The Neighbor Who Watched Me from His Balcony

That Wednesday had been one of those days when everything happens too fast. We’d left early with the girls to look for costumes for a party, and on the way I ran into Rubén, an older man I’d already seen once on public transport. It wasn’t the first time we’d crossed paths, and when he called me that noon to say he was ten minutes away, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to say no.

We met near the Lagunilla market. He hugged me from behind between the stalls, gave me a kiss before I could say anything, and his hands were already acting on their own. One slipped under my blouse and squeezed a breast over my bra, the other slid down to my crotch and squeezed me over my shorts until he made me open my legs a little right there in the street. That was Rubén: no preamble, no asking permission. He told me to invent an excuse with the girls so I could slip away, and I did.

***

The hotel was three blocks away. We went up without speaking, and the moment he closed the door he shoved me against the wall, grabbed my face with one hand, and pushed his tongue deep into my mouth. With his other hand he was already yanking down my shorts and underwear in one pull. He tore them off. Literally: I heard the seam rip and felt the fabric give against my hip.

—I’m going to fuck you the way you owe me from last time —he whispered in my ear, and he slapped my ass hard enough to make me moan against his neck.

He made me kneel. He unbuttoned his pants and pulled his cock out in front of my face: thick, dark, the tip already soaked. He grabbed my hair and shoved it all the way down my throat in one thrust. I coughed, my eyes filled with tears, and he didn’t let up for a second. He pulled it out to watch the spit hang from my chin and then shoved it back in, setting the rhythm with tugs on my hair. Between thrusts I sucked his balls, licked his shaft from top to bottom, ran my tongue over the frenulum until he started cursing.

—That’s it, mamacita, that’s how you suck my dick. Swallow it all, don’t leave me anything sticking out.

He lifted me off the floor and threw me face-down on the bed. He spread my legs with his knee and sank into me in one motion. I felt him split me in two: the whole cock all the way in, his balls hitting my clit, his pelvis crushing my ass. He started fucking me hard from the first minute, without mercy, with that savage cadence of men who aren’t trying to make you enjoy it, only to make sure you can take it. I was screaming into the mattress, biting the pillow, begging him for more.

—Harder, Rubén, break me, don’t hold anything back.

He grabbed my hair, arched my back, and kept driving into me like that, on all fours, one hand wrapped around my neck without hurting me and the other squeezing my waist. The room filled with the wet sound of his cock going in and out of my dripping pussy, my broken moans, his grunts like an old animal that still knows exactly what it’s doing. I came the first time like that, face against the sheets, shaking around his dick while he kept pounding me without mercy.

He turned me over. He took my legs, put them over his shoulders, and started fucking me again from above, folding me almost in half. From there he watched my face while he pushed himself into places nothing should ever go. He sucked my tits, bit my nipples, spat in my mouth and made me swallow before kissing me. It was filthy, and I was dripping with pleasure.

—Look at this little cunt swallowing me, slut —he said—. Look how it’s eating me up.

And I watched, head lifted, how his cock disappeared between my wet lips, glossy with my wetness, going in and out at a rhythm that was no longer human. I came again. And again. By the time he turned me over once more and rode me like a bitch against the edge of the bed, I no longer felt my legs.

He came inside. I could feel his cock throbbing in hot bursts, filling my pussy until it overflowed, his cum slipping out between my legs while he kept pushing until he got out every last drop. When he pulled out, I stayed there, ass up and pussy open, dripping his load onto the sheet. He gave me a satisfied slap on the ass.

—Clean me up —he ordered.

I turned around and took him into my mouth, soft, salty, still tasting both of us. I licked him all over, sucked his balls, ran my tongue over his shaft until I left him clean. He was stroking my head like a happy dog.

We spent a while longer like that. He recovered, fucked me again, this time slowly, spooning me, biting my neck while he slid inside me as if he wanted to put me to sleep with his cock. I came over his hand when he brought his fingers down to my clit. He finished a second time on my stomach, breathing raggedly, splattering me from my navel to between my tits.

When I left, I was wearing shorts he’d left in my bag because he’d torn mine. In one pocket there was a folded bill and a note that didn’t need a signature. I put them on, ordered a taxi, and went to Camila’s place with that heat trapped in my body, my thighs still sticky inside and my cheeks still flushed.

***

Camila lived two streets from the school. When I got there, only Fernanda was in; the others had already left. We bought some beers at the corner shop, came back, and settled into the little rooftop laundry area to talk. The sun was already going down, and the afternoon had that warm temperature that makes you want to stay put.

We were doing that when the neighbor next door leaned out from his balcony.

He was an older man, probably around sixty. Not very tall, dark-skinned, with gray hair combed to one side. He wore a plaid shirt under a knit sweater and dress pants, as if he’d left the office thirty years ago and never quite finished changing. He had glasses with a cord and a way of looking at us that didn’t hide a damn thing.

He greeted us with a nod. We said hello. He asked if he could join us. Camila told him his wife might get upset, and he answered with the calm certainty of men who’ve spent many years doing exactly what they want: his wife didn’t get home until night.

Fernanda stood up and went inside. Camila followed her in. And I stayed there, beer halfway to my mouth, looking at him from below.

He told me he had more at his place if I wanted.

I smiled. I told him if he invited me, I’d be happy to go.

***

We went into Camila’s house. Fernanda was in the living room with her phone in hand, waiting for her father to call. Camila pulled me into the hallway and told me in a low voice that the neighbor was known in the building for making propositions. That he’d told her things more than once. That she was tempted but scared because he lived so close.

—And you? —she asked me.

—I’m game —I told her.

Her face changed. She got serious, then curious, then excited in a way she tried to hide and couldn’t. She told me that if we went together, she’d feel calmer. That between the two of us we could control the situation better.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had no intention of controlling anything. I was going to let myself get fucked.

Fernanda got the call from her father just as Camila was going upstairs to change. We walked her to the door, all three of us in shorts and crop tops, and Fernanda’s father arrived with an angry face that melted the second he saw us. We said goodbye smiling, and he left with his daughter very pleased to have met us.

When we closed the door, the neighbor was walking along the sidewalk with a shopping bag. He waited for us at the entrance and showed us the beers. He said he’d be waiting whenever we wanted.

Camila and I exchanged a look. She nodded.

***

We knocked on his door five minutes later. The man —Don Rodrigo, he told us his name was— opened with a slow smile, the kind of smile a man gives when he doesn’t want to show he’s been waiting for this all afternoon.

The living room was spacious and tidy. It had the dark wood furniture that comes into style once per generation and never gets bought again. On the little table there was a tray with beers and a bowl of peanuts. He asked us to sit and took a seat opposite us, on the other sofa, and watched us with that calmness of someone who knows he doesn’t need to rush.

We talked a little. He asked what we studied, where we were from. His answers to our questions were short and filled with that gentle irony men have after they’ve seen a lot. He complimented us naturally, without exaggeration. He told us we were the prettiest girls who’d entered that living room in years.

Camila asked him to put on some music. Don Rodrigo sprang up.

He put on salsa.

He was a good dancer. He held our waists, spun us, caught us back against his chest with a firm hand on our backs. Between turns and step changes, his hands settled in places that were not accidental. He slid his hand down to my ass and squeezed it hard, with no attempt to hide it, and I felt his cock already hard pressing against my thigh over his pants. He slipped his hand under Camila’s crop top and pinched a nipple until she let out a moan. She heated up fast: I’d known her for months and had never seen her like that, with the face of someone finally doing something she’d wanted to do for a long time.

She pushed him onto the sofa and sat on top of him, straddling him, rubbing her pussy over his shorts against the bulge in his pants.

I stayed standing for a few seconds, watching them. Don Rodrigo called me over with his hand.

I settled on the other side, on the arm of the couch. He pulled us both into his arms. He kissed us in turn, with tongue, without shame, going from one mouth to the other with a hand on each of our necks. He slipped one hand inside Camila’s shorts and rubbed her pussy right there: I could see her face, the exact moment her shoulders loosened and she started moving against those fingers. With his other hand he slid down inside my bra and kneaded my breast with his whole palm, gripping me with the confidence of men who aren’t in a hurry because they’ve already learned haste ruins things.

We were like that when Camila’s phone rang.

Her parents. Two streets away.

Camila’s face was a map. In two seconds she went from arousal to panic. She got up, adjusted her clothes clumsily, and looked at me with a mix of apology and relief I didn’t fully understand. Don Rodrigo, who processed it all in a second, told us to climb out over the rooftop area.

There was a folding ladder in the back. Camila climbed up, I helped her down the other side, and she ran home without looking back.

I went back into Don Rodrigo’s house.

***

I went into the bathroom near the entrance. I heard the front door close, footsteps in the living room, the click of the stereo. When I peered out, he was stretched out on the sofa with the phone in his hand and his eyes closed. He’d taken his cock out of his pants and was stroking it slowly, with the resignation of someone who’d already given up on the afternoon. He had a bigger dick than it looked like with his clothes on: thick at the base, veins marked, the head red and glossy with a bead already beading out.

I went over without making a sound. He jumped when I stood beside him.

—I’m not leaving you hanging like this —I told him.

I lay down over him and we kissed. His hands moved over me as if he were reading me with his fingers, slowly, learning every curve. I raised my arms and he took off my blouse. He unclasped my bra and let it slide down my arms. My tits spilled against his chest and he squeezed them with both hands, pinched my nipples, leaned in and sucked one breast all the way, his tongue circling the nipple until he left it hard as a stone.

—I’ve been watching you from the balcony for weeks —he whispered in my ear—. Every time you came in to Camila’s place in those little shorts, I got hard. You can’t imagine how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about this moment.

I unbuttoned his pants and took off his sweater along with his shirt. He had the belly of a man who eats well, doesn’t exercise, and doesn’t care. A chest with some gray hair. He looked up at me with that mix of disbelief and desire men have when something exceeds what they expected.

I went down his body.

I kissed his chest, ran my tongue over one nipple, bit his stomach softly, pressed my nose into his navel. I pulled down his pants and boxers and his cock sprang out in front of my face, hard, throbbing, with a thin thread of precum hanging from the tip. I took it in my hand —my fingers barely closed around the shaft— and licked my lip before looking at him.

He nodded so slowly it almost looked like he wasn’t moving.

I ran my tongue from the base to the tip and heard him let out the breath he’d been holding. I sucked his balls one by one, taking them into my mouth, licking them with a flat tongue while I stroked his cock with my hand. I worked my way up his shaft, tracing a vein with the tip of my tongue, up to the head, where I licked the drop shining there before taking him in whole.

I took him into my mouth little by little, opening my throat, feeling his thighs tense and his breathing come apart. His skin was hot, his cock hard and throbbing. I started sucking him, my head moving, lips sealed tight around the shaft, tongue working the underside, while I looked up at him with wide eyes.

He covered his face with his hands. Fingers spread so he could still see me.

—Jesus, mamacita, you suck me so fucking well. Look at your mouth full of my cock. Just look at how you take it all in.

At times he tried to control himself, and at times he took my head in his hands and gently pushed me toward his pelvis, until he made me take the head down my throat. He filled my mouth with saliva, let it drip over his balls, and then pushed himself back in. He whispered things to me. That it had been a long time since he’d felt something like this. That he couldn’t believe it. That he loved watching me swallow his cock, how hard I worked to take him deeper, how the spit ran down my chin and onto my tits. Then he stopped talking and just moaned, more and more broken, until his whole body trembled and I had to pull him out of my mouth so he wouldn’t cum.

—Not yet, old man —I told him, looking up at him with his cock resting against my cheek—. Not yet.

***

I let him stand up. He kissed me standing, squeezing my ass with both hands. He unfastened my shorts and pulled them down along with my underwear with a slowness that wasn’t clumsiness but attention. I was already wet, soaked and hot, my legs open almost without me noticing. He slid two fingers straight in, without warning, and moved them around inside me until he dragged a moan out of me.

—You’re dripping, mamacita. Look how you’re soaking my fingers.

He pulled them out and ran them over my lips. I sucked them, looking into his eyes, while he laughed softly.

He pressed me back against his body, his cock settling between my ass cheeks, and slid it forward, rubbing it over the lips of my pussy before seeking the entrance. He entered me slowly, both of us standing, leaning over the arm of the sofa. I felt the head go in first, opening me, and then all his length pushing to the deepest point. A dry moan escaped me. He had to stop for a moment, because he was thick and it took me a second to get used to him.

—That’s it, slut, right there. Nice and slow. Look at how it goes in all the way.

He started sliding in and out with a slow cadence, brutal in its precision, while he licked my neck, bit my shoulder, and squeezed my tits with open hands. One hand slid down to my clit and started circling it while he fucked me. I turned my head to find his mouth, to suck his tongue, to swallow his gasps again. The sofa creaked under us. My pussy made that wet, obscene sound you only hear when you’re really soaked.

—Tell me how you like it —he whispered in my ear—. Tell me.

—Harder, old man —I begged—. Fuck me harder. Put it all in.

And he did. We climbed toward the first orgasm without hurrying. He fucked me with that cadence of men who’ve learned it isn’t about getting there fast, it’s about making sure the other person doesn’t want you to stop. When I felt the orgasm coming, I pushed my hips back and he sped up, driving deeper, harder, until I came gripping the back of the sofa, screaming into the armrest, shaking around his cock while he kept going in and out, soaking me inside and out, my thighs running with wetness down to my knees.

He carried me in his arms and we went upstairs to the bedroom.

***

The bed was big and the window looked out onto the street. He opened the blinds a little before lying down. I sucked his cock for a few more minutes because I wanted to, because I liked the way he stroked my hair while I did it, because I liked feeling how much harder he got between my lips and how he tried not to cum right away. I wet it with spit, ran it over my tits, rubbed it against my cheek, shoved it down my throat until tears sprang to my eyes. Then I climbed on top of him from behind, with my feet on the bed so I could move however I wanted, and I slowly worked him inside me again, feeling the delicious pressure when he finally filled me completely.

I started slowly, going up and down, feeling him reach all the way in each time I let myself drop. He watched my whole ass bounce against his pelvis, my cheeks opening and closing around his cock, and he started spanking me. One slap, two, three, each one harder than the last.

—More, old man —I said without turning my face—. Harder. Hit me.

He gave me more. My hips slammed against his, the mattress sank with every thrust, and his moans filled the room. I leaned forward to touch my clit while I rode him, squeezed his thighs with my legs, offered him my ass and pussy at the same time while he held on to my waist to set the rhythm. He ran a wet finger over my asshole and started circling it softly there, not pushing in, just threatening, and it tightened everything inside me with pleasure.

—Someday —he said in a rough voice—. Someday this little ass too.

I turned to face him without pulling out. I rode him like that, looking at him. He took my tits in his hands and watched my eyes while I moved. He had that face men make when they still can’t quite believe what they’re living. He gripped my hips, marking the rhythm with his hands, pushing me down every time he thrust up. Each stroke shook my tits in his face and he caught them with his mouth, sucking my nipples, nibbling them until they turned red.

—I’m going to fill you up, slut —he told me in my ear—. I’m going to empty myself inside you. I’m going to flood that little cunt until it runs down your legs.

—Yeah, old man —I answered, not stopping my movement—. Fill it. Give me all your cum. Empty yourself inside me. Fill my pussy with your seed.

His words and mine blended into something that wasn’t conversation but something else, dirtier, hotter, deeper. I sped up. He grabbed my ass with both hands and started thrusting up into me, driving in so hard the headboard hit the wall. I braced my hands on his chest and let him fuck me, moaning over him, feeling the second orgasm climb from my pussy up to the nape of my neck.

I came around his cock, clamping down on him inside with those long spasms I couldn’t control. And he, right after, came inside me. I could feel his cock throbbing with each burst, filling me, warming me from within, and he kept pushing to get every last drop into me.

We stayed still for a moment. He was breathing hard. I could feel him pulsing inside, hot and alive, while he kept holding my hips as if he didn’t want to let go. When I slowly lifted myself, I felt his cum start to seep out inside me and run down my thighs. I ran my tongue over his chest, picked up a drop that had slipped from my pussy with two fingers, and sucked them in front of him, and he smiled at me like I was the best thing that had happened to him in weeks.

Maybe that was true.

***

We went into the bathroom. Hot water, both of us together under the spray. I soaped my tits while he watched me and grabbed his cock with his hand. His erection came back fast. He looked at me with one eyebrow raised, saying nothing, letting me decide.

I got down on my knees.

I took him in my mouth with even more hunger than the first time, looking him in the eyes. He leaned against the wall and let the water run over his shoulders while I sucked him slowly and then fast and then slowly again, licking his head, tracing his shaft with my tongue, taking him in until he brushed my throat and pulling him out to take him again with hunger. I sucked his swollen balls, ran my tongue between his scrotum and his asshole, swallowed his whole cock again. Water ran down my face, mixed with saliva, and dripped down my chin to my tits. He grabbed my soaked hair and pushed himself deeper, until he made me gag in a way that no longer bothered me.

—What a mouth you have, mamacita. What a throat. I could tell my grandkids about this and they still wouldn’t believe me.

When he thought I couldn’t take any more, he lifted me, turned me against the wall, and drove into me in one hard, deep stroke, splitting me open with a jolt that tore a cry from me. He grabbed my hips and started fucking me there, against the cold tiles, water pouring over us, without rhythm, without patience, just wanting to empty himself now.

He finished in minutes, with a force I wouldn’t have expected from someone his age. He slapped my ass while he came. He called me things in my ear that sounded like praise and insult at the same time —whore, mamacita, pretty little slut, my filthy bitch, my beautiful girl— and I loved them for that. I felt his semen filling me again, hot, thick, leaving my legs weak while he kept thrusting into me until he squeezed out the last shudder. When he pulled out, I saw out of the corner of my eye a white streak running down my thigh before the water carried it away.

We came out of the bathroom satisfied and soaked. He took out two towels and dried me himself, slowly, kissing me on every part. He kissed my still-red tits, passed the towel carefully between my legs, kissed my pelvis. He looked for my clothes, handed them to me gently, and when I finished dressing he took one of his wife’s combs and brushed my hair with that strange tenderness some older men have, that tenderness they don’t know they have until they show it.

He told me he was retired and his wife taught at the university. That she got home late every day. That I could come whenever I wanted.

We went downstairs to the living room. Before opening the door, he went to the drawer in the side table and took out an envelope. He held it out to me without saying anything. I opened it: a wad of bills and a short note that said I’d earned it.

I told him I couldn’t accept it.

He told me I could.

I kept it.

***

He offered to take me home. We went out together into the street, and as I got into his car I saw Camila’s window. She was standing behind the glass, motionless, watching us. I didn’t wave. I got into the car and Don Rodrigo started driving.

We talked during the ride. He asked about school, what I liked, what my life was like. I answered enough to make the conversation feel real. At a traffic light he slid his hand to my thigh, tucked it under my shorts, and touched my pussy, still swollen over my underwear, and smiled when he confirmed I was still soaked.

—This is mine too now —he told me, without taking his hand away—. Right?

—Whenever you want, old man —I told him.

Before letting me out he asked me to come back the following week.

I told him yes.

I went inside. It was a little after seven. I changed clothes in my room, put the envelope at the back of the drawer, and sat for a moment on the bed in silence. I could still feel both their cum mixing inside me, the delicious burn between my legs, Don Rodrigo’s fingerprints on my hips. It had been a very long day. It had also been a very good day.

I still didn’t know the week wasn’t done surprising me.