Forbidden

The son of a bitch had used her own body as inspiration, and now she was trembling in front of the screen, not knowing whether what she felt was anger or desire.

I had never touched myself. That afternoon, behind a badly closed door, I understood why my body had spent years asking me for something I never dared give it.

I knew the exact time she’d be back. I left the door ajar, turned off the light, and waited to hear her footsteps in the hallway before starting.

Every so often I’d type her name to see if I could find her. She never showed up. Until that morning, when the first result was her, exact, unmistakable.

The rain was hitting the window and the house was silent. I had the whole afternoon to myself, and for the first time I decided to stop imagining it and feel it for real.

She imagined herself in the dark, with her robe open and unknown hands moving over her without asking permission. And for the first time, she didn’t want them to stop.

My wife thought the game was over when the technician left. She didn’t know the hidden camera had recorded everything, and that my excitement had only just begun as I watched from the office.

When she let the robe fall, I understood that my perfect neighbor was hiding far more than anyone imagined, and that night I no longer wanted to turn back.

I thought I was alone at home. I left the bathroom door open, closed my eyes, and said her name out loud, never imagining she’d already come back.

We had been locked in the room all afternoon, and still he was awake in the bathroom. Curiosity beat sleep, and what I saw changed me.

They thought I was asleep. From the hallway I heard every word, every low laugh, everything they said about me. And instead of being outraged, I stayed still, listening.

It was eleven in the morning, the place was empty, and my partner was asleep. When I saw him come through the door, I knew that Sunday wasn’t going to be like any other.

It had been six weeks since I’d slept well, and her scent still weighed on the sheets. That morning, in the café on the avenue, I understood how much it costs to lose someone who still smells like they’re yours.

I went upstairs to use the bathroom and he was waiting for me with his fly open. What I didn’t count on was someone opening the door just when we were on all fours.

She had never masturbated at work. But that morning, with her phone full of pictures of her neighbor and the door unlocked, she discovered how much risk turned her on.

For an entire year I lived two lives: the perfect professional beside my partner, and the insatiable lover who returned to the hotel every night. Until the TV announced his death.

She climbed into the back seat with the boss’s wife thinking she was going to find me. She got out thinking about when she could see her again.