I Went into My Neighbor’s Bathroom and Couldn’t Leave the Same

We have a weekend house about forty kilometers from the city, in a quiet development with tree-lined streets and spacious lots. We bought it when the kids were little, thinking of getting away from the noise. What we hadn’t counted on was the neighborhood coming with a couple like Marcos and Clara.

We became friends almost immediately, with the ease that comes from living nearby and keeping the same hours. They don’t have children; they’re free, carefree, always willing to stretch the afternoon out. Clara is one of those women who walks into a place and rearranges it without asking anyone’s permission: a very well-preserved woman in her forties, always tanned, always with something to say and the energy to say it twice.

Marcos is different. Quieter, more measured. He has that way of listening that makes you end up telling him more than you’d planned. He’s tall, with the body of someone who moves and works instead of living at the gym. Broad shoulders, abs that can be guessed at without announcing themselves, big hands that always seem to know what they’re doing.

For months we shared our weekends without anything out of the ordinary happening. Barbecues, the pool, wine that ran out too soon, conversations that went on until the neighbors’ lights began switching off one by one. I noticed Marcos, of course I did. It was hard not to. But some things you register, file away in some inner drawer, and never open again.

Or so I told myself.

***

That Saturday in November, Clara showed up at our door before noon with one of her proposals that sounded like a suggestion but was already a decision. She was taking Elena and the kids to the local soccer game, then out to dinner at her parents’ place, and staying the night there. One of those spontaneous arrangements only she could make seem inevitable.

I helped them get settled in the car. Before Elena got in, I kissed her on the mouth, slowly, hungrily. Clara watched us from the driver’s seat with a smile that wasn’t entirely innocent.

“And there’s nothing for me?” she asked, tilting her head.

I walked around the car and approached her window. I kissed her neck, unhurriedly. She smelled of something citrusy and expensive, freshly applied.

“You smell great,” I told her without thinking.

She laughed.

“Marcos is finishing his shower. If you want, you can go keep him company.”

She said it naturally, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. She rolled up the window and drove off. I stayed at the entrance watching the car turn at the end of the street, and it took me a moment longer than it should have to understand that Marcos and I were alone, just the two of us, for the first time since we’d met.

***

I went in with the keys we’d exchanged months earlier, for watering the plants or picking up a delivery. I announced myself from the doorway, loudly, as always.

“Come in,” his voice called from the back of the house.

I crossed the living room and the hall, then stopped in the bathroom doorway.

He was standing in front of the mirror, shaving. Naked. The towel hung from the hook on the door, half-used, as if he’d stopped caring about it. And he had an erection he wasn’t bothering to hide: a thick, hard cock rising against his belly, its swollen, shiny head showing from beneath his half-drawn foreskin. His balls hung heavily beneath it, pressed against his thigh, and a thick vein ran along the underside of his shaft, pulsing slowly with every breath.

For a second I didn’t know where to look. Then I looked where I looked.

“Sorry about the state I’m in,” he said, without stopping the razor as he passed it along his jaw.

“Clara told me to come keep you company,” I replied, just to have something to say.

“Yeah. She left at the worst possible moment.”

“I can see that.”

“What do you see?”

I indicated it with my eyes, without gesturing. He lowered his gaze to himself, then looked at me in the mirror, almost resigned.

“I’m really horny. There’s no way to get this down.”

“I know one way,” I said.

Silence. He kept shaving. He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no, either.

That was enough.

***

I moved toward him without knowing exactly when I’d made the decision. I positioned myself behind him, close enough for him to feel my bulge against his ass through my pants, and ran my hands over his torso. I felt him hold his breath. I moved down slowly, following the lines of his muscles, until I took his cock firmly in my hand. It filled my palm. It was thicker than I’d calculated from looking at it, hot, the skin stretched taut from being so hard.

He jerked, and his hips shifted backward against me. I started jerking him off slowly, my whole hand closed around the shaft, measuring every movement, drawing back his foreskin to uncover his entire glans and then pulling it forward again. With my other hand I found his balls and weighed them, squeezing them lightly, feeling them shift inside the sac.

“What hands,” he murmured.

“If you want, I can tell you to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop.”

He kept his eyes on the mirror, watching me behind him, watching himself while I worked his cock. He set the razor on the edge of the sink. His breathing slowly began to change, becoming more irregular, slower and faster at the same time. A transparent thread ran from the tip, which I used to lubricate the motion, sliding my thumb over the head each time I moved upward.

“Don’t make me come,” he said, almost under his breath, like a warning that was also a plea. “I can’t hold out much longer.”

“I’m not going to make you come. Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

“I want it to last. I want you to empty yourself properly, not now.”

I noticed he was starting to get wetter between my fingers, that first damp sign that never lied. Thick semen dripped from the tip, running over my knuckles. I leaned toward his neck and breathed in his scent: soap, hot skin, something that was simply him. I licked the nape of his neck slowly and bit the edge of his shoulder.

“How much do you like it?” I asked in his ear, without stopping jerking him off.

“Quite a lot,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “A lot. What about you?”

“I love having it in my hand like this. You’re hard as fuck. I can’t stop.”

And it was true. There was something about having him like that, his cock between my fingers, that kept me from thinking about anything else. I kept moving, caressing his torso with my other hand, moving up to his nipples and back down again, feeling his muscles tense and relax beneath my fingers. I pinched one nipple, and he let out a rough gasp.

“You’re so strong,” I told him. “And so hard. You’re ready to burst.”

He didn’t answer. He simply leaned farther back into me, surrendering to the rhythm I’d found, letting me pull my hand all the way down to the base and slide it back up, squeezing hard, tracing the vein with my fingers.

***

“Turn around,” I asked him.

“What for?”

“I want to see you. And I want to suck your cock.”

He hesitated. Then he turned slowly, without me letting go of his cock. We ended up facing each other, very close. His jaw was tense and his eyes were dark. He looked at me as if waiting for me to make the next decision.

I made it.

I licked his chest, the line of his sternum, the edge of one nipple, and sucked it until it hardened. I felt him tense. I moved downward: his belly, his navel, the line of hair that disappeared below. I knelt on the cold tiles. When I reached where I wanted to be, I looked up at him from below, his cock brushing my cheek and leaving a damp trail on my skin.

He took my head in both hands. He didn’t push or press. He simply rested them there, as an answer.

I ran my tongue along his entire cock, from base to tip, following the vein underneath. I sucked his balls one at a time, taking them carefully into my mouth while I kept jerking him slowly. Then I went back up and licked the head in circles, tasting the semen that kept spilling from it. I swallowed him whole, as deep as I could, feeling the heavy head striking the back of my throat. He let out a sound that wasn’t exactly a moan, something more restrained, more intimate than that, a thick gasp torn from his chest.

I gripped his hips and found a slow, unhurried rhythm, sucking him with my whole mouth, letting him slide between my tight lips. When I pulled him all the way out, I played with the tip, giving it little kisses and licking the slit in his glans. When I took him back in, it was all the way down, until my chin brushed his balls. His fingers closed gently around my head, following the movement.

“Don’t stop,” he said. It was the first time I’d heard him ask for something like that. “Please. Suck me properly.”

I obeyed. I took my time, enjoying his salty taste, the tension in his thighs, the little sounds that escaped him whenever I changed the angle and scraped the underside of his cock with my tongue. At some point he began moving on his own, his hips following the rhythm I set, thrusting his cock against my face with more urgency.

“That’s it, swallow it all,” he murmured. “All of it.”

I felt him grow more tense, his balls tightening against his body, something in him approaching the limit, and I knew I had to stop. I released his cock slowly, squeezing the base with my fingers to hold him back, cutting off his orgasm halfway there. He gasped, surprised by the interruption, his cock trembling in front of my face.

“Not yet,” I told him, standing up. “You’re not going to come yet.”

“I’m so horny,” he said, his voice barely audible. “You’re going to make me explode.”

“I know. But there’s something else I want first.”

“What?”

I approached his mouth without answering. I kissed him gently at first, barely brushing against him. He parted his lips slightly, surprised, and I took advantage of the gesture to deepen the kiss, sliding my tongue into his mouth and letting him taste himself. For a second nothing happened. Then he took me by the nape with one hand and answered with an intensity I hadn’t expected, catching me off guard, biting my lip and seeking my tongue with his.

We kissed for several minutes, urgently and unhurriedly at the same time. Our torsos pressed together, our skin damp with sweat. His hard cock drove against my belly through my clothes, leaving a wet stain on the fabric. I lowered one hand to his ass and squeezed a cheek, pulling him tighter against me. He drew back just enough to breathe, and we stayed there with our foreheads together, breathing.

“What are we doing?” he asked, without emphasis, almost to himself.

“What we want to do,” I replied. “Now you’re going to fuck me.”

He said nothing else.

***

I tore off my clothes carelessly, leaving them scattered across the tiles. My cock was hard too, outlined against my belly. I turned around, put my hands on the sink, leaned toward him, arching my back and offering him my ass, searching for the right angle.

“I’m used to it,” I told him. “Elena does it with a toy sometimes. I like being penetrated. Take me.”

I heard his breathing change behind me. Then his hands were on my hips, firm but not rough. I felt him crouch down, spreading my cheeks with his thumbs, and suddenly his hot tongue was passing over my hole, wetting it, pressing just slightly inside. A moan escaped me and bounced off the mirror. He ate my ass for a good while, using his whole tongue, salivating me thoroughly, slipping it in and out until I felt myself relax on my own.

Then he straightened. He spat into his hand and ran it along his cock, and with the other he spread the saliva over my hole, pushing a thick finger deep inside me, moving it slowly and opening me. He inserted another. He moved them in a scissoring motion. When he pulled them out, I felt them as an absence.

He eased himself into me very slowly, resting the head of his cock against my asshole and pushing little by little, with more care than I’d asked for and more than I’d expected from someone in that state of arousal. The head opened me first, with that brief burning sensation that always came at the beginning, and then the shaft entered inch by inch, thick and long, filling me. When I felt him fully inside, his balls brushing against me from behind, I closed my eyes and took a moment. The pressure, the heat, the fullness that always left me speechless. I gripped the edge of the sink with both hands, my knuckles white.

“Stay still for a second,” I asked him. “Let me get used to you.”

He did. I felt his belly against my buttocks, his heavy breathing on the nape of my neck, the heat of his torso brushing my back, his cock throbbing inside me, pulsing with every heartbeat. He waited without moving until I was ready, then I pushed my ass backward so he would understand.

“Good,” I said. “Now move. Fuck me hard.”

He started slowly, pulling almost all the way out and then driving back in to the hilt, with long, clean thrusts. I adjusted the rhythm, opening for him when he pushed, closing around him when he withdrew, squeezing his cock with my ass each time he pulled out, finding the cadence that made everything fit together. We didn’t speak for a while. There was only the wet, rhythmic sound of his hips striking my buttocks and our breathing. The bathroom mirror reflected our image—my hardened nipples, my own hard cock swinging between my legs, his hands gripping my hips and leaving red marks—and for one absurd second I thought we looked like two strangers. Then I stopped thinking.

The speed increased on its own. At some point I began asking him for more, without shame, because there was no room for it anymore. Harder. Deeper. Break me. He answered every one of my words, grabbing my hair with one hand and pulling my head back, thrusting into me with the full weight of his body, surrendering to a rhythm neither of us controlled anymore. The sound of flesh against flesh filled the bathroom, mixed with his low grunts.

“Put it all the way in, you son of a bitch,” I begged him. “Don’t stop. Make me burst.”

He didn’t stop. He drove into me to the hilt with every thrust, hitting that perfect spot, while he found my cock with his other hand and began pounding it at the same rhythm he fucked me. I could no longer hold myself up. I came first, thickly spurting over the marble sink, squeezing his cock with my ass through the spasms, with a long moan that rose from my stomach.

He kept thrusting, faster and faster, taking advantage of the way I clenched around him, until I felt him tense completely behind me, dig his nails into my hips, and finish inside me with several long spasms, a sound escaping his chest that he couldn’t prevent, something between a growl and a curse. I felt his hot orgasm flood me from within, spurts arriving one after another, and he kept slowly fucking me for a few more seconds, milking himself until the last drop.

He leaned against my back without moving, still connected to me, breathing hard. When he finally pulled out, I felt the semen running down the inside of my thigh, warm and thick.

“You’re incredible,” he finally said, almost in a whisper. “I’ve never emptied myself like that.”

“You left me wanting more,” I replied, even though I’d just come.

He laughed. A short, genuine laugh, one I’d never heard from him in quite that way.

“That’s easy to fix. We have all afternoon.”

And we did. We got into bed afterward, and he put it inside me again while I lay on my back, my legs over his shoulders, and emptied himself inside me again after sucking me until I came in his mouth. I lost count.

***

We left the bedroom quite a while later, our hair wet and our bodies light with the feeling that settles in when you release something you’ve been carrying without knowing it. Marcos made sandwiches in his kitchen, opened two beers, and we talked about anything and everything: the summer approaching, the game the neighborhood team had lost, whether they were finally going to fix the road at the end of the street.

We didn’t talk about what had happened. There was no need. Those conversations, when people have them, usually ruin exactly what they’re trying to explain.

Elena and Clara returned the following afternoon. The kids were asleep in the back seat. While we unloaded the bags from the car, Marcos patted me on the shoulder, the kind of pat that could mean many things depending on who gave it and when.

I understood what he meant.

Clara looked at both of us with that smile of hers that was never entirely innocent, and asked whether we’d had a good weekend alone.

“Very good,” we said, almost at the same time.

She nodded, satisfied, as if she’d known the answer from the beginning.