I Caught Him Spying on Me Through His Bedroom Curtains

I had been living alone for almost half a year in a small residential complex on the outskirts of the city. My breakup with Andrés had been more bitter than I expected, but by then I was beginning to savor the advantages of not having to answer to anyone: eating dinner whenever I felt like it, watching television in my underwear, leaving the dishes in the sink without anyone complaining. And masturbating whenever I wanted, with the door open, without having to pretend I didn’t miss it.

The house across the street had been empty for a couple of months, which gave me a privacy I hadn’t known when I was still living with my boyfriend. The street was quiet, almost dead during the week, and I had grown used to moving through the rooms without thinking much about the curtains.

That afternoon I came home early from work. I stepped onto the balcony and saw a family unloading a moving truck in front of the neighboring house. A middle-aged couple, a little girl of about three hopping along the sidewalk, and a lanky young man carrying boxes with the obedient apathy of children who still live with their parents. I figured he was about twenty-one, twenty-two at most.

I watched them for a while, with the harmless curiosity of someone watching a TV series. There’s something strangely pleasurable about watching other people work when you aren’t obliged to help.

***

I discovered him the following week.

It was a weeknight, and I got home after midnight from dinner with some coworkers. I went into my bedroom, turned on the light, and dropped onto the edge of the bed. I took off my high heels, let out a long sigh, and began to undress.

I shrugged off my jacket and unbuttoned my blouse with the clumsiness of exhaustion. When I lowered the zipper of my skirt and let it fall to the floor, I noticed something: the curtains were wide open. The room looked like an illuminated stage, and across the street, the young man’s bedroom window was the only dark spot on the façade.

I went over to close them. That was when I saw him.

A silhouette behind the glass, frozen, caught in the act. The reflection of the street returned his eyes to me, wide as saucers. Tomás—I’d heard his mother call him that—with his mouth half open, staring at me in my bra as though God himself had sent him a gift.

I yanked the curtains shut. I felt heat rise to my face, half embarrassment, half fury.

“Idiot,” I muttered, not knowing whether I meant him or myself.

I barely slept that night. I kept turning the matter over, replaying every gesture, every inch of skin that had been exposed. It was nothing extraordinary; I hadn’t even taken off my bra, but the idea of having been watched without my consent outraged me. And yet, when I finally slipped beneath the sheets, my hand went on its own to my pussy, finding it wet. I touched myself thinking of those wide-open eyes, the boy’s parted mouth, the way his cock must have shown through his pants while he watched me. I came biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream, two fingers buried to the knuckles and my other hand squeezing my breast. Then I lay still, my sticky palm resting on my belly, hating myself a little and wishing the next accident would come soon.

***

Over the next few days I became a shadow inside my own house. Curtains closed at all hours, dim lights, a silent paranoia that forced me to dress inside the closet, almost in the dark.

And yet I kept watching him.

From the kitchen I saw him helping his mother with dinner. From the balcony I caught him reading a story to his little sister in the front garden. He was a quiet, serious, attentive boy. Nothing like Andrés’s immature intensity; at thirty-three, my ex still collected game consoles and broke promises.

The thought that this barely twenty-year-old boy seemed more mature than my ex-boyfriend made me smile bitterly. It also made me look at him differently.

His father, Don Ricardo, was the opposite: a straight-backed man, impeccably dressed even to take out the trash, with a stern expression. The boy had probably inherited that restrained, almost submissive attitude from him.

***

I saw him again, unintentionally, one Sunday morning.

I woke with the first ray of sunlight, something unusual for a woman who normally slept until eleven on Sundays. I pulled my pajama shirt over the tiny shorts I usually slept in and opened the curtains to take advantage of the natural light.

I glanced absentmindedly at the window across the street. The boy was there too, just out of bed, his hair tousled and a steaming mug in his hands. We looked at each other for a second. I lowered my eyes and carried on with what I was doing.

I tidied the bedroom and then vacuumed the adjoining living room. I went back to the bedroom to change. The closet was right beside the window, and as I rummaged around looking for something comfortable, I couldn’t help looking across the street again.

Tomás had just come out of the shower. He wore a towel knotted around his waist, a slow trickle of water running down his chest. He wasn’t excessively muscular, but he had the firm body of a young man who kept active: defined abs, broad shoulders, fair skin. His brown hair, still wet, fell over his forehead.

I stared openly for several seconds. More than I should have allowed myself.

Then, without warning, he untied the towel.

He stood completely naked in front of his bedroom mirror, giving me a perfect angle. He had a handsome cock even at rest, thick at the base, clean, generous, hanging heavily over a pair of large, tucked-up balls. He passed the towel over his hair lazily, arching his back, and with that movement his cock swung from one thigh to the other like a slow pendulum that left my mouth dry. Maybe he did it on purpose, maybe he didn’t. But my heart raced with an urgency I hadn’t felt since adolescence, and I felt a hot lash between my legs, that dull pulse of my pussy waking all at once.

I wanted to look away. I knew I should. I didn’t.

I watched him lower his hand and scratch his balls absently, hold his cock for a second with his whole palm, the way men do when they’re alone and think no one can see them. It was a small, domestic gesture, and yet it left me imagining how that cock would grow inside his fist if he knew I was watching him, how it would become hard, thick, red at the tip.

When I finally managed to move away from the window, my breathing was ragged, my panties soaked, and my hands were trembling slightly. I went into the bathroom, leaned against the sink, and pulled my shorts down to my knees. My pussy was swollen, shining with moisture, my lips open as though they were still waiting for something. I straddled the cold marble edge and rubbed my clitoris with two quick fingers, without ceremony, until I came in less than a minute thinking of the neighbor’s cock swinging in front of the mirror. A short, abrupt, almost furious orgasm. Then I stared at myself in the mirror, my nipples hard beneath my shirt and my hand smelling of me, and laughed aloud. Until that day I’d thought voyeurism was something unbalanced people did. I never would have suspected it could turn me on like that.

***

Something changed in me after that morning.

I discovered that this silent complicity with a stranger, this unsigned agreement to watch each other from a distance without ever touching, freed me in a way nothing else had before. No commitment, no risk, no consequences. Just two windows, two bodies, and two gazes.

The problem was finding the same time. I worked long hours, he seemed to study full-time, and our schedules almost never lined up.

One weekday afternoon I decided to go for a run in the park near the complex. I came back sweaty and pleasantly tired, wanting to stretch a little. I spread my yoga mat in the upstairs living room, right behind the television, facing the large picture window.

A few minutes later I felt someone watching me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw father and son together in the study of the neighboring house. Don Ricardo was showing him something on the computer screen, probably some matter concerning the business he would inherit someday. But neither of them was looking entirely at the screen. Their eyes kept straying toward my window every few seconds.

I thought about closing the curtains. I didn’t.

I was wearing very tight purple leggings and a loose pink blouse that revealed my sports bra whenever I bent over. Every pose, every stretch, every bend that required me to open my legs or arch my back gave them a different angle. I knew it. So did they.

I got on all fours, my ass pointed directly at their window, and arched my back very slowly. The purple leggings cut between my buttocks and outlined the cleft of my pussy with obscene precision, the seam sinking exactly where it needed to. I felt the air conditioning slip through the damp fabric and guessed, without needing to look, how both their pants would be tightening beneath the desk. I spread my legs even farther, lowered my chest until it brushed the mat, and stayed that way for several long seconds, offering them my raised ass, my tits hanging inside the loose blouse. Then I rolled onto my back, lifted my legs into the air, and opened them into a wide V, holding my ankles with my hands. The leggings clung to my pussy like a second skin, and I knew that from their window they could see the bulge of my lips perfectly, the slight rise of my clitoris, even the moisture darkening the purple.

Nothing else happened. But I knew, with crystal clarity, that those two men would end up jerking off that night thinking about me, father and son each in his own room, with the same image fixed beneath their eyelids.

***

The real leap came a couple of weeks later.

I got home early from work, around six. I went upstairs intending to change and, almost without thinking, swept my gaze across the window before closing the curtains.

The whole family was onstage. Don Ricardo was focused on his computer in the study. The mother was downstairs, playing with the little girl, who was running in circles around the living room. And Tomás was in his bedroom, his laptop on his legs and a notebook beside him, writing something quickly.

I watched the domestic scene for a while with unexpected tenderness. Then I took my pajamas from the closet, tossed them onto the bed, and began to undress.

I took off my jacket. I pulled my camisole off. And just then, almost by instinct, I raised my eyes toward his window.

I caught him.

Tomás was behind his curtain, only half-hidden. The silhouette of the fabric’s fold against the glass gave him away mercilessly. He was watching me. And from the movement of his right shoulder, he wasn’t only watching me: he was jerking off. His hand rose and fell with the unmistakable rhythm of a fist closed around a hard cock, fast, urgent, a little desperate.

My first reaction was to close the curtains. The second was to feel a small amount of contempt: “pervert.” And the third was to remember that I had done exactly the same thing to him that Sunday, my hand buried in my pussy over the bathroom sink.

Let whoever is without sin close the curtains.

I stood motionless, my blouse hanging from my hand. I watched him discreetly again. I saw his left hand now emerge from the shelter of the fabric, fist tightly closed, moving up and down with an increasingly urgent rhythm. I guessed at the reddened cock throbbing between his fingers, the glans appearing and disappearing beneath the foreskin, the tip shining with fluid.

I walked to the mirror and began combing my hair with feigned calm, buying time, giving him time. In that simple gesture, as I gathered my hair into a loose ponytail, I understood everything.

It wasn’t depravity. It was the same forbidden pleasure I had discovered. Stolen fruit, a furtive glance, the feeling of doing something one shouldn’t.

I reached behind my back and unclasped my bra. I let the cups fall and dropped it to the floor. My tits were bare, free, facing directly toward his window, their nipples already hard simply from knowing I was being watched. I took them in both hands, squeezed them, let them spill between my spread fingers. With the tips of my thumb and forefinger I pinched my nipples slowly, one and then the other, until they were red and throbbing. Then I ran my tongue over my forefinger and rubbed it in circles over my right nipple, so he could clearly see the saliva shining on my skin.

I didn’t look at the window. I didn’t need to. I felt his gaze like a warm weight on my skin, and from the violent swaying of the curtain I knew my neighbor had just come in his fist thinking about my tits, splattering his fingers, his notebook, his laptop, whatever happened to be in the way. The best moment of his week.

I also slipped one hand inside my pants without turning away from the window, found my pussy soaked, and stroked my clitoris with two fingers until I came standing up, my eyes half closed and my nipples pointing straight at the glass across the street.

***

From then on, it became a secret routine.

It was addictive in a way I didn’t know how to name at first. Knowing I was desired from a distance, in silence, without anyone having to ask for anything, made me feel powerful in a new way. I controlled the stage, the lights, the tempo. I decided when the curtains opened and when they closed.

Sometimes I did it when I came home from work, while changing. Sometimes in the morning, after showering, crossing the bedroom wrapped in nothing but a towel that slipped “accidentally,” revealing half my ass, one whole breast, the shaved triangle of my pussy for a carefully calculated instant. Sometimes during my yoga routines, even when I knew Don Ricardo was watching me from his study, giving the father the same view I gave the son. They both enjoyed it. So did I.

I began choosing my clothes with them in mind. Tighter athletic outfits, thin blouses without a bra, leggings that outlined every last fold. A freshly shaved pussy, nipples raised by the morning chill, everything arranged like a menu visible from the other side of the street.

That silent little game became my private obsession.

***

One Saturday night, around eleven, I was home alone, sitting in front of the television in the room next to the bedroom, playing the console Andrés had left behind when he moved out. The online matches dragged on, and I was winning.

Then I saw movement behind the neighbor’s curtain.

I smiled without looking directly at him. He thought he was invisible. We had been sharing the same charming misunderstanding for months.

I was wearing cotton shorts and a loose, oversized blouse, with no bra. Nothing planned. But knowing he was there, hidden and attentive, made my body shift almost without my realizing it. I put my feet up on the sofa. I leaned my back toward his side of the window. I swept my hair off my shoulder and let the blouse slip a couple of inches farther than decency allowed.

Between matches I showed a little more. I played with the neckline, pretended to scratch my breast, let the fabric fall and then deliberately adjusted it badly. Until, in the middle of a virtual firefight, the blouse slid completely off one shoulder and exposed one of my tits. The pink nipple, hard from the air conditioning, remained visible for several seconds.

I didn’t fix it.

That’s it, sweetheart. Look all you want. Take it out and jerk off for me.

I killed the last enemy of the level and celebrated the victory with my arms raised. In that movement, almost without thinking, I pulled my blouse off in one clean tug and threw it onto the floor. I was left with my tits bare, sweaty, smiling, still holding the controller. I caressed one breast with my free hand, pinched the nipple, and stretched it upward until it drew a short sigh from me. Then I brought the same finger to my mouth and sucked it slowly, looking at him without looking at him.

The television’s reflection returned my own silhouette superimposed on the glass. Beyond it, in the window across the street, I could make out the figure hidden behind the curtain perfectly. Motionless. Hypnotized. With his cock out, no doubt.

I started another match, but I could no longer concentrate. My body was acting on its own. I felt every movement of air over my naked skin, every pulse in places where there shouldn’t have been pulses: my pussy throbbing against the seam of my shorts, my nipples so hard they hurt a little, a warm thread of wetness running down the inside of my thigh. I died immediately. And I laughed aloud.

I set the controller on the sofa. I stood up, stretched my arms like a lazy cat, and sighed deeply. Then, looking toward the window, I pulled my shorts and panties down in one motion, sliding them over my hips, thighs, and knees, letting them fall around my ankle like a small surrender. I stayed that way for a second, completely naked, one hand spread over my belly and my shaved pussy pointed straight at the glass across the street. Then I slowly turned around, bent over to pick up my panties, and gave him several seconds of my open ass, the little pink eye, my pussy lips peeking between my thighs, gleaming with wetness.

I sat back down. This time with my legs open toward the street, wide open, my feet planted on the edge of the sofa, my knees falling to either side so everything could be seen.

“Tonight you get it all,” I said softly, though no one could hear me. “Take it out. Take it out for me and jerk off.”

I brought my fingers to my pussy and found it wet, hungry, waiting for some time. My lips were swollen, hot, slippery. I began slowly, drawing lazy circles over my clitoris, playing with the moisture, spreading it downward toward my asshole and then back up. I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them again. I wanted to see him even though I couldn’t. I wanted him to see all of me, every fold, every drop.

With two fingers I opened my pussy lips so the pink interior, the throbbing entrance, and the swollen clitoris like a shiny button could be seen clearly. I ran my middle finger over it several times, very slowly, letting it almost slip inside and pulling it out just before it did. Then I pushed it in. One, then two, then three fingers going all the way in, to the knuckles, accompanied by a wet, obscene sound that filled the room. I began fucking myself with my hand, bending my wrist, pulling my fingers out shining and pushing them back in, imagining it was his cock going in and out.

I imagined him on the other side, his pants lowered to his ankles, his cock hard and red in his fist, the tip dripping, masturbating with the same urgency with which I fucked myself with my fingers. I imagined his left hand braced against the wall, his forehead pressed to the glass, his unblinking eyes, his tongue peeking between his teeth. I imagined it and put in a fourth finger, squeezing myself, moaning loudly.

Enjoy me. You’re with me. You have all of me. Fuck me, sweetheart, fuck me all the way to the bottom.

I pulled out my dripping fingers and brought them to my mouth. I sucked them one by one, looking toward the window, tasting myself, letting my saliva and juices run down my chin onto my tits. Then I lowered my hand again, this time with my palm spread over my entire pussy, and began rubbing my clitoris with two quick fingers while my other hand pinched one nipple, twisting it hard.

I drew my knees up to my chest, spread my legs even wider, and pushed three fingers in again, this time pressing my thumb against my clitoris at the same time. My other hand moved down to my ass. I sucked my forefinger and placed it against my tight little hole, barely pushing, playing at entering and not entering. I sank it in to the first knuckle. I felt the hot pinch, the slight sting, and let out a long moan that echoed against the glass.

I was opening myself completely for him. Pussy full, ass taken, tits bare, my open mouth releasing obscenities I didn’t dare say with any real man.

“Look, look how I open myself for you,” I panted. “All yours. All of you. Take me with your eyes, sweetheart, take me.”

I hadn’t touched myself like that in weeks, with that mixture of exhibition and abandon. My head thrown back, my moans coming out unfiltered, my feet braced on the edge of the sofa, sweat sticking my hair to my forehead. My fingers went in and out of my pussy with an increasingly loud squelch, my thumb circling rapidly over my clitoris, the forefinger of my other hand sinking fully into my ass.

When it came, it came all at once. A wave that shook me from my thighs to my shoulders, arched my back, and tore a hoarse cry from me that probably carried into the street. I felt my pussy contracting hard around my fingers, squeezing them, almost ejecting them, a small hot spurt escaping and wetting my hand, the sofa, and the insides of my thighs. My fingers drenched, my eyelids heavy, my ass still tight around the other finger. I let out another moan as I withdrew my hands, a late spasm running through my entire body.

I stayed like that for a moment, trembling and catching my breath, my legs open, my pussy open, everything gleaming beneath the bedroom light. Then, slowly, I turned my head toward the window.

I found him. The curtain barely covered him anymore. His mouth was open, his chest rising and falling with the same agitation as mine, his cock still in his fist, his broken expression that of someone who had just come too. I saw his stained hand, a white thread shining on the back of it, another sliding down his forearm. He had emptied himself completely while watching me.

I smiled. I fixed him with my brown eyes without hiding and blew him a slow kiss from the tips of my fingers, still shining with pussy juice. I brought those fingers to my mouth and licked them unhurriedly, never taking my eyes off him, sucking them one by one, letting him see me swallow my own taste, savoring that silent triumph that only the two of us could celebrate. Then I lowered the same hand, gave my swollen pussy two affectionate pats, and showed him my open, wet palm, like someone displaying a trophy.

Then I stood up, picked my blouse up off the floor, and before closing the curtain, gave him a wink that any judge in the world would have called shameless.

Tomorrow we’ll open them again.