My Neighbor Watched Me Naked and I Didn’t Want Him to Stop

I grew up in a house with a yard on the outskirts, with trees reaching all the way to the edge of the property and blocking any view from the street. That natural cover had given me, since I was a teenager, a freedom I never fully appreciated until I lost it: I could walk naked around the yard in summer, change clothes with the window open, sunbathe without any clothes on the patch of grass behind the laundry room. No one saw me. No one could see me. And that certainty, over time, became such a deeply ingrained habit that I didn’t even think about it.

When I started college, the trip from my parents’ house to campus took almost two hours round-trip. Three months of leaving at six in the morning and getting home exhausted at nine at night were enough to convince me I needed somewhere closer. I found a small apartment on the sixth floor of a building on the main avenue: thirty square meters, a window facing east, a kitchen integrated into the living room, noisy but functional heating. Expensive for what it was, but a ten-minute walk from campus.

That first night I slept with the strange feeling of someone sleeping in a place that still didn’t belong to her. The city’s constant noise, cars at three in the morning, the steady hum that doesn’t exist out in the suburbs. It took me almost a week to get used to the sound. What took no time at all was getting back into my old habit.

It happened after I showered for the second time in the apartment. I came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, let it fall onto the desk chair, and, as always, kept walking toward the kitchen to get something to drink. It wasn’t until I reached the living-room window that I realized what the new apartment meant: there was no yard or trees outside. There was a building about twenty meters away, another one beyond that, and a grid of windows, some lit, most of them dark.

I stood still for a moment, glass in hand.

Someone could be watching right now.

The thought should have made me uncomfortable. Instead, I felt something I couldn’t quite identify: a kind of tingling on my skin that wasn’t exactly shame and wasn’t exactly fear. It was closer to arousal. I felt my nipples harden and moisture begin to trickle between my thighs, without having done anything, just from the idea of a stranger with his cock in his hand on the other side of the glass. I stood in front of the window for exactly ten seconds—I counted them—before going to get the towel.

That night I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I got into bed and touched my pussy without fully deciding to, two fingers at first, then three, imagining anonymous eyes pressed to the glass across the way while I spread my legs and made myself come with a pillow clamped over my mouth.

***

Over the next few days I continued with my routine as though nothing had changed. I showered, walked around the apartment, went over to the window. Sometimes I changed clothes with the blind raised. I wasn’t trying to get anyone to watch me, or at least that’s what I told myself. But I wasn’t doing anything to prevent it, either.

The feeling of being watched—the possibility of it, even without any certainty—began to change something in me. I showered more slowly. I chose what to wear more carefully, even if I was only staying home. I moved differently through the space, more aware of my body, of how it moved, of what could be seen from outside. I touched my tits in front of the bathroom mirror and imagined someone on the other side, his fist wrapped around his cock, waiting for me to open my robe.

One night, while I was getting ready for bed, I felt something different: the certainty that someone was watching me. I don’t know how to explain it. I didn’t see any movement; there was no clear sign. But I was sure. I stood naked in the middle of the room for a minute, that certainty lodged in my chest like an electric current that neither came nor went, that simply existed. I felt my pussy clench just from imagining it, felt myself growing wet inside, felt a warm trickle beginning to run down the inside of my thigh.

I got into bed and took longer than usual to fall asleep. Before turning off the light, I ran my hand over my pussy three or four times, just enough to calm myself, and sucked my wet fingers while thinking about him.

***

Several weeks passed before I could identify where the gaze was coming from.

The building across the way had eight floors. The windows directly opposite mine belonged to the fifth, sixth, and seventh floors. At night, when the living room was lit and it was dark outside, I would stare toward those windows, trying to make something out. Most of the time there was nothing. Black rectangles, drawn curtains, or the blue glow of a television on somewhere far from the window.

But one night, on the floor two levels above mine and exactly opposite, I saw the glowing tip of a cigarette. Someone was in the darkness of that room, without turning on the light, smoking.

And watching me.

I knew because when I moved closer to the window, the cigarette went out abruptly. As if someone had quickly crushed it against something, not wanting to be seen. Then, total darkness.

That night I got into bed and masturbated while thinking about him. I imagined what he might be doing on the other side at that exact moment: his cock out of his pants, his hand moving up and down in the darkness, his eyes fixed on my window. I spread my legs as far as I could, ran my middle finger over the lips of my pussy until it was soaked, and began rubbing my clitoris with two fingers, slowly at first and then faster. I pushed three fingers deep inside while squeezing one tit with my other hand, tugging on the nipple, pinching it hard. I didn’t know what his face looked like; I knew nothing about him, and that was precisely what made it more intense: he could be anyone, any anonymous cock jerking off for me from the darkness. I came biting the sheet, my legs trembling, and lay sprawled across the mattress with my fingers still inside me, feeling my pussy clench around them.

***

From that moment on, the game changed. I knew which window was his, and he knew that I knew. That transformed everything: it stopped being a vague possibility and became something concrete and deliberate, with unwritten rules we both followed without ever agreeing on them.

I started approaching the window with more intention. I would stand there with the light on, letting him see me, and stare toward his window even though I couldn’t make out anything in the darkness. Sometimes I would bite my lip slowly without taking my eyes off that black spot in the building across the way. It was a silent challenge. A wordless conversation in which we both knew perfectly well what the other was saying.

One night I slowly took off my robe in front of the window, without hurrying. I stood naked, staring into his darkness for almost a minute. Then I touched my tits with both hands, pinched my nipples until they went hard, and lowered one hand to my pussy. I spread my lips with two fingers so he could clearly see how wet I was, and pushed my middle finger in to the knuckle, still looking toward his window. There was no sign, no visible movement. But I knew he was there, pulling out his cock, coming for me. I felt it in a way that had no rational explanation but was completely real.

Then I went to the bathroom, turned on the shower so nothing could be heard, put one leg over the edge of the bathtub, and made myself come with two fingers inside me and my thumb squeezing my clitoris, imagining it was his tongue eating my pussy all the way to the bottom. I finished what he had started in two minutes, biting the back of my other hand so I wouldn’t scream.

For an exhibitionist, there’s nothing more powerful than a voyeur who can do nothing but watch.

***

The moment I remember most happened one Wednesday night, a few weeks later.

I had invited Mateo, a classmate I’d been flirting with for some time, over for dinner. We cooked together, drank wine, and put on music. At some point during the night, what had started as dinner became something completely different. Mateo was attractive and attentive and knew what he was doing, but my mind had been somewhere else since before he arrived.

Before things moved toward the bedroom, I did something I hadn’t entirely planned but that wasn’t completely spontaneous, either: I turned on every light. The bedside lamp, the ceiling light, the closet light with the door half open. Mateo didn’t say anything; maybe he took it as enthusiasm. I moved the chair, cleared the clothes off the bed, and when we fell together onto the mattress, we ended up positioned exactly facing the window.

We started kissing. Mateo slipped his hand under my dress and yanked off my panties. I unbuttoned his jeans and pulled his boxers down to his knees: his cock was hard and thick, marked by a vein running from top to bottom. I grabbed it, squeezed it hard, and ran my tongue all over the head before putting it in my mouth. I gave him a long blowjob with both hands, taking it down my throat and spitting saliva over it so it would slide more easily. Mateo grabbed my hair and began setting the pace, slowly fucking my mouth, and I positioned myself so the window could see me in profile: his cock sliding in and out of my lips, my hand pumping the base, a strand of saliva hanging from my chin whenever I pulled it out to breathe.

“Turn around,” I told him. “I want you to eat my pussy.”

We turned over on the bed into a sixty-nine, with him underneath and me on top, still facing the window. Mateo spread my ass cheeks with both hands and buried his tongue between my pussy lips, licking me from bottom to top, pushing it all the way inside, moving up to my asshole and down again. I kept sucking him, gagging a little each time he gently bit my clitoris or buried two fingers in my pussy. I was drenched. I soaked his whole face. I felt him licking me hungrily, slurping up everything that ran down, while I stroked his balls with my free hand and ran my tongue underneath them, over that soft place between his balls and his ass, until I made him moan.

Then I climbed on top. With my knees pressed into the mattress and my back straight, I grabbed his cock and slowly lowered myself onto it, inch by inch, until I felt it completely inside me. I took a second. I closed my eyes. Then I started moving.

At first slowly, rising and lowering my hips, letting it slide almost all the way out before sinking back down to the bottom. Mateo grabbed my tits with both hands and squeezed my nipples between his fingers, and I began riding him harder, slamming my ass against his thighs with every downward stroke. The mattress creaked. I breathed through my mouth. I felt his cock reaching deep inside me, opening me from within with every thrust, my clitoris rubbing against his pubic bone every time I sank all the way down.

“Fuck me,” I begged without stopping. “Fuck me hard.”

Mateo dug his hands into my hips and began lifting himself from underneath, pounding into me with all his strength. I let my back fall backward, braced my hands on his thighs, and thrust my chest forward, my whole body open and exposed against the illuminated window. My tits shook with every impact. My pussy made wet noises every time he drove his cock all the way in.

I don’t know when I saw him.

It was while I was on top of Mateo, my knees on the mattress and my back straight after sitting upright. I glanced toward the opposite window instinctively—that instinct I had developed over the weeks—and there, in the darkness of his room, I made out a movement. Slow, rhythmic. Unmistakable.

He was jerking off while watching me. And I was watching him while he watched me.

I brought one hand to my clitoris without stopping my riding and began rubbing it in fast circles, without taking my eyes off that dark silhouette. I imagined the other man’s cock between his fingers, how he must have been pumping it at that exact moment, how he watched me ride another man while he came alone, in silence, against the glass of his own window.

That was all I needed to reach climax. I came with my mouth open, making no sound, my whole body contracting around Mateo’s cock and my eyes fixed on the darkness across the way. I felt my pussy clench around him in waves, felt it dripping down my thighs, felt my legs trembling. Mateo came inside me a few seconds later, moaning my name, unaware that the scene wasn’t only for him.

I knew I had staged something deliberate, something that was completely mine, something that belonged to me in a way I could never have explained to anyone. Then I climbed off, lay down beside Mateo, and while he fell asleep I ran my finger through my pussy, full of semen, and brought it to my mouth, still looking toward that black window across the avenue.

***

The next morning, after Mateo had left, I stood in front of the window with a cup of coffee. It was early; the sun still hadn’t come around the building, and the light was gray and soft. I was in my underwear, my loose hair still damp from the shower.

And he was on the balcony.

For the first time I could see him clearly. He was a man around forty, tall, with short dark hair and something about his shoulders that suggested he worked out. He had a cup in his hand, just like me. When he saw me at the window, he didn’t look away, but he didn’t make any gesture, either. He simply held my gaze.

He held it for ten long seconds.

Then he went back inside the apartment. A moment later, I saw a woman briefly step onto the balcony to pick something up from the railing: blonde, tall, hurried. She went back inside without looking toward my building.

So he has a partner, I thought. How interesting.

I felt no remorse. He watched because he wanted to, and I let him see me because I wanted to. Whatever happened inside his apartment was none of my business. We had an unwritten agreement, without words or commitments, that worked precisely because it would never become anything official. No name, no phone number, no shared history. Just that illuminated window at night and the darkness on the other side where he stood with his cock in his hand.

***

That was almost three months ago. The game continues, though less frequently since I put a face to him. Paradoxically, learning what he looked like made him more real and, in a way, more uncomfortable. There’s something about anonymity that makes it perfect: fantasy doesn’t need details to work; details make it ordinary.

But every so often, when I come home late and see his window dark, I turn on the bedroom light without lowering the blind. I take my time getting changed. I move slowly. Sometimes I stand naked in front of the glass, spread my legs with one foot braced against the frame, and make myself come with two fingers while looking into that darkness, knowing he is coming on the other side at the same time as me.

And I know that if he’s there, he’s watching me.

For an exhibitionist, that’s enough.