I Spied on the Shop Girl Early One Sunday

Across from my house there’s a natural-products shop. Gluten-free grains, infusions that promise to cure you of everything, bottles of cold-pressed juice that cost as much as an entire meal. They also hold yoga classes on Tuesdays, though that’s never been my thing. It’s run by two women: an older woman with graying hair who always greets you with a nun’s serenity, and a dark-haired girl with a curly mane and a certain hippie air who looks as if she’s stepped out of another decade.

I’d seen the girl a couple of times in the height of summer, going out for a run at around two in the afternoon, in the worst heat of the day. Crop top, tight leggings, her hair tied back and her face flushed with exertion. She’d pant past my doorway without noticing me. She wasn’t badly built, truth be told. She had the kind of body you notice without meaning to, then have trouble forgetting, with a pert ass jiggling inside her leggings and small, firm tits bouncing with every stride.

That Sunday I woke up before anything had gone off. Clara was still asleep, curled up and breathing deeply, so I dressed in silence, grabbed the leash, and went downstairs with the dog. The street was deserted in that way it’s only deserted early on a Sunday: shutters down, cars parked without hurry, the air still clean before the day got fouled by people.

We walked for more than an hour. The dog sniffed every corner as if the world were new, and I let myself drift along without thinking about anything. It was almost nine when I headed back home. And as I passed in front of the shop, I saw a light on at the back of the premises.

I stopped without realizing it.

The dark-haired girl was walking down the three steps separating the back room from the counter area. And she was doing it like someone walking through her own house alone: barefoot, carefree, wearing nothing but a black thong. Almost naked. In full view of the street, behind an uncurtained display window, unaware that at that ridiculous hour there might be someone watching.

That someone was me.

I stood rooted to the sidewalk, the leash slack in my hand and my heart suddenly pounding harder. She must have been barely over five feet tall. Slim, with small, firm breasts, her nipples a light brown that nearly disappeared against her pale skin. A smooth belly, narrow waist, and just enough hips to sketch a curve when she moved that was anything but innocent. Exercise showed in every line of her body. I got hard instantly, pressing against the seam of my pants as if it had a life of its own.

She carried on without noticing anything. And me—who in their right mind goes for a walk at nine on a Sunday morning? Me. For once, luck was on my side.

She approached the drinks refrigerator beside the counter and opened the door with her back to me. At last I saw her entire ass: tight, round, split by the thin strip of thong disappearing between her cheeks, outlining the cleft and vanishing downward, toward that dark place I imagined hot and wet. Her slender back hinted at every vertebra in her spine, but far from being off-putting, it gave her an almost statuesque appearance. She squatted, separating her knees slightly, and at that moment the thong sank deeper between her buttocks, revealing for a second the shadow of her tight pussy pressed against the fabric. She took a bottle from the bottom shelf and slowly stood, opening it with one hand as she straightened.

She turned halfway, tipped her head back, and took a long drink of that orange liquid. Her throat moved as she swallowed. Something about the gesture—so ordinary, so domestic—left my mouth dry. I imagined that same throat swallowing something else, and my cock gave a violent twitch inside my pants.

Turn around and leave before she sees you, I thought. I didn’t move.

She stood thoughtfully for a few seconds, the bottle dangling from her hand, then turned her face toward the street. Toward me. Our eyes met through the glass.

I tried to pretend otherwise, of course, but it was useless. There’s no elegant way to pretend you weren’t staring when you’ve been standing on the sidewalk for half a minute with your eyes bulging. And if there had been any doubt, the bulge in my pants gave me away completely, standing out like a mast against the light fabric of my sweatpants. She lowered her gaze to my crotch for a second, without hiding it, and bit her lower lip. I moved my lips, awkwardly forming “good morning.”

I expected a shout, an insult, for her to slam the door or pull a nonexistent curtain. Instead, she smiled. A slow, crooked smile, and she winked at me. I read “good morning, happy Sunday” on her lips, and inside my head it sounded hotter than any real voice could have managed. Before turning away, she brought one hand to her breast and slowly pinched one of her nipples between two fingers, staring straight at me. Just for a second. Long enough to make my vision cloud.

Then she climbed the steps to the back room and disappeared from view.

***

I crossed the street toward my doorway with my legs a little unsteady and my breathing disturbed. I was turned on in a way I hadn’t felt in years, by a stranger whose name I didn’t even know. My head spun with the same question: did she live there? Upstairs from the shop?

I needed to calm down before going upstairs, so I stayed on the landing of my own apartment, beside the living-room window, and lit a cigarette to clear my head. It had been hot since dawn, so the windows were open with the shutters half lowered, leaving a slit of light and street.

From there I could see the empty shop. And a little higher up, in the upper-floor apartment of the same building, a bedroom with a bed. On it, someone sleeping beneath a thin sheet. So yes: she lived there. The girl must have climbed back into bed after walking barefoot through the shop.

I took a drag and told myself that was enough. That I’d already had my stroke of luck for the day. But I didn’t look away.

Suddenly she appeared, peeking around one corner of the room with the same orange bottle in her hand. She stopped in front of the bed and emptied it in one long swallow, her head tipped back again, that gesture I was already beginning to recognize. Then she set it down somewhere and stood still, staring at the sleeping body beneath the sheet.

I saw her hesitate. Or that’s how it seemed to me. A moment of stillness, like someone making a decision. Then she hooked her thumbs into the sides of her thong and pulled it down her legs with a naturalness that took my breath away. She was completely naked, the dark bush between her legs outlined against the morning light, a tight, closed triangle over the pussy I could barely make out from so far away. She pulled aside the sheet covering the man and straddled him.

He was a man, yes. He barely reacted, still trapped in sleep or only half awake. She, on the other hand, knew exactly what she wanted. I could see her only in profile, silhouetted against the bedroom wall, but I needed no more to understand everything. She bent over him and lowered her face to his crotch, and although her shoulder blocked my view, I could guess perfectly what she was doing: she was sucking his cock to wake it, taking it slowly, with that dirty, unhurried rhythm of someone in no rush. I saw her head rise and fall three, four, five times, her curly hair spilling over her face, her back arched and her ass raised toward the ceiling. I could see the soles of her feet crossed behind her. Every time she lowered her mouth, she swallowed him whole, and every time she rose, she lingered at the tip, sucking hard as if drawing out the flavor.

The man must finally have reacted, because I saw him grab her head with one hand and set the pace, pushing her a little farther inside. She let him, submissive, accepting every thrust with her mouth open. When she finally pulled away, her lips were shiny and a strand of saliva hung from her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand before climbing onto him.

She settled herself over him, brought one hand between her legs, and began moving slowly, searching for the angle, adjusting herself. I saw her take the man’s wet cock between two fingers and rub the tip against her pussy, up and down, soaking it in her own wetness, rubbing her clitoris with the glans as if sharpening the edge before driving it into her. From the way she arched her back, I knew she was as turned on as I was watching her. It took less than a couple of minutes for her to lift her hips and drop suddenly, sinking him into her all the way. I saw her whole body shudder as she impaled herself, her mouth opening in a moan I couldn’t hear, then remaining still for several seconds with him buried to the root, enjoying having him inside her.

She began a slow, confident rocking motion, forward and back, as if she had the whole Sunday ahead of her. She didn’t rise and fall; she rubbed herself, grinding her hips against his pelvis, working him with her pussy in tight circles that must have been driving him crazy. Her hands rested on his thighs, then climbed up her own belly to close over her small breasts, squeezing them and twisting her nipples between her fingers until they stood hard, making her throw her head back once more. The profile of her throat, taut against the light, was the most obscene thing I’d seen in a long time. She brought two fingers to her mouth, sucked them thoroughly, then lowered her hand to her pussy and rubbed her clitoris while continuing to ride him without losing her rhythm.

Her movements became faster, rougher. Now she was truly rising and falling, lifting her ass until she nearly pulled him all the way out, then dropping hard again and again, at a rhythm that seemed brutal from where I watched. I couldn’t understand how the man could still be half asleep beneath such a ride, because she was mounting him without restraint, with a hunger that allowed no pause. She grabbed her head with both hands, elbows spread, never stopping her up-and-down motion, and from the tension throughout her silhouette I knew she was enjoying herself immensely. I could see her tits bouncing with every thrust, her nipples pointing upward, and the sound of flesh against flesh must have echoed through the entire room.

At that point, I had no choice. I was spectacularly horny and harder than was reasonable, hidden in my own living room behind a shutter, spying on a woman I’d seen smile at me through glass that very morning. The last shred of morality I had surrendered without a fight.

I pulled it out and began masturbating to the rhythm she set up there. It was so swollen that my skin felt stretched, the tip already wet with pre-cum that had been dripping from me before I even touched it. I gripped it hard at the base and began pumping up and down, fist closed, without stopping, my eyes fixed on her profile. Every time she sped up, I sped up. Every time she dropped her entire weight onto him, I tightened my fist and jerked harder. It was as though she were directing me without knowing it, as if the two of us were part of the same impossible scene, her fucking him and me fucking my own hand in time with her hips.

I didn’t take my eyes off that amazon for a second as, in one fluid movement, she turned over on top of him, facing the window without seeing me, and continued impaling herself without stopping. Now I could see her face contorted with pleasure, her mouth half open, her curly hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. I could see her tits from the front, bouncing up and down every time she rebounded on his cock, and between her legs I could make out the wet shine where the man’s sex entered and left her. She brought one hand to her mouth, sucked her fingers, then lowered it again to her pussy, rubbing herself shamelessly as she impaled herself with greater enthusiasm. Her other hand gripped one breast and squeezed it viciously, tugging her nipple until it stretched. I felt everything rising from deep inside me, that warning that can no longer be stopped, my balls drawing upward, my cock throbbing inside my fist.

I wanted to hold out. I wanted to wait until I saw her finish, to watch her fall apart first, to see her come impaled on that stranger’s cock while I watched from three floors below. But there was no way I could resist any longer. I saw her throw her head back, her whole body tightening, both hands clutching her breasts as she shuddered in a long spasm while riding him, and that finished me. I clenched my teeth to keep from roaring, gripped my cock harder, and came with such violence that it bent my knees slightly, shooting thick jets of semen that spattered the wall beneath the window, the shutter frame, and the cold tiled floor. There were three, four bursts in a row, each accompanied by a jerk that emptied me completely. The last trickled between my fingers, warm and thick.

I stayed there, panting, my forehead against the shutter frame and my cock still hard in my hand, dripping the last remnants, while she continued her tireless dance, utterly unaware of the spectator who had emptied himself because of her three floors away.

When I had caught my breath, I decided to stop watching. I put out the cigarette, cleaned up the mess before Clara woke up, and sat on the sofa with my heart still racing, my cock still half-swollen inside my pants, the smell of semen clinging to my fingers no matter how much I rubbed them against my T-shirt.

Maybe one day I’ll work up the nerve to cross the street and actually go in. Buy something, anything—a juice, an infusion, whatever—just to have an excuse to look at her up close and see if she winks at me again.

They might even have beer.