What Happened in the Elevator with My Neighbor

I’d always heard the comments. In a building like ours, where the walls have ears and the looks say more than words ever could, it doesn’t take long to find out everything. And what people whispered about Lorena, my neighbor on the fifth floor, was that she liked women. Straightforwardly, no beating around the bush. That she fucked chicks. That she’d made more than one woman in the building moan, including two married women from the second floor. Things like that.

My name is Sonia. I’m thirty-two, I separated two years ago, and since then I’ve been living with my mother on the fourth floor. It’s not the life plan I imagined, but it’s not that terrible either. In that time, Lorena and I had built a comfortable, unpretentious friendship: coffee when we ran into each other on the landing, borrowed ingredients in moments of culinary emergency, spontaneous plans on Saturdays when neither of us had anything better to do.

Lorena had never made a single out-of-line move toward me. But there were moments—an look that lasted a second longer than necessary, a smile that took too long to fade, a way of leaning toward me when she talked that made the air between us thicken a little—when I wondered whether some of what was whispered in the lobby might be true. And then I’d tell myself I was imagining things, the product of having heard it too much, and I’d go on with my life.

That April morning we’d arranged to go to the market. I was wearing a flowered dress I hadn’t put on since the previous autumn because the warm weather had taken its time arriving. It was beautiful, but it had one considerable flaw: the back closed with a row of tiny eyelets and buttons that were a nightmare to fasten by yourself. My mother had taken nearly ten minutes to get them all lined up properly. Underneath I was wearing a new bra I’d bought that same week, black lace with a front closure. I liked it because it enhanced my breasts without looking over the top. I’ve always considered that my best feature—big tits, still firm, with nipples on the dark side—and the bra did exactly what it was supposed to do.

Lorena showed up promptly at eleven. She was wearing a short denim skirt, a white tank top, and flat sandals. No bra, as usual: her small breasts didn’t need one, though the cool morning air still left her nipples outlined like two hard points through the thin fabric. I didn’t say anything. I never had.

I thought she looked gorgeous. I thought it then, with the objectivity of someone observing an obvious fact, and let it go without dwelling on it.

We got into the elevator together. The building has eight floors and the thing is slow, one of those old models with worn blue carpet on the floor and a fogged-up mirror at the back that reflects blurry images of everything that happens inside. I pressed the ground-floor button and leaned against the side wall. The elevator started up with its usual rattling.

And that was when the clasp gave way.

I felt it instantly: a dry click, the left hoop coming loose, and all at once my tits were completely unsupported under the dress, swaying with every little jolt of the elevator. A deeply uncomfortable sensation.

“Jesus,” I said out loud.

“What is it?”

“The bra. The clasp’s come undone.”

Lorena didn’t hesitate for a second. She stopped the elevator with the emergency button and turned to me with a practical expression, as if solving this kind of problem were part of her daily routine.

“Where’s the clasp?”

“In the back,” I explained. “Under all the dress buttons. Most likely we’ll have to go upstairs to fix it properly.”

“Wait. Maybe we don’t need to go that far.”

She found the back tie of the dress, untied it easily, and without further preamble bent down and slid under the fabric.

The sensation was strange from the first second. I felt her knee before her hands—she positioned herself between my legs, which I instinctively parted to make room, and the pressure of her thigh against the fabric of my panties was immediate. I should have said something then. I didn’t. I felt her thigh rubbing slowly, deliberately, against my cunt over the fabric, and I also noticed moisture starting to build there, traitorous, uninvited.

Her hands groped for the bra. They climbed up my sides, brushing my bare skin, palming the sides of my tits on the way before finding the loose hoop. I felt her warm breath rising from my stomach to my chest, and how she passed very close to my nipples, so close I thought I could make out the brush of her nose against one of them. They hardened instantly. When she fastened the clasp, she did it carefully, almost tenderly, but before that she cupped my breasts for a second, weighing them, like someone measuring something that belonged to her. And when she started to come back out from under the dress, her knee pressed for a moment longer than strictly necessary against my crotch, moving up and down with a minimal but unmistakable rhythm.

It wasn’t accidental. I knew it then, though I denied it to myself.

When her head reappeared, her expression was completely neutral. She smiled at me, pressed the green button, and the elevator started moving again. My panties were wet and my legs were shaking, and I hated myself a little for it.

We lasted exactly two floors.

The clasp gave way again. This time the click was louder, and I stood staring ahead, not quite sure what to do with what I was feeling.

“Again, huh?” Lorena said. It wasn’t a question.

I nodded.

She stopped the elevator. She bent down. She slipped under the dress again.

But this time she didn’t go straight for the bra.

Her hands started at my knees. They moved slowly up the insides of my thighs, unhurried, taking all the time they wanted. I felt her fingers draw little circles over the softest skin, higher and higher, closer and closer. When they reached the waistband of my panties, they didn’t keep going up: they stopped, and her fingers pressed gently over the fabric, right above my cunt. The material was thin and soaked through, and I felt her feel that too: she let out a small puff of warm breath against my stomach, and spread her fingers to trace the shape of my lips over the panties, up and down, pressing a little harder on the clit each time she passed there. A sigh escaped me that I tried to cover with a cough.

Her hands then moved up to my tits, encircled them with both palms, held them for a moment, pinched my nipples between thumb and forefinger with a dry pressure that made me close my eyes, and only then did she fasten the bra. Then, before coming out, she slid her hand downward again. She slipped two fingers under the waistband of my panties—just two, just for a second—ran them along the soaked cleft of my cunt from top to bottom, brought them to her mouth when she came out, and sucked them slowly, eyes half-lidded, staring straight at me while the elevator started moving again.

“That’s fucking delicious,” she murmured very softly, almost to herself.

I blushed right up to my ears. I didn’t know where to look. In the foggy mirror at the back I saw a blurry version of myself with flushed cheeks, my tits rising and falling inside the dress, and my breathing a little faster than usual.

Two floors lower, the clasp gave way for the third time.

This time neither of us said anything. Lorena looked at me. I looked at her. In that look there was an entire question, stated with absolute clarity, and I nodded without speaking, not entirely knowing what I was saying yes to, but feeling it with more than enough certainty.

She stopped the elevator.

She knelt in front of me.

And this time there was no pretext at all.

Her hands went straight to my thighs, pushing them apart to make room, and her fingers found the waistband of my panties. She pulled them down slowly, centimeter by centimeter, until they were around my ankles. I felt the cold air of the cabin on my exposed skin, and also on my soaked cunt, and that contrast sent a shiver through me that Lorena must have noticed because she smiled.

Lorena took a moment to look. Just look. She kept her face a handspan from my cunt, breathing slowly, watching how it glistened, how the lips opened on their own, how the wetness slipped a little down my thigh. That calm, focused attention, with no urgency, made me tremble more than anything else that had happened up to then.

“I’ve been imagining this cunt for two years,” she said, never taking her eyes off it. “And it’s better than I imagined.”

I didn’t know what to answer. It wasn’t necessary.

Then she put her fingers to work.

She started with just one, her middle finger, sliding it through the slit up and down, spreading the wetness, coating herself properly before going in. When she thrust it in, she did it all the way with one clean push, and I had to grip the elevator handrail with both hands. She pulled it out and pushed it back in, first slowly and then faster, curling the finger upward inside me, looking for something. When she found it, she let out a small sound of approval in her throat and added another finger. Both going in and out with a wet slapping sound that echoed in the closed elevator cabin, impossible to disguise. Her thumb found my clit at the same time and began working it in tight circles.

There was no clumsiness in her movements, no tentative searching. She knew exactly what she was doing and how to do it. She found the exact spot without looking for it, established a rhythm, and I took less than a minute to follow it with my hips, without thinking, without deciding. My body made its own decisions. I pushed against her hand, I fucked her with the fingers she was thrusting into me, and she let me do it, still, letting me ride her.

At the same time, her free mouth reached my tits. With her other hand she unfastened the bra completely, tugged the dress down to free them, and devoted each one the attention it deserved: tongue, lips, teeth with exactly the right pressure, skirting pain without crossing into it. She sucked one nipple with her whole mouth, tugged with her teeth just before letting go, moved to the other, and meanwhile her fingers never stopped going in and out of my cunt. I had one hand gripping her hair and the other over my mouth when the first orgasm hit, folding me forward in a jolt that forced me to grab her shoulders to keep from falling. I felt myself clench around her fingers, milk them inside me, a gush of hot wetness slipping out and soaking her wrist.

Lorena didn’t stop.

She kept up with her fingers and lowered her head, slowly. Her tongue reached where her hands had been, and what followed was completely different: slower, more patient, building a second wave layer by layer. She spread my cunt lips apart with her thumbs, left my clit exposed and started licking it with the tip of her tongue in short, regular strokes, never changing the rhythm, never giving an inch. Every so often she dipped down to bury her whole tongue inside me, pulled it out slick with my juices, and went back to my clit. Her fingers went in and out meanwhile, two, then three, stretching me wider. She learned my rhythm with a speed that surprised me, knew when to speed up and when to stop just before the edge, when to close her lips around my clit and suck gently, when to release it and go back to licking.

“Come in my mouth,” she murmured against me, and the vibrations of her voice went straight where they needed to go. “Come on, my love. Give it all to me.”

When I finally came a second time, I bit down on my knuckles to keep from making a sound and felt my legs open on their own, my hips thrusting forward against her face, and her letting me, pressing closer, swallowing it all. When she finally stopped and lifted her head, her chin and cheeks were shining, and she had a calm smile I’d never seen on her face before.

It took me almost two minutes to manage anything coherent. My legs were shaking so hard I had to lean against the elevator wall while she, never taking her eyes off me, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and then sucked her fingers one by one.

“I don’t know what just happened,” I said at last, not especially original.

Lorena slowly got to her feet and looked at me with a calm that contrasted with everything that had come before.

“What was supposed to happen,” she replied.

And there was something in her tone that sounded like she’d been waiting a long time to be able to say exactly that.

***

We didn’t go to the market.

We went up to Lorena’s apartment and didn’t leave until nightfall. In those hours I learned things about my own body that the previous thirty-two years had not taught me. I fucked her with my tongue on her bed, clumsy at first, better after, learning to read her hips the way she had read mine. She rode my face sitting on top of me, leaning against the headboard, and taught me to lick her clit like that, from below, with her setting the pace. I fucked myself with her fingers until I lost count of how many times I came. I discovered what it was to eat another woman’s ass and I also discovered that I liked it. Lorena was patient, methodical, unhurried. She had that uncommon ability to read what you needed before you knew it yourself, and she acted accordingly without making a fuss.

It was already night when we were lying in her bed with our legs entwined, still naked, the sheets soaked underneath us, staring at the ceiling in silence. I asked her whether she had planned the bra incident.

“The first failure was real,” she said. “The second and third times, I didn’t exactly put much effort into fixing it properly.”

I laughed. So did she. It was the first time all day that I’d truly laughed.

We’ve been together for more than a year now. The whole building knew before we did, I suppose, because in a place like this nobody keeps a secret for more than forty-eight hours. The older neighbors look at us with that particular mix of disapproval and curiosity belonging to people who don’t fully understand the situation but don’t want to miss the details either.

I don’t care. I’ve never slept better in my life. And I’ve never been fucked better either.