My Neighbor’s First Time with a Man

The new house gave me what the old one never had: silence and real privacy. Ground floor at the end of a hallway, no immediate neighbors, with a window overlooking an inner courtyard with no foot traffic. The first thing I did was rearrange the wardrobe: the feminine clothes I’d kept in boxes since the previous move, now sorted into separate hangers and drawers. Bras, thongs, fitted dresses, stockings with seams.

That freedom encouraged me to go further than I had before. I started taking pictures of myself with the bathroom mirror, editing them, organizing them into folders. In a few months I had more than two hundred images: in lingerie, in dresses, in leggings, in different combinations I put together according to my mood that day. It was a world entirely mine, with no witnesses and no explanations.

The partner I had then had his own apartment ten blocks away. We’d agreed on a routine that worked for both of us: Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays I slept at his place; the rest of the days, each of us at our own. Few calls, few messages, no drama, no complaints. That distance, which anyone else would have considered cold, gave me exactly what I needed: time without having to answer to anyone, without having to explain where I was going or how I came back.

One Saturday morning the doorbell rang. Roberto lived in the apartment at the end of the opposite corridor, on the same floor. I’d run into him two or three times in the hallway: an older man, his gray hair neatly combed, shirt buttoned even on the hottest days. He told me the washing machine hadn’t been spinning properly for a week and that the neighborhood baker had told him I knew about that sort of thing. I have no idea how that information reached her, because I’d been in the building less than a year. But I didn’t question it.

I told him I’d be over in half an hour.

***

I went back inside and stood for a moment in front of the open wardrobe. It was hot, that was real. Shorts and a T-shirt were more than enough for the job. But underneath, I’d wear the red thong I’d bought that week and still hadn’t tried on. The plan was simple: at some point, if I had to lie on the floor or bend over the machine, the shorts or the T-shirt would give me away. I only had to let it happen.

Roberto led me into the service room where he kept the washing machine. It was a top-loader, old, with a drum that made a sharp noise when it spun. He stayed standing in the doorway while I checked it, talking about unimportant things: the building, that year’s heat, the price of electricity. He was a man of few words, or at least of measured words.

To get to the mechanisms in back, I had to lean my torso into the machine. My T-shirt rode up. The shorts, loose and low on the waist, slid down a little with the movement. I did nothing to correct it. I stayed like that, my weight resting on the edge, until I heard Roberto leave the room without saying anything.

He came back with two glasses of orangeade and set them on the shelf beside us.

“Have a drink. It’s brutal in here,” he said.

“I’d better finish first. If I start drinking, the machine will never start.”

“One sip won’t kill you. Then keep going.”

I straightened up, wiped my hands on my shorts, and took the glass. He leaned against the doorframe. He didn’t say anything about what he’d seen, but he wasn’t looking me straight in the eye either.

***

We talked in there for a while. Roberto told me little about himself: that he’d lived alone for years, that he’d come from Portugal as a child with his family, that he had no one close left in the city. He said it without bitterness, just as an established fact. I told him a bit about my work, without going into detail, and he listened with the calm of someone who has time to spare and doesn’t waste it badly.

I went back to the washing machine. This time I lay straight down on the floor to check the back of the machine. With my body stretched out and my shirt riding up, the red elastic of the thong was completely visible. I stayed like that for several minutes, doing what had to be done, not rushing. When I stood up and went to lean against the wall to wipe my hands, I found him watching me without much attempt to hide it. His eyes were fixed on my crotch and there was an obvious swelling in his pants, a bulge he could no longer disguise by changing position.

“Should we go inside?” he asked. “It’s stifling in here.”

***

His apartment was dim: lowered blinds, a fan running, artificial coolness that felt welcome after the heat of the service room. He invited me to sit on the sofa while he brought more orangeade. As I settled in, my T-shirt shifted for a moment and the lace of my bra showed for a second. He saw it. He said nothing, poured the drinks, and sat in the armchair opposite me.

For a while we talked about unimportant things. The neighborhood, summer, whether the building had had problems with damp. At some point he took off his shirt and commented that the heat was unbearable. He invited me to make myself more comfortable.

“Thanks, I’m fine,” I replied.

There was a pause. One of those silences that aren’t awkward but charged, filling the space of the room without anyone inviting them in.

“What’s that under your shirt?” he finally asked, nodding toward my torso.

“What?”

“There, under the T-shirt.”

I took a sip from the glass before answering.

“Men’s underwear never felt comfortable to me,” I said. “For years I’ve worn women’s. It works better for me.”

Silence.

“Women’s underwear?”

“Yes. That’s all.”

“How does it fit you?” he asked, his voice a little lower than before.

Then I looked at him. He had his hands resting on his knees and a serious face, but there was something in his eyes that didn’t match the seriousness. Between his legs, his pants were stretched tight by a thick bulge rising diagonally against the fabric.

“Want to see?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either.

I stood up slowly and took off my shirt. Roberto fixed his gaze on the bra, black with lace along the edges, fitted tightly over my chest. I stayed still for a moment, letting him look without interrupting. I saw him swallow and saw his hand clench around his knee, tightening the fabric of his pants.

“It suits you,” he said quietly. “And underneath?”

I didn’t answer. I let my pants fall.

The red thong. Barely a strip of lace that couldn’t contain my own erection: the tip of my cock was poking over the elastic, stretching the fabric off to one side. He looked at it. Then he looked at me in the eyes. Then he looked back down again.

I moved closer slowly, unhurried. When I was a step away, he reached out and touched my hip, first barely, as if he needed to confirm it was real. His fingers followed the lace of the elastic backward, over my ass, and he squeezed with the clumsy firmness of a beginner. His other hand came forward, wrapped around the tight fabric of the thong, and settled over the bulge pressing underneath. He held it there, not moving it, feeling the weight, the shape, the pulse. He was breathing harder than usual and had his eyes fixed on me with an intensity he made no attempt to hide.

“This is the first time I’ve done anything like this,” he said, in a very low voice.

“I know,” I replied.

It wasn’t a reproach or a warning. It was simply true, and we both knew it.

***

He guided me to the hallway, where there was a large mirror leaning against the wall. He made me stand in front of it and positioned himself behind me. He lifted my bra a little and lowered his mouth to one of my nipples. He started by licking it with the tip of his tongue, in slow circles, until it hardened; then he nibbled it with his lips, sucking hard, pulling until he made me arch my back. In the mirror I could see my open mouth and my half-lidded eyes. His hands roamed my hips, my ass, my thighs, with a calm that was more curiosity than urgency. One of those hands went down in front, slipped inside the thong, and grabbed my cock firmly. He began moving his fist slowly, up and down, testing the length, learning me. With the other hand he spread my ass cheeks and his fingers found the warm gap between them, pressing lightly against my hole over the lace.

“Look at yourself,” he murmured in my ear, his voice rough. “Look at how hard you’re getting in that thong.”

And it was true. In the reflection, my cock was spilling out the side of the red lace, the tip already shining, while Roberto’s hand kept working it with a slowness that was driving me mad.

My hands found his belt. I unfastened it slowly, lowered his pants and his underwear. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, taut against his stomach, the tip already wet. Bigger than I’d expected from the bulge in his pants. I knelt in front of him.

I took it at the base with one hand and ran my broad tongue over the whole length, from his balls to the head. I repeated the stroke twice, three times, wetting it well until I could see it shine all over. Then I opened my mouth over the tip and took only a little of it, sucking just the head, playing with my tongue against that fold right under the glans that makes a man lose his balance. He let out a deep gasp and buried his fingers in my hair.

I started going down. Centimeter by centimeter, letting saliva spill down the sides, wetting his balls and my own fingers, which were now kneading them in my palm. He braced one hand on the mirror and the other on my shoulder, not pushing, just holding himself up. I started slowly, letting him get used to the sensation, and gradually picked up speed. In the reflection I could see myself from behind, the red thong riding up the crack of my ass, kneeling in front of him, my neck rising and falling in rhythm with the blowjob.

“My God,” he muttered. “Suck it like that, don’t stop.”

I pulled him closer, gripping his ass with both hands, until his cock reached the back of my throat. I felt my airway close, felt my eyes fill with tears, but I didn’t pull away. I stayed there, my nose pressed into his pubic hair, swallowing around him, letting him feel my throat tightening. He let out a sound that wasn’t exactly a moan but something more contained, more sincere, a low grunt that came from deep in his chest. His hand tightened on my shoulder and his breathing quickened.

I let go with a wet sound, took air, and went back for more. This time with rhythm, fucking his mouth myself, offering him my throat, sucking his balls between thrusts. I took them whole into my mouth, one first, then both, while my hand kept moving up and down the wet cock. He was trembling.

“Stop,” he said, urgently. “A second.”

I looked up at him from below without moving, the tip resting on my lip.

“Don’t stop,” he said immediately, contradicting himself. “Finish. Finish in my mouth.”

I sped up. I gripped him hard at the base and sucked with my whole mouth, my tongue working the underside of the glans, my hand following the same rhythm. He clung to the mirror with both hands. His cock swelled another fraction, became rock hard, and in less than a minute I felt the first hot spurt break against my palate. Then another, and another, thick, salty, one after the other, filling my mouth. I kept him there without letting go, swallowing little by little, feeling the rhythmic pulse slide down his cock until he went completely still. When I let him out, a strand of semen hung from my lower lip. I gathered it with my finger and sucked it without hurrying, looking him in the eyes.

He pulled back a little, breathing hard, his back against the mirror.

“No one’s ever done that to me like that,” he said after a moment. “No one.”

“Never with a man?”

“With no one. Not like that.”

I stood up, my thong marked by my own erection still hard, still unsatisfied. He noticed. He lowered his hand and grabbed me again over the lace, squeezing me awkwardly but eagerly.

“Let me,” he said. “Let me try.”

He pulled my thong down to my thighs and knelt down himself now, right there in the hallway, in front of the mirror. He looked at my cock for a moment, as if measuring it, and then took it into his mouth all at once, clumsy, barely choking. He closed his eyes and started sucking me as best he could, with more enthusiasm than technique, his hand working the base, his lips pressed tight against the skin. It didn’t last long. I was already on the edge before that, and the image of my gray-haired neighbor on his knees sucking me in front of the mirror, his own cock still shining and hanging between his legs, finally broke me. I grabbed his head with both hands and came into his mouth without warning, in long bursts, while he swallowed, coughing, what he could and let the rest escape from the corner of his lips. When he pulled me out of his mouth, his lips were shining and a white drop was hanging from his chin.

He stayed there a moment longer, kneeling, looking at himself in the mirror with his mouth still open.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he said, more to himself than to me.

I adjusted my thong and picked up my T-shirt from the floor. He pulled his pants back up in silence, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. We went back to the sofa and finished the orangeade, talking about unimportant things for a while longer, as if nothing had happened or as if what had happened were completely normal and needed no analysis.

Before I left, I gave him my cell number.

***

That night, back in my apartment, I sent him a short message: that I’d had a good time, that there was no pressure. I know that helps. Men like Roberto need to know they won’t be judged, that they won’t get awkward calls at two in the morning, that what happens between two people can stay exactly where it happened, with no consequences or expectations to scare them.

A week later he wrote to me. He wanted to know if I could come by that afternoon.

I went.

This time there was no washing machine excuse or any pending repair. He took me straight to the bedroom. He’d left the blind half-closed, light filtering in diagonal stripes over the bed. He was already naked from the waist down when he closed the door, his cock half-erect, looking at me without saying anything. He asked me to put on “something nice.” I chose a white thong of sheer lace and fishnet stockings up to the thigh. When I came out of the bathroom I found him sitting on the edge of the bed, his cock already rock hard in his hand, jerking it slowly.

“Come here,” he said.

I went over and he made me turn around, put my back to him. I felt his hands spreading my ass cheeks and then his tongue, warm, wetting my hole over the fabric. He sucked the lace, bit it, then pulled it aside and shoved his tongue directly into the gap. I had to hold onto the dresser. He’d never done it before, and yet he did it with a hunger that didn’t seem like first-timer hunger, as if he’d been thinking about this all week while he was away from me. He licked me, sucked me, drove the tip of his tongue in and out, soaking me until I felt a trickle run down the inside of my thigh.

He put one finger in, then two. He moved them calmly, opening me, while with the other hand he jerked me from the front. He took a vibrator from the nightstand drawer—I was told he’d used it with women before—wetted it with saliva and started pushing it into my ass, slowly, a little at a time, turning it on once he felt it inside. I shook over the dresser, biting my lip.

“Hold on,” he said. “Hold on, I’m not done yet.”

He turned me around, threw me onto the bed on my back with the vibrator still inside, lifted my legs into the air, and thrust himself between my thighs. He spat into his hand, smeared his cock well wet, yanked the vibrator out in one pull, and drove his cock into me in a single motion. I screamed into the pillow. He stayed still for a moment, buried to the hilt, breathing against my neck.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered.

And he started fucking me. First with long, slow thrusts, pulling almost all the way out only to drive back in to the hilt, watching his cock go in and out. Then faster, gripping my hips, pounding me into the mattress. The fishnet stockings had slid down, the white thong had been torn off to the side. I was jerking my own cock in time with his thrusts, both hands on my own shaft, riding out the pounding. We were both moaning without restraint.

He came inside me. I felt the hot spurts filling me, one after the other, and that sensation finally pushed me over the edge: I came too, splattering my chest and bra, with him still buried to the hilt. He stayed there a moment, not pulling out, until he softened little by little and came out with a wet sound that made both of us laugh.

We used the vibrator again after that. Both of us, with plenty of enthusiasm and very little shame.

***

My relationship with Roberto continued for almost a year. Not continuously, nor with any formal commitment: he would disappear for weeks on end, sometimes a month, and I knew it was fear that drove him away. Fear of being seen, of someone in the building noticing something, of what it would mean to himself that a man could push him that far.

When he came back, he never mentioned the time in between. A message would simply appear on my phone: “Are you there?” And I’d answer yes.

At the best of times, we saw each other twice a week. He told me I was the only person he did this with. I don’t know if that was true, and deep down I didn’t really care to know. What I did notice was that he learned quickly how to ask for what he wanted, with more precision than one would expect from someone who “had never done anything like this before.” He learned to ask me to kneel, to suck his balls while he jerked off in my face, to get on all fours against the headboard and fuck me while looking at me in the wardrobe mirror. He learned to come in my mouth, in my ass, on my back, and to ask for it with the right words.

What was true, and obvious, was that he liked looking at me. There was something in the way he would stay still, watching, before moving. He liked it when I put on underwear in front of him, when I got dressed slowly, when I looked at myself in the mirror while doing it. Most of all, he liked watching me arrange my cock inside the thong after he’d come, as if that image—the image of me tucking mine away inside the lace while his semen was still dripping down the inside of my thigh—was what fixed everything else in his head. That excited him more than anything else, and I gave it to him without him having to ask.

He never talked about Portugal or why he’d left so young. There was something in that silence I learned not to touch. Every person has their walls, and not all of them are there to be knocked down.

The last time I saw him was a Tuesday in the middle of the afternoon. Of course, I didn’t know that then. Endings like that don’t announce themselves. I spent some time waiting for the message that never came, saw light under his door a couple of times. I assumed he was fine. Sometimes silence isn’t an answer but a decision, and that deserves respect too.