The Night My Neighbor Obeyed Me Without Conditions

I was about to get into bed when there were three knocks at the door. Soft, nervous, almost apologetic even before bothering me. My body was still loose, the smell of sex clinging to my skin, and I knew the woman who had just left my apartment wasn’t going to be gone long. I wasn’t wrong.

I opened the door and there was Marisa again on the landing, with the same freshly used look I’d left her with half an hour earlier. Her blouse was half undone, her heavy, braless tits rising and falling with each ragged breath, her curly hair a mess. Smudged makeup carved black streaks down her cheeks, and her legs were trembling under her wrinkled skirt.

I looked her over slowly, top to bottom, in no hurry, enjoying the state I’d left her in.

“What is it, Marisa? You want more already? You didn’t have enough before?”

She lowered her gaze to the floor, sobbing softly, her voice broken.

“No… Adrián… please… it’s Bernardo… he went to the supermarket and the police stopped him… he was really drunk… they’ve impounded his car… he’s at the station… I have to go pick him up… I can’t call my son… ”—she swallowed—“please.”

Tears slid down her face, fresh and mingling on her skin. She hadn’t fixed herself up at all, hadn’t made herself presentable to come ask me for a favor. She was desperate, yes, but she was still exactly as I’d ordered her to stay. She had obeyed. She would have gone to bed like that if not for the panic that now had the upper hand.

I stood there sternly in the doorway, blocking the entrance. Then I smiled, my voice low and calm.

“Of course I’m going to pick him up. I’m taking him in my car. But if you want me to go, you’re coming with me. Just like that. No getting yourself ready.”

She lifted her head a little, confused, and I went on.

“You’re coming like that, with your skirt hiked up just enough for me to slip a hand in whenever I feel like it, and your blouse open. Otherwise, call your son. Or stay here and let Bernardo rot in the cell until tomorrow.”

She swallowed. Sobbed harder. But she didn’t say no. She lowered her head and nodded, barely perceptibly.

“Okay… whatever you say… but please, take me… I don’t have anyone else.”

I stepped aside to let her in.

***

I made her come up to my flat instead of going down to hers. I didn’t want her moving around alone, didn’t want her to have even a second to rethink it. I took her into the living room and sat her on the same sofa where I’d had her impaled a little while before.

“Take off your blouse. Show me how you’re going.”

Shaking, she unfastened the remaining buttons. The blouse fell to the floor. Her breasts were exposed, big and heavy, the nipples hard from the cold and from fear. She wasn’t wearing a bra, just as I’d ordered hours earlier.

“Now the skirt. Pull it up to your waist.”

I asked her if she really meant to go like that the whole way, and she nodded, not daring to speak. She pulled her black pleated skirt up until it was like a wide belt. She was left exposed, thick-legged, thighs pressed tight together.

I gave one buttock a gentle slap.

“That’s how you’re going. Blouse open, nothing underneath, skirt hiked up. In the car you sit with your legs open. Every red light, I touch you. And when we get to the station, you stay inside waiting until Bernardo comes out. If he notices anything, you’ll know what to tell him.”

She sobbed, but nodded.

“Okay… but please… don’t let him see me like this.”

I took the car keys.

“Don’t clean yourself up. Not a drop. Let’s go.”

***

I grabbed her by the arm and took her out to the landing. We went down the stairs like that: her blouse open, skirt hiked up, walking close beside me with her head bowed. The building was silent at that hour, but any neighbor who had opened their door would have seen her completely. I think that possibility was part of what made her knees tremble.

We reached the garage. I put her in the passenger seat and spread her legs open at once.

“Open wider. Knees against the glove compartment. Don’t close them for a second the whole way.”

She obeyed, trembling, her hands in her lap trying to cover herself a little. I moved them away.

“Hands on your knees.”

I started the car. We left the underground garage and went out onto the streets of Valencia, empty at that hour, the streetlights reflecting on her skin. First red light, broad avenue, a bit of leftover traffic. I slid my right hand between her thighs without looking at her. She was hot, sensitive, still swollen from before. Two fingers inside, my thumb drawing circles where I knew it would make her tremble.

She gave a muffled moan and instinctively tried to close her legs, but I held them open with my elbow.

“Shhh. Don’t scream, or the people in the car next to us will hear.”

An old Opel had stopped beside us. The driver, a guy about fifty, glanced over and saw her tits out and my hand moving between her legs. Marisa squeezed her eyes shut, red with humiliation, but inside she was clenching and getting wetter. She came silently, a hot strand slipping over my hand and the upholstery.

The light turned green. I accelerated, pulled my fingers out, and put them in her mouth. She sucked them without a word.

***

The second stretch was along the ring road, with traffic flowing. I set the car at cruising speed.

“Touch your tits,” I ordered without taking my eyes off the road. “Knead them. Pinch your nipples until they turn red.”

She obeyed, her trembling hands squeezing her breasts until a moan escaped her. Meanwhile, I slid my hand back in, now three fingers, pumping slowly but deeply. She writhed in the seat, legs spread as wide as they could go, and came again, harder, crying softly.

“Adrián… please… I can’t anymore… I’m losing my mind.”

I gave the inside of her thigh a soft slap.

“Keep touching yourself. Don’t stop until we get there.”

A long red light on an avenue near the station. Slow traffic. I reached around behind her, one finger first, lubricated, then two. She tensed.

“No… not there… it still hurts.”

But she didn’t say “stop.” I pushed in slowly while with my other hand I rubbed her clit. A young couple stared at us from the next lane. She turned her face away, unable to hide anything, and came again, shaking all over. The light changed and I sped up.

***

I parked on a dark side street near the Patraix neighborhood police station. I switched off the engine. Marisa was panting, her legs trembling, her face ruined by tears and makeup.

“Stay here. Legs open, hands on your tits. Don’t move. I’m going in for Bernardo and we’re leaving. If any cop or passerby looks through the window, let them see how obedient you are.”

She sobbed, nodded, her voice shattered.

“Okay… but hurry… I can’t take it anymore.”

I got out of the car and left her there, exposed in the dark.

***

The station was a shabby gray eighties building, with flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of burnt coffee and old sweat. It was past eleven-thirty. At the desk stood a young cop, about thirty, in a spotless uniform and with a completely bored face. On the waiting bench, a couple of drunks handcuffed to the rail and a woman crying in a corner with a sleeping child in her lap.

I walked up with my ID in my hand and a calm voice.

“Good evening. I’ve come to pick up Bernardo. I think they brought him in for drunk driving and impounded his car. He’s my neighbor; his wife asked me to pick him up because she can’t drive.”

The cop looked me over and typed on the computer.

“Bernardo… yes, here he is. Almost a full gram. Vehicle impounded for seventy-two hours, fine, and possible points off his license. He can leave now because he has no priors, but he has to sign the report and come by tomorrow with the bond to get the car back.”

He made me wait ten minutes. In the meantime, I looked out the window toward the street. Marisa was still there, in the passenger seat, with the lights off but a streetlamp illuminating her just enough. Blouse open, skirt hiked up, exactly as I’d left her. From outside she looked like anything but a respectable neighbor waiting for her husband.

Two guys coming out of the station saw her and stopped for a second. One pulled out his phone as if to take a picture, but the other gave him an elbow and they kept walking. She had her head down and her hands over her face, but she wasn’t closing her legs. She obeyed even when she thought no one was telling her to.

***

At last they brought Bernardo out. He came stumbling along, his plaid shirt unbuttoned and smelling of alcohol and stale tobacco before he was even close. He saw me and frowned.

“You? What the fuck are you doing here, kid?”

“Your wife called me. She couldn’t drive, she wasn’t well. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

He muttered something unintelligible, signed the papers without reading them, took the copy of the report, and followed behind me, leaning against the wall a couple of times. The car was fifty meters away, in the dark area. Marisa saw us coming and went rigid. She tried to close her blouse in a hurry, but with trembling hands she failed: one button popped off, and the skirt ended up crooked.

Bernardo, drunk as a skunk, didn’t notice a thing. He walked looking at the ground and mumbling about the car and the garage. I opened the back door.

“Get in the back, Bernardo. Marisa’s sitting up front.”

He dropped into the seat without looking at his wife. He closed his eyes and in less than half a minute he was snoring, filling the car with his alcohol breath.

***

I sat behind the wheel. Marisa was beside me, rigid, trying to cover her tits with crossed arms. I spoke to her softly, in a tone her husband would have heard if he hadn’t been out cold.

“Move your arms. Open your legs again. Like before.”

She looked in the rearview mirror at Bernardo, who was snoring like an animal, and obeyed slowly. Arms at her sides, breasts exposed again, legs open. I started the car.

At the first red light I slid my hand back between her thighs. Two fingers inside, thumb on her clit. She was biting her fist to keep from moaning, eyes closed, tears falling while her husband snored less than a foot away, oblivious to everything.

“Look at him,” I whispered. “Your husband sleeping off his drunk, and a handspan away I’m making you come with my fingers. Tomorrow, when he wakes up hungover, I’m going to fuck you in the kitchen while he has breakfast. And you’ll be going without panties, without a bra, with me still inside you. Understood?”

She nodded frantically. A muffled moan slipped out and she came silently, soaking my hand again.

The ride back was just as intense, if not more. At every stop, at every roundabout, my hand was inside her. She came three more times, shaking, crying from pleasure and shame in equal parts. Bernardo didn’t notice a thing the whole way.

***

We parked in the building’s garage. Bernardo woke halfway.

“Thanks, kid… good night.”

He staggered off toward the elevator without once looking back. Marisa stayed in the car, slick and trembling, her body still jolted by everything that had happened that night. I looked at her.

“Go up to your place behind him. Don’t clean yourself up. Tomorrow at nine, when he goes out to buy cigarettes, I’ll come down for you. And this time I’m going to put it all the way in. No mercy.”

She sobbed, nodded, got out of the car with her skirt crooked, and went up the stairs behind her drunk husband. I stayed a moment longer in the garage, listening to the engine cool, knowing that the next day, as soon as the lobby door rang, she would be waiting for me. Just as obedient. Just as mine.