Masturbation

I went to the bathroom on a night with no electricity, convinced I was alone in the house. A phone light lit up the kitchen and I understood why the two of them had been acting so strange.

We happened to meet in the elevator by chance. She was carrying boxes and I had my hands free. I agreed to help her without knowing that storage room would close with both of us inside.

Five cousins, one friend, and a secluded sauna. That send-off was going to start in a jacuzzi with two mouths taking turns on my cock and end at dawn.

I opened the door convinced it was my husband. I was in my underwear, hair messy, and barefoot. When I saw who it was, I knew I wouldn’t be able to shut it in time.

That morning I decided to go out with nothing under my skirt. I didn’t want to be touched, only watched. And in the second-floor ice cream shop, someone noticed.

I saw the bus driver watching us in the rearview mirror and, instead of covering up, I let him pull down my top. At three in the morning, my ex and I were a free show.

The beer had made us affectionate and the terrace seemed empty. Until I saw the flash of binoculars trained on us from the hill.

I was half asleep, my nightgown hiked to my waist, when I saw the silhouette of the man leaning into my window in the vanity mirror.

I’d waited all summer for the cove to empty. It was deserted, yes—but moans behind the dunes drew me in, and I couldn’t help becoming a voyeur.

Whenever I enter a fitting room, I leave the curtain slightly open. The woman watching never knows I’m looking for her—and almost always, one of them plays along.

The beds squeaked in sync. If she moaned, my girlfriend got louder. It was a silent competition between four people separated by a few inches of drywall.

No one expected me to come back so soon. What I saw in that garage—my mother, shirtless, with her fists wrapped—could never be unseen.

When I realized that what turned me on wasn’t looking but being watched, I sought out the empty shed behind my house on New Year’s Eve and deliberately dropped my panties.

I offered her my seat when she got on, and a few stops later her hand was already reaching for my fly while the nurse across from us watched without hiding it.

I got out of the car convinced the house was empty. Then I heard moans upstairs and turned on the bedroom camera.

It was two in the morning, I opened the window looking for air, and saw her lying on the sofa across the way, with no idea anyone was watching her.

I thought the nap would leave the beach empty. When I returned from the sea, she had one hand inside her bikini, eyes closed, unaware I was watching her.

I went into the bathroom with Camila’s underwear still warm in my hands. I never imagined that minutes later her mother would be kneeling in front of me.

I’d been up all night studying with coffee, until a squeak in the wall beside me made me lower my pillow and realize who was making that noise.

I went downstairs barefoot for a drink of water and found her sprawled on the sofa, her legs braced against the backrest. She never turned her head. I didn’t move.