My Neighbor Left the Curtains Open So I Could Watch

My name is Camila, I’m twenty-seven years old, and I work from home as a freelance translator. I live alone in a duplex in a quiet neighborhood, one of those places where the trees cover half the sky and the neighbors greet one another without ever really knowing each other. I have a body that attracts attention when I go running—not that I’m bragging; I simply notice the way people look at me—and a boyfriend who lives in another city and visits me one weekend a month. The rest of the time, it’s just me, my laptop, and my favorite armchair beside the window.

That window is to blame for everything. If I hadn’t opened it that February afternoon, if I hadn’t dragged the armchair over looking for a breeze, I never would have discovered that the chef who lived across the street—Damián, according to the restaurant posters that came up on his Instagram—had a nightlife worth watching.

The first time was an accident, I swear. It was a sticky kind of heat, the sort that gets under your clothes and keeps you from sleeping. I pushed the armchair right up against the picture window, brought over a bowl of chilled grapes, and settled in with my feet on the blue footstool my grandmother had given me when I moved in. I left the television on some random series, more for background noise than entertainment.

A movement across the street made me turn my head. Damián’s house has a second-floor window that, by some coincidence of urban geometry, lines up exactly with mine. It’s the only angle from which you can see into his bedroom—the trees in the garden block everything else. And without knowing it, I had taken a seat in the box.

I saw him from behind, naked, his tight ass and broad back shining with sweat, holding the hips of a woman kneeling on the bed. Her ass was raised, and he drove his cock all the way into her with slow, deep thrusts, pulling it almost all the way out before plunging it back in with a hard, dry smack. The woman threw her head back, and although I couldn’t hear a thing, I could see perfectly how her mouth opened with every thrust. I yanked the curtains shut, my face burning. Five minutes later I was looking again through a crack, with two fingers pressed against the seam of my shorts, feeling my heart sink down until it settled between my legs and my panties grew soaked without my permission. That day I discovered two things: that my neighbor had a body and a cock worth studying, and that I possessed a curiosity and a horniness I hadn’t known were there.

***

Months passed, and my armchair never returned to its original place. Now it lives pressed against the picture window, and I’ve turned it into my own little private theater. The routine is almost always the same: around eight in the evening, Damián opens the door to his house wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, welcomes the woman of the night with a smile that looks rehearsed, and runs a hand over the small of her back as he lets her in. A little while later, the smells of cooking begin drifting down the street—he cooks for all of them; it’s part of the ritual. And later, almost always around eleven, the bedroom lights come on.

Every night is different. Some arrive dressed as if for a wedding and undress slowly, choreographically, letting him suck their nipples before kneeling to suck his cock without hurrying. Others show up in jeans and a backpack and tear their clothes off in a rush, throw themselves on top of him, and pull his dick out of his pants before they even make it to the bed. I’ve seen blondes, brunettes, and redheads; women my age and others twice as old; wives wearing rings who take them off when he touches their pussies so the rings won’t scrape them; couples in which the husband stays seated in a chair in the corner, the bulge in his pants pronounced, while Damián fucks his wife on all fours, staring the poor man in the eyes. There are costumes, ropes tying wrists to the headboard, toys I didn’t even know existed: black dildos the size of a forearm, plugs with a gleaming stone at the base, vibrating wands he runs over their clitorises while fucking them from behind. Most of the time he’s in control—he spreads their legs, turns them over, grabs their hair, and sets the pace at which they have to suck his cock—but every now and then she’s the one who straddles him, sits on top of him, and digs her nails into his chest while she comes on his dick with her face twisted in pleasure.

I got to know myself in that armchair. I started with my hand over my shorts, barely daring to, rubbing my clit with two fingers through the fabric, and ended up shoving my whole hand inside my panties, three fingers buried in my pussy while my thumb drew circles on top. I bought a toy that now lives in the cushion beside me, charged and ready for when things get serious: a thick, curved vibrator that slips inside me effortlessly because I’m always dripping wet by the time I reach the armchair. On the nights Damián fucks someone in the ass, I spread my cheeks with one hand and touch myself there with the other, imagining that it’s his tongue or his cock. The first few times, I got nervous that someone walking along the sidewalk might see me—I live on the ground floor, and the curtains are thin; my tits show against the glass when I arch my back. Later I discovered that the risk of being caught with my legs spread and a toy buzzing inside me was exactly half the pleasure.

I know he knows. There’s no way he doesn’t. He leaves the blinds open too many nights in a row for it to be a coincidence, and sometimes, right before he starts, he looks toward my window and smiles. Once, while a redhead was sucking him on her knees, he turned his face toward my side, ran his tongue slowly over his lips, and winked at me without stopping his grip on the other woman’s hair. I came in under a minute.

***

One Thursday evening, things went wrong for both of us. The girl who arrived that night left twenty minutes later, without saying goodbye, slamming the door and climbing into a car waiting for her with the engine running. I had put on the shortest shorts I owned, my toy was ready, and suddenly I found myself facing an empty stage. The frustration was ridiculous. So ridiculous that I changed, put on leggings and sneakers, and went out for a run to burn off the arousal that had gotten stuck in my throat.

I ran aimlessly through the neighborhood’s tree-lined streets, trying not to think about what hadn’t happened. After twenty minutes my legs began to tremble, and I leaned against a tree trunk, panting, my hands on my knees.

“Are you all right? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

I didn’t have to turn around. I had heard that voice a thousand times filtering through the open window, giving instructions to some woman who answered with moans: “spread your legs wider,” “suck it all the way,” “that’s it, come on my cock.” I turned slowly.

Damián was there, sweaty, wearing a black T-shirt clinging to his chest, the tattoos on his forearms shining beneath the low afternoon sun. His breathing was labored, and his eyes were fixed on mine as if he were deciding something.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I just need to get in better shape.”

“Looks like neither of us got our plan for today to work.”

I felt the blush rising up my neck.

“What are you talking about?”

“I had something arranged for tonight. I thought my favorite audience would already be in her seat, legs spread.”

I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.

For months I had pretended he didn’t know, pretending I didn’t know that he knew, maintaining an unsigned pact of silence. And suddenly he was saying it out loud, in the middle of a street, both of us dressed for exercise.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I insisted, but my voice came out trembling.

He took a step toward me. He smelled of sweat and a citrus cologne I had never smelled before, because the distance between our windows didn’t carry scents. I felt my panties grow wet all at once, without warning.

“Camila, I’ve been leaving the blinds open for you for months, and I’ve been watching you finger yourself and use that blue toy whenever someone sucks me off. Do you want us to keep pretending, or do you want us to talk like adults?”

***

We talked like adults. For almost an hour, sitting on a bench in the shade while my sweat dried and everything else grew wetter. He explained how his arrangement worked: he didn’t charge anything, most of the women came recommended by others, and some husbands preferred him to just any stranger because he knew how to listen and treated them well, even though afterward he fucked them without mercy. He showed me a profile on an adult site where he uploaded some videos—always with the women’s faces covered, always with the performers’ permission. In one, he had a brunette handcuffed to the headboard, her tits bouncing while he drove his cock into her from behind; in another, a blonde sucked his dick down to her throat while he came in her mouth. He told me everything without boasting, like someone describing a job rather than an accomplishment.

And in the end, he asked me.

“Do you want to be the one next Saturday?”

I said yes before thinking about it. Later, at home, I sat in the armchair by the window, pulled down my leggings, and shoved three fingers all the way inside myself while thinking about his mouth saying filthy things to me, and I wondered what the hell I had just done.

I spent the following days caught between panic and anxiety. My boyfriend called twice, and I lied twice, with an ease that frightened me. I watched the videos on the profile Damián had sent me one by one, the vibrator between my legs and my mouth hanging open. They were confident women, women who knew exactly what they wanted and asked for it without sugarcoating it: “harder,” “put it all the way in,” “come on my tits.” I wanted to be one of them. More than anything, I wanted to be the one looking at the room from inside it, not through the window across the street. The one feeling that cock deep in her pussy instead of imagining it.

***

At two on Saturday afternoon, I knocked on his door with a trembling hand. I had put on a one-shoulder dress, wine-colored silk underwear, and high-heeled sandals, with my toenails painted the same shade. I wasn’t wearing a bra, and my panties were already wet before I climbed the step. I felt as if I were dressed up as the woman I wanted to be that night.

Damián opened the door wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a dark-blue vest. I smiled despite myself.

“Come in.”

The living room was dim. It smelled of something sweet—cinnamon, butter, apple; I couldn’t quite tell—and jazz played softly. I reached for his forearm and traced one of the tattoos with my fingertip. They were lines and curves that looked like the drawing of an audio waveform.

“What do they mean?”

“They’re phrases. Things people said to me at special moments. I record them, run them through a program that turns them into this drawing, and get them tattooed.”

“Can I hear one?”

He brought his phone close to the first tattoo, opened an app, and suddenly a woman’s voice rang out, asking him to fuck her in the ass, almost crying with pleasure, swearing she had never come like that. I felt the heat settle between my legs, and my nipples pressed against the silk of my dress. Another voice, another tattoo. Another woman telling him, “Harder, Daddy, break me,” while the sharp smack of skin against skin could be heard. Another one: a hoarse voice moaning, “Come in my mouth, I want to swallow it all.” Every line on his skin was a phrase someone had said to him naked, with his cock inside her.

“Record something from me,” I said, surprising myself with my own boldness. “Record this: I’ve spent months watching you from my window with my hand inside my panties, and now I want you to spread my legs and fuck me all the way.”

It was the first time I saw him lose control. I watched the bulge grow against his suit trousers, already hard and outlined from top to bottom.

***

We forgot about dinner. He led me to the center of the room and blindfolded me with a silk scarf that smelled of his cologne. The darkness forced me to listen to everything: the rustle of the vest as it fell, the click of his belt, the sound of the zipper going down, his increasingly ragged breathing against my neck. His hands lowered my dress from my shoulders, slowly, pausing over every new inch of skin as if memorizing it. He pinched one of my nipples through the silk, and a moan escaped me.

“Your skin is burning,” he murmured.

“You set it on fire. Touch my pussy and you’ll see.”

He slid his hand under my dress without warning, pushed my panties aside, and buried two fingers inside me to the knuckles. I soaked his palm in a second.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he whispered against my ear. “You’ve been like this for months, haven’t you? Every time you look at me.”

“Every fucking night,” I panted. “Every time I heard them scream.”

He kissed my neck, bit my shoulder, and licked my earlobe while moving his fingers inside me with a slow, precise rhythm, twisting his wrist to touch a spot that made my knees buckle. By the time he removed the blindfold, I was in my underwear with my panties pulled halfway down my thighs, and he was wearing trousers and an open shirt, his bare chest exposed, tattoos running down his arms like rivers. His cock showed huge through the dark fabric of his pants, pointing upward.

I fumbled my way through the buttons he still had fastened, pulled down his trousers and boxers in one tug, and finally that dick I had spent months watching enter and leave other women appeared before me. It was thick, with prominent veins and a shiny, flushed tip. I dropped to my knees without thinking and grabbed his ass to pull it into my mouth. I took the whole thing, tightened my lips around it, and began sucking him slowly, licking from the base to the tip and drawing him out gradually to run my tongue over his glans.

“That’s it, fuck, that’s it,” he growled, closing his fist in my hair.

I grabbed his balls with one hand while squeezing one of my tits with the other. He thrust it down my throat a couple of times, holding my head with both hands, and when I stuck out my tongue to lick his balls, my face was drenched in saliva and tears ran through my makeup. He must have liked the sight, because he took a picture with his phone without pulling his cock from my mouth. Then he set the phone on the table and lifted me off the floor.

***

He carried me to the wide sofa in the corner and finished undressing me slowly, smelling my panties before letting them fall to the floor. He spread my legs with both hands and crouched down to eat my pussy without ceremony. He started with his flat tongue, licking from the bottom upward to my clit, then sucked it as if it were a candy, trapping it between his lips and tugging gently. He slid two fingers inside me and curled them, pressing the spot that made my hips rise off the sofa while he kept sucking me above.

“Look at me while I do this to you,” he said, lifting his face for a second, his chin gleaming with my juices.

I lowered my gaze, and seeing him between my legs, his mouth open against my pussy, made me clench my teeth so I wouldn’t come too soon. He brought me to the edge three times and left me hanging there whenever I felt I was about to come, until I grabbed his hair with both hands and begged him.

“Please, put your cock in me already. I can’t take it anymore.”

He climbed on top of me, placed my legs over his shoulders, and ran the tip along my pussy lips a couple of times, rubbing it over my clit. When he finally entered me, the first thrust went so deep that a sound escaped me that I didn’t recognize as my own, a hoarse, broken moan that echoed around the room.

“Look at me,” he said.

I looked at him. He moved over me with hard hips, driving it all the way in each time, pulling it almost completely out before plunging it back in with a hard, dry smack. I felt his balls slap against my ass with every thrust. I dug my nails into his back, my head falling backward, and remembered my armchair across the street, my window closed for the first time in months, the version of myself who had spent all summer watching that same scene from far away. Now I was the one inside the picture, that cock splitting me in two.

“Get on all fours,” he ordered, pulling out.

I turned around and arched my back, bracing myself on my elbows and offering him my ass. He grabbed one cheek in each hand, spread me open, and drove himself in again with a single push. He fucked me with increasingly brutal thrusts, grabbing my hair, pulling my head back, spanking me until my skin was red and burning. My pussy ran with his cock; I heard the wet sound every time he pulled out, felt the semen still inside me waiting to come out. He ran his thumb over my other hole, wet with my juices, and pushed it halfway in.

“Oh, fuck,” I moaned, squeezing him inside me.

“You like it, don’t you? Slut, say it.”

“I love it. Fuck me harder.”

He rode me like that, his cock in my pussy and his thumb in my ass, until I came screaming into the cushion, my legs trembling and my whole body convulsing. He didn’t let me catch my breath. He turned me over again, sat me astride him, and made me ride him while looking into his eyes. He grabbed my tits and sucked my nipples while I rose and fell, impaling myself on his cock all the way down. He made me come a second time like that, riding him, my clit rubbing against his pubic hair with every downward stroke.

“One more,” he panted. “I want to see you come one more time.”

He laid me on my back on the sofa, spread my legs wide, and pushed himself into me again with his body pressed against mine, fucking me deep and slow, his lips at my ear telling me things that made me squeeze my thighs around his waist: “I’ve had you since February. Every time I see you with your fingers, it gets me hard. Now you’re going to be mine whenever you want.” I came for the third time with him inside me, biting his shoulder to keep from screaming.

When I felt him turn hard as a stone and his breathing grow ragged, he pulled out of me abruptly. He knelt on my chest, jerked himself twice with his fist closed, and came with a hoarse groan no window could ever have carried properly, thick spurts landing on my belly, between my breasts, and even on my chin. I stuck out my tongue and licked the tip to steal his last drop.

***

Afterward, while he ran a warm cloth over my skin, cleaning the semen from my neck and tits with a gentleness that didn’t fit with what he had just done to me, he offered me a dark-chocolate truffle. I let it melt in my mouth and let him kiss me with the flavor mingling between us, his tongue searching through mine.

We walked naked to his bedroom. Damián opened the window—that window, the one I had spent months watching. From there, I had a perfect view of my empty armchair, my open curtain, my grandmother’s blue footstool.

“This is the view I have when I’m here,” he said. “I’ve been watching you too for months, every time you spread your legs in that armchair.”

I laughed. I pushed him against the mattress, his cock half-hard again between my legs, and climbed on top of him. I grabbed his dick, rubbed it over my soaked pussy, and put it inside myself again, slowly, all the way. I whispered something in his ear that I’m not going to transcribe here, but it’s going to end up tattooed on his arm. And this time I was the one setting the pace, riding him in front of the open window, my tits bouncing and my head thrown back, so anyone passing along the street could see us.

Tonight, when I go back to my house, I’m going to leave the curtains open, the armchair pressed against the glass, and my legs spread. Let’s see who’s watching whom.