Sit on the sofa.”

He did. I knelt between his legs. I lowered his shorts and boxers in one motion. It sprang free. His cock bounced against his stomach, hard, curved upward, veins marked, the tip shiny with so much pre-cum. It was bigger than I’d guessed through the fabric: thick, long, with his balls tight underneath, red from holding back. My mouth watered.

“Mateo.”

“What?”

“This is the only time I’m going to ask you for permission. Will you let me suck it?”

“Please,” he said. He said it like that, asking please. I almost smiled.

I wrapped my hand around the base. I squeezed it with all five fingers, held it firmly, felt it pulse against my palm. I ran my tongue underneath, slowly, from where I was holding it to the tip, tracing the thick vein running down the center. I heard him hold his breath. I took one whole ball into my mouth, sucked it slowly, then the other, while my hand gave him a slow stroke from the base. I ran my tongue along the ridge that separates the balls from the cock, one long lick up to the glans, and stopped there. I paused to look at him. His eyes were closed, mouth open, jaw loose.

“Look at me when I take it in my mouth,” I said. “I want you to see how it disappears inside me.”

He opened his eyes. He locked them on me. I held his gaze while I opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue, rested the head of his cock on my tongue, and took him in whole until the tip touched the back of my palate. I heard him go in. I felt him fill my mouth. He let out a long groan that came from deep inside him.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Holy shit, Cami.”

I started moving. Slowly at first, finding the rhythm. I went up and down with one hand following my mouth, marking the limit. I ran my tongue over the tip each time I came up, circled the glans, pinched the frenulum with my lips. Then I went back down to the root, until I was gagging softly, until my nose touched the hair at the base. With the other hand I stroked his balls, squeezed them just as I pulled him out of my mouth, released them when I took him back in. I listened to him breathe like he was running. I saw his thighs trembling, his hands gripping the couch cushions, his fingers white from squeezing.

I pulled his cock out of my mouth for a second, held it close to my face, dragged it over my cheek, over my neck, licked it from the balls to the tip with a flat tongue. I spit on the head and used the saliva to stroke him with my hand, tight, while I sucked just the glans, working the foreskin with my lips.

“Cami,” he said, voice breaking. “Cami, wait, I’m going to cum, I’m going to cum.”

“Don’t wait,” I answered, and I took him all the way in again.

I sped up. I gave him one long, firm stroke with my hand while my mouth sucked the tip, while my tongue pinched the frenulum, while my other hand squeezed his balls. He tried to warn me by squeezing my shoulder a second before. I didn’t pull away. I nailed my eyes to his and took him deep just as he exploded. I felt the first jet hit my throat, warm, thick, and then another, and another. His cock pulsed in my mouth, every throb a new spurt. I took it all, without swallowing yet, letting my mouth fill. When he stopped cumming, I pulled him out slowly, lips tight so I wouldn’t spill. I showed him my open mouth, full of his cum, and then I closed it, swallowed in one go, stuck out my tongue so he could see nothing was left. I ran my tongue over the tip again to clean the last drop. I kissed the glans, then the base.

When I lifted my head, he looked like someone who’d just been told he’d won the lottery.

“That was,” he said. “That was.”

“That was one,” I answered. “You still owe me one more thing.”

He laughed. His hair was stuck to his forehead. I sat beside him, let myself fall back, and loosened one bikini strap. My right breast came out. He looked at it like it was the first one he’d ever seen in his life. His mouth fell open. I took his hand and put it on my tit. I closed his fingers around it myself.

“Squeeze. Don’t be afraid. They don’t break.”

He squeezed. I ran his thumb over my nipple. It got hard immediately. Without thinking, he leaned his face toward me and sucked it. Clumsy, eager, with his mouth wide open. I put my hand on the back of his neck, pulled him closer, let him bite it. I felt a tug between my legs.

“Do you have condoms?”

He froze. Then he jumped up, pulled his boxers back on, and ran to his school backpack. He came back with one in his hand. The kind they hand out in health class.

“Enough,” I said. “Give me two minutes to start again.”

I let him breathe. I breathed too. My pussy was soaked, dripping down my thigh, the bikini fabric stuck to my lips. I stretched my arms over my head, arched my back against the sofa, gave him a smile that was anything but innocent. I slipped my hand under the bikini, dragged one finger through my slit for him, and showed it to him shiny.

“See how wet I am? All of that is because of you. Come taste.”

He lunged at me. I knelt on the sofa, braced myself against the backrest, pushed my hips back. I pulled the bikini fabric to one side. I took his nape and guided him to my pussy.

“Flat tongue, up and down. Soft. Like you’re licking ice cream, not biting it. Find the clit. It’s a little button up top, between the lips. When you find it, stay there. Circles. No pressure.”

He started clumsily. The first lick was timid, the second too rough. I squeezed his neck when the third one landed right. I taught him to breathe through his nose, showed him how to part my lips with his fingers to get in better. When he found the clit, he stayed there, obedient, slow circles like I’d asked. Then I told him to stick his tongue out more, to push it inside me. I felt the soft tip of his tongue open the way, enter, move inside me. I grabbed his hair. I rubbed his face against my cunt. I dragged my clit over the tip of his nose, over his lips, over his teeth. I heard him swallow my wetness, inhale deeply, go back in.

“One finger,” I said. “Just one. Inside. And keep licking me up top with your mouth.”

He slid in one finger. Then another when I squeezed his hand. I taught him to curl them upward, to find the soft spot inside. When he hit it, I started shaking. I mounted his face. I grabbed his hair. I came over his mouth with one long spasm that shook through me, my legs trembling, my juice running down my thigh and onto his hand. He stayed there, sucking slowly, until I had to lift his face because I couldn’t take any more.

His face was soaked. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth without taking his eyes off me, like someone who’d just discovered something important.

“Get up,” I told him.

I stood with him. I let the dress fall. I pulled the bikini strings loose. I ended up naked in his living room, with light filtering through the curtains, with an eighteen-year-old boy staring at me as if I were the whole manual.

“Now sit down.”

He went back to the sofa. I took the condom. Opened it. Pulled his boxers down again, found him hard again, throbbing against his stomach. I put the tip on and rolled it down with my hand and mouth in one motion, sucking him over the latex all the way to the base. Another face of disbelief.

I climbed on top. I held the base with my hand. I dragged the head of his cock through my slit slowly, soaking it with my arousal, playing with the clit, letting it rest at the entrance without going in. I set the tip right at the opening. I heard him moan softly, clench his teeth.

“Put it in,” I asked. “No, wait. Me. I’ll put it in myself.”

I lowered myself slowly. Centimeter by centimeter. I felt how I opened for him, how he filled me, how the thick cock pushed against my walls. I went down with my mouth open, breath cut short, until I took him all the way and sat on top of him. I stayed still for a second. I kissed his forehead. I felt his cock pulse inside me.

“Look at me.”

He looked at me. His eyes were glassy. I started moving. Slowly at first, rocking my hips forward and back, not taking him out, squeezing his cock with my walls while I rubbed my clit against his bone. Then I began to rise and fall. One centimeter. Five. Half. All the way. I came back down to the bottom with a sharp slap that ripped a gasp out of him. I let him feel the rhythm, let him understand how my body tightened around his. I took his hands, brought them back to my tits. Put them there. Then to my waist. I taught him to hold my ass, to set the pace with his hands, to pull me down when I rose. When I started dropping faster, he began thrusting back, clumsy at first, then more accurate, until his thrusts found mine.

“That’s it,” I told him. “That’s it, baby. Put it in me. Fuck me. Fuck me with that delicious cock you’ve got.”

He liked the dirty talk. He got even harder, if that was possible. He started driving up into me with force, slapping my ass against his thighs with a wet sound that filled the room. I ran my tongue along his neck, bit him, dug my nails into his shoulders. I marked him. I rode him at a pace that kept accelerating on its own. He watched me going up and down like he was witnessing a miracle. He squeezed my thighs, squeezed my ass, dug his fingers into me. He slipped one finger into my ass, more by accident than on purpose, and I clamped down hard and shouted at him to leave it there. He left marks all over my body that I was going to feel that same afternoon at the beach.

“Get down,” I said. “You get on top. I want you to fuck me.”

I got off. I lay back on the sofa, legs open, feet on his shoulders. He settled between my thighs, grabbed his cock with his hand, and searched for the entrance. He went in with one shove that tore a long moan out of me. That was when all his shyness disappeared. He started fucking me with every bit of energy he’d been storing up through eighteen years of restraint. He came out almost all the way and slammed back in to the base with a hard, wet hit. His cock went in so deep I could feel the tip bumping against my cervix. I dug my nails into his back. Bit his shoulder.

“Like that, like that, harder, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

He didn’t stop. He drove into me again and again, his hips working on their own, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the point where his cock was entering and leaving me. He bent down and sucked one tit while he fucked me. He bit it just as his cock hit the bottom. My back arched.

“Put me on all fours,” I told him, and he learned that word instantly.

He pulled out. I turned over, braced myself on the back of the sofa, pushed my ass back. He settled behind me on his knees, grabbed my waist with both hands, and buried himself in one thrust. I screamed into the cushion. He started fucking me from behind at a brutal rhythm that made my tits bounce until they slapped my chin. He grabbed my hair. He held it tight. He yanked my head back without asking, with a gesture I hadn’t taught him, something that had come out of him on its own, and inside I thanked him for it. He squeezed one ass cheek and then landed a smack that left the shape of his hand on me. The second one my body asked for before he could hesitate.

“Again,” I said. “Harder.”

Another slap. My skin burned. My pussy burned. His cock going into me from behind, all the way every time, was pushing me back to the edge. I felt his thumb go where his finger had been before. I was close. I could tell by the way my stomach started trembling, by how my pussy clenched around him on its own.

“Come inside,” I told him. “Come with me. Wait a second. Wait. Wait. Now.”

I came with a jolt that folded me in half, forehead pressed to the cushion, jaw clenched so I wouldn’t scream in the middle of a weekday morning in someone else’s living room. I clenched around him, squeezed his cock with my walls as if I wanted to milk it, and he held out two seconds more, until he couldn’t anymore. I felt the spasms, the cock swelling one last time, the hot surge filling the condom inside me. He collapsed over my back, face buried in my neck, breath coming in broken bursts against my collarbone, his cock still buried to the hilt, throbbing slowly.

I stayed like that a while, bent over the backrest with him on top of me. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to. I felt his cock soften inside me, how little by little it lost size until it slipped out on its own with a wet sound. I stroked the hand that was still gripping my waist. I turned around, settled back, and pulled him against my chest. I caressed the back of his neck slowly. Gave him a kiss on the temple. He hugged me like I was a life raft.

When I finally got up, I came down carefully. I took off the condom, half full and warm. I wrapped it in toilet paper, tied it off, shoved it deep into the bathroom trash can, and tossed a couple of wads of paper on top to cover it. I came back. He was still on the couch, naked, staring at the ceiling, with a smile that seemed too big for his face and his cock resting on his thigh, still half hard.

“I have to go,” I told him.

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know. But I will.”

I stepped into his bathroom shower. He soaped me up. I let him. I took the chance to show him how to touch a woman with soapy hands: I placed his hand between my legs, taught him to rub the clit with the soap without hurting it, to slip in two fingers and curl them, to feel the rhythm with the palm of his hand. I also put my hand on his cock, stroked him slowly under the stream, showed him how to squeeze the base and twist the wrist when reaching the top. He got hard again between my fingers; I pressed it against my belly and rocked it a little, but that one we let live and die in peace. I had to be a presentable woman again in less than fifteen minutes. I gave him one last kiss with his hard cock pressed to my pelvis and stepped out of the shower.

He lent me his mother’s deodorant. He lent me cream. I asked for a little perfume, also his mother’s, and made him promise he wouldn’t say the bottle was missing anything. I dressed. He helped me. He tied the bikini strap with the clumsy hands of someone who had only just learned them, and he made me laugh.

At the door I hugged him. I gave him one long, last, slow kiss. I squeezed his cock over his shorts one more time, so he’d remember.

“Mateo.”

“What?”

“You can tell it, if you need to. But not who with. And if I find out you took a photo or video, I’ll cut something important off you. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“And one more thing.”

“What?”

“Next time, you’re the one on top.”

I laughed, gave him a soft pinch on the shoulder, and left. I closed the door behind me. I walked to the car with the sun hitting the back of my neck, with my pussy still throbbing inside the bikini, with his handprints marking every step on my ass. I drove to the office with the air conditioning blasting. I got there five minutes before the meeting, smelling of nothing but the floral perfume from Mateo’s mother, my body still vibrating and my head clearer than it had felt in weeks.

That same afternoon I went to the beach with my parents. I talked about the weather, played in the sand, ate ceviche, drank a michelada. Every time I sat on my towel, the marks of his hands on my ass reminded me of the morning. At some point during sunset, my mother told me I seemed happy. I told her it was the sea air. She laughed.

I wasn’t lying completely.