My Neighbor Discovered the Woman I Hide at Home

I had been living for more than six years in a plain, ordinary house at the back of a gated community. Luck had given me something I valued more than any luxury: I didn’t have neighbors pressed up against me on either side. That privacy was what let me bring Lorena out, the woman I keep inside me and who only exists when I’m alone.

My luck ran out soon enough. A family invited some acquaintances to move into the community, and the house they chose was right next door. It was a young couple with two small children. He had a masculine air that was hard to ignore. She carried hips and an ass I didn’t admire: I envied them. Feeling all men look at you as you walk by was exactly what I dreamed of experiencing someday.

I work for myself from home, so I can go days without ever stepping outside. I’m married, but I’m Lorena in secret, in the gaps left by my routine. In my short skirt, heels, and wig, I take care of the housework and finally feel the way I’m supposed to feel.

One afternoon, after doing the laundry, it started raining without warning. I was dressed as Lorena and, out of habit from being used to being alone, I ran out into the patio to collect the clothes. That was when I heard it: my neighbor’s window slamming shut. I got scared, dropped the garments on the ground, and rushed back into the house with my heart racing.

I stood there shaking, wondering whether he, his wife, or one of the children had seen me. I changed clothes just in case and kept going with my day as best I could.

Several weeks went by with nothing happening, so I ended up forgetting the scare. When I’m Lorena, I usually give myself pleasure with a toy I hide in a drawer, riding it while I watch videos where the man talks dirty to the woman. With my headphones on, I imagine that woman is me and answer him through moans.

I have to confess I’m loud. I get turned on imagining myself dominated, humiliated, used. In my fantasies I always repeat the same phrases: “I love your cock,” “I want to be your bitch,” “fuck your whore,” “fill my mouth.” I say them through moans that, I’ve been told before, sound delicious to a man’s ear.

***

One afternoon, right after an orgasm that made me scream “make me your whore!” with all my strength, I was lying on the bed, the toy still inside me, catching my breath. The doorbell rang. I sat up sharply, threw on a T-shirt, and looked out from the upstairs window. It was the new neighbor, with whom I had barely exchanged a polite hello.

“Lend me some tools,” he said from downstairs.

“Yes, I’ll come down,” I replied.

I changed in a hurry and left Lorena’s clothes tossed on the bed. When I opened the door, he looked at me with a half smile.

“I think I caught you busy.”

I didn’t immediately notice he had used the feminine. I told him I wasn’t doing anything important and asked what tool he needed.

“Are you with someone?” he asked before answering.

“No, I’m alone.”

He chuckled softly, looked me up and down, and snapped the word like a whip:

“You’re a slut.”

He said it with such a contemptuous, humiliating tone that I was left speechless. My face burned and I knew I’d turned red as a tomato. He didn’t add anything else.

“I’ll bring your tools back later,” he said, already walking away from my door.

***

The next day it was time to do laundry again. I had no desire to be Lorena, so I went out to the patio dressed normally. While I was hanging things up, a voice shouted from the same window that had slammed shut that rainy afternoon:

“Slut!”

I turned on instinct. Our eyes met, he laughed, and shut the window. I felt strange. On one hand I was boiling with anger; on the other, I felt an excitement I couldn’t deny. And I confirmed something: he knew. I wasn’t sure whether he had heard me moaning, seen me dressed as a woman, or both. But he knew something.

A few days later I went to the supermarket, and when I crossed the gate of the community, we ran into each other head-on.

“Good afternoon,” I said politely.

“Slut,” I heard him answer.

I didn’t stop or respond. I kept walking with my eyes on the ground.

The next time we crossed paths I was heading to the hardware store. He planted himself in front of me and, in a low voice charged with contempt, repeated:

“Slut.”

I lowered my head and tried to go around him. He grabbed my arm, in the way women are held in harassment stories, and pulled me back toward him.

“That’s how I like you. Head down, submissive. —His voice dropped even lower—. When I say slut, I’m talking to you. Look at me.”

I lifted my eyes only slightly, without raising my head, until I met his deep, dominant stare.

“That’s it,” he said, letting go of my arm. “I’ll bring your tool back later.”

And he started walking away.

“Keep it,” I managed to shout after him.

He stopped dead. He turned around and walked toward me with such determination that I thought he was going to hit me. He brought his face close to mine.

“I’m bringing it back. End of story.”

We each went our own way. I left trembling, humiliated, my body lit up without fully understanding why.

***

As in any gated community, there’s a group chat where the neighbors coordinate common matters. Getting my number from there was no challenge for him. So I wasn’t surprised to find a message from him one Thursday afternoon.

“Slut —obviously I wasn’t going to start any other way—. Tomorrow, when you’re alone, I’m going to bring your tool back. I want you to buy me a beer. I need to talk to you. I’m coming at nine sharp and I want to see the slut I saw from the window a few weeks ago. That’s an order.”

I didn’t reply. But I left it read.

I felt like I was exploding inside. That man already knew my routine; he knew exactly when I was left alone. And he confirmed what I feared: he had seen me from the window that rainy day. It had always been him. That’s why he called me that.

That night I barely slept. The next morning, as soon as I was left alone, I had a couple of hours to spare before nine. I thought about confronting him, about begging him to leave me in peace. I laughed at myself. Begging him? Who am I kidding? My attitude toward him was pure submission, and pleading would only confirm it.

I don’t drink, so I didn’t have beer at home. I had to go out and buy a six-pack. I didn’t know which kind he liked, so I grabbed the first one I saw and thought: I’m buying beer for the man who calls me slut. The thought alone humiliated and aroused me in equal measure.

Without realizing it, I was already in front of the mirror putting on makeup. Skirt, thong, heels, blouse. I went down to the living room around quarter to nine, trembling with nerves. I looked good, or so I believed: a skirt that barely covered my ass, sky-high heels that put me on my tiptoes, a straight black wig, and a borrowed feminine perfume.

Those were the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Part of me prayed he wouldn’t show up. But when nine o’clock struck, I heard his door slam. My windows have a film that lets light in without letting people see inside, though from inside I can see everything outside. I watched him walk toward my door. Before turning the corner, he stopped and checked his surroundings. He wants privacy, I thought, and that gave me a strange relief.

After making sure nobody was coming, he turned and fixed his gaze on my window. He knew it. He knew I was watching him and he kept staring at the glass as if he could see me through it. Without a single word I understood what he wanted. With my whole body shaking, I opened the door. I heard his quick steps and he entered my house, closing the door behind him.

I stayed there standing, dressed as a woman, staring at the floor. What am I doing? I shouldn’t have dressed like this. But it was too late. He turned and looked me over.

“I knew you were a slut,” he said. “And I’m glad you’re obedient. That makes things easier.”

Things? What things? Or am I so naive I don’t want to understand what’s obvious?

He set the tool on the floor and sat down on the couch with his legs open.

“Look at me, slut.”

He had said it many times, but dressed as Lorena it felt completely different. In front of him I felt like a real woman. It took effort to hold his gaze, but I did.

“Turn around.”

As femininely as I could and with my legs shaking, I turned slowly. I had never done anything like it: a man looking at me with desire while I looked like a girl. The arousal kept rising inside me without restraint, though curiously my sex was still asleep. I was thankful for that. In Lorena’s role, I didn’t want to feel like a man. I wanted to be her.

When I finished turning, I faced him again. He was smiling.

“And my beer? Bitch.”

I had completely forgotten. I ran to the fridge and came back with a can. He had called me “bitch” with the same tone he used for the other word.

“Open it,” he ordered.

I opened it clumsily and handed it to him. Then he stood up, pulled down his pants and underwear together, and took hold of his already hard cock with his hand.

“Look, slut. This is what you want, right?”

He shook it in front of me. I looked at it before I could stop myself and swallowed. It wasn’t huge, but it was so rock hard the veins stood out on it. He snatched the beer from my hand just as my eyes were fixed downward, and sat back down with his legs open, pointing to it without saying a word.

***

I got the message. I knelt down. My legs almost gave out, and before I even thought about it I was already in front of his sex.

“Kiss my cock.”

I did.

“Kiss my balls.”

I did.

“Slut,” he said again.

I didn’t know what to do and just looked at him. Without my seeing it coming, he slapped me so hard a tear slipped out.

“Answer. I already told you that when I say slut, I’m talking to you. Slut!”

“Yes, sir,” I murmured, my voice breaking, on the verge of tears.

He burst out laughing at the sight of me like that.

“Fuck, this is going to be amazing.”

He finished the beer in one gulp and asked for another. I went to get it, praying six would be enough. When I came back and opened it, he kept staring at me. I saw a drop gleaming at the tip of his cock and understood. I knelt and kissed his sex and his balls without waiting for an order.

“That’s it, slut. You’re finally starting to understand your place. Now suck me.”

For the first time in my life I put a real cock in my mouth. It filled me completely, I couldn’t close my lips around it, and its taste was indescribable. But more than pleasure, what I felt was humiliation: dressed as a woman, on my knees, servicing a real man, not my drawer toys.

His hand pressed on the back of my neck until his pelvis touched my nose. He thrust up and down while I heard him drinking the beer I myself had bought and poured for him. All voluntary. The humiliation melted me.

“Turn around, slut,” he said suddenly.

I had forgotten: the window lets people see out. Another neighbor was passing by in the street, completely unaware of what was happening inside. The idea of being seen in that position made me nervous and humiliated, and he knew it. That’s why he made me turn around.

Suddenly he stood up, let the empty can fall, and shoved his cock into my mouth, gripping my head with both hands. He started fucking my mouth with brutal force. My hands clutched his thighs, trying to push him away so I wouldn’t suffocate, but he yanked me deeper again and again, down to the back of my throat.

“This is what you wanted, right? I heard you scream that day. I knew it was you. You must’ve been sticking things up your ass and that’s why you were moaning like a slut.”

So he didn’t just see me: he heard me too. How careless I was. And now I’m paying the price.

***

He ripped it out of my mouth. I coughed and wiped the drool away. He took me by the arm, just like that time, and made me go around the couch until he had me bent over the backrest, facing the window. The clatter of my heels thrilled me. He shoved me forward. My skirt gave way and left my ass exposed. He gave me a smack I still remember burning, and a cry slipped out of me without permission.

“What a gorgeous ass,” he said, pulling my thong down to my thighs and spreading my cheeks.

How can a man say this whose wife has a body I envy?

He put his fingers in my mouth, pulled them out, and without warning shoved one into my ass. I let out a whimper.

“Stand up, slut.”

I straightened as best I could, with his finger still inside me, and he marched me around the room guiding me only with that pressure, while my heels clicked in short, forced steps. The perfect scene for him.

We returned to the corner of the couch. He bent me over again, pulled his fingers out, and without the slightest delicacy pushed his cock all the way inside me. I couldn’t help screaming, much less femininely than I would have wanted. It hurt like hell and he laughed, holding my hips so I couldn’t get away.

“Now, slut, you’re going to find out what a man is and where your place is. This is your new life.”

He was thrusting in and out so hard my whole body shook.

“Look straight ahead, bitch! Look straight ahead!”

I couldn’t stop moaning, and this time the moans weren’t fake like when I did it alone. They were real, unavoidable. When I finally managed to look forward, I understood everything.

“Oh no.”

The neighbor was passing by in the street again. He couldn’t see anything, but I could, bent over with a man fucking me from behind, watching him walk past. I felt fragile, helpless, broken inside, and I ended up crying while I was being fucked. It had nothing to do with my fantasies: the pain and the pleasure were enormous, and so was the humiliation. Was this really what I wanted?

My tears, instead of stopping him, excited him even more. He laughed and sped up.

“Now say all those things you like saying, slut. Say them. Scream them, bitch.”

It wasn’t the same saying them now. My words came out choked between moans, but I couldn’t refuse. It was already too late. I tried to repeat the phrases that until that day had been my favorites, without fully knowing what they meant.

“Make me your slut, I want to be your bitch, put it in me, I love your cock, fuck your bitch, fill me with cum.”

Saying them while he fucked me with everything he had drove me, without mercy, into my first real anal orgasm. I lost control completely and screamed louder than ever.

“No, no, please, oh, I love it, I love your cock, I want to be your slut, make me your slut please”—the last came out between a scream and a moan, a sound I had never heard myself make.

My sex emptied itself without daring to harden, as if it were paying respect to the only man in the room.

***

He kept going while I let myself be used, fading away. Then the moment came: he yanked it out, dropped me to my knees as best he could, shoved it into my mouth, and unloaded all his semen inside me.

“Swallow it, bitch. All of it, or I won’t fuck you again.”

Was that a threat? I swallowed what I could, though his cock was still left with traces. Sweating, he collapsed back onto the couch and asked for another beer.

“Hurry, slut. I need you to clean it.”

I ran to the fridge, the thong tangled around my ankles. I opened the can for him, handed it over, and as soon as he took it, I knelt without being told and started cleaning his cock with my mouth.

“Now you’re my slut,” he said. “I’ve marked you with my cum. You’re going to come lick my balls, beg me to fuck you, and even thank me for today. You’ll see.”

I didn’t answer. What could I say?

“Another beer,” ordered the one who was already calling himself my owner.

I stood and repeated my new ritual. When I returned, without thinking, I knelt and surprised myself by kissing his balls, exactly as he had just told me to. Humiliation ran through me again. With no orders coming, I kept kissing, licking, and caressing in silence.

Little by little he got hard again. He stood up suddenly and started fucking my mouth again. Doesn’t this man ever get tired? He groaned and ordered me to open wide: he was going to fill my mouth again. But then he added something else:

“Don’t swallow it.”

He came from close up, without pushing all the way in, and still nothing was left outside. I was amazed by how much he shot out for the second time. I, on my knees, mouth open and full, took it all. He wiped his cock on my cheek.

“D-o-n’t-s-w-a-l-l-o-w-i-t. Did you hear me?” he repeated, slow and threatening.

I nodded. I stayed in that position while he got dressed. He went to the refrigerator, took one last beer, opened it in front of me, let a little run down my face, and took a sip.

“Look at me,” he ordered. He smiled. “Slut, next time lock that thing up in a cage.”

And without saying anything else, he left my house and closed the door.

I didn’t know what to do. I had no orders. What if he comes back? I stayed like that for a few minutes until I couldn’t hold it anymore and swallowed it. I climbed onto the couch and fell asleep, with my thong around my ankles, used.

When I woke up, I remembered everything, smiled, and couldn’t help sending him a message with just one word: “Thanks.”

His reply came right away:

“I bet the slut swallowed my cum.”